March 24th
On CHESS TOURNAMENT
1: “So the Chess Tournament is ready to go, okay, and all these nerds are sitting around with their chess pieces, and then this big-titted broad comes in, right, and they all turn around and are poppin these huge nerd boners, right, and the coach says, ‘Are you here for the Chess Tournament?’ And she says, Oops, I thought you said, ‘Chest Tournament!’”
“Thank you, we’ve heard enough. Thanks for coming in.”
2: “A Chess player moves his piece and says, ‘King me!’ The other guy says ‘King you! I just met you!’”
“That’s checkers. And also, no,”
3: “So the chess tournament ends, and all the nerds are congratulating each other, guys are like, ‘You are the best of all of us!’ and then the poor schmuck who wins, looks around, and says, ‘Yeah, king of the nerds! I still don’t have a girlfriend!’”
“This is a commercial to promote Chess among teens.”
“Oh yeah. Funny, though, right?”
“No.”
4: “WE ARE THE KNIGHTS, WE ARE THE QUEENS, WE ARE THE KINGS OF ROCK AND ROLL! GO CHESS!”
“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm No.”
5: “A board. An opponent. A bunch of pieces. Chess. Is it in you?”
“That is an old Gatorade slogan.”
“That everyone’s forgotten!”
“I remembered it, though.”
“Well, it’s one of those phrases that is just, it belongs to the common weal.”
“Good day.”
6: “Jim Carrey comes in. He does his thing, arms all over the place, yelling things, and then at the end, over the screen, it says, ‘you don’t have to be a nerd to like chess.’”
“Implying that Jim Carrey likes Chess?”
“Yes.”
“He’s a little nerdy though.”
“What?”
“He’s not the coolest guy I can think of.”
“Who’s the coolest guy you can think of?”
“Uh… Fifty Cent?”
“Please.”
“Looks like neither of us knows anything.”
7: “A basketball player makes this monster dunk, and it turns out that instead of a basketball, it’s a Chess piece. Then a deep voice says, ‘Chess. Is it in you?”:
“Weren’t you here before?”
8: “This nerd is teaching chess to this big-titted babe, and he’s like, ‘the bishop moves like this in chess’ and she says ‘did you say chess or chest?’”
“You were definitely here earlier.”
9: “We show all these wacked-out old soviet footage, right, with all these portraits of Stalin, people waiting in line for bread, and statues, hammers and sickles everywhere”
“And then?”
“That’s it.”
“No chess?”
“The connection between soviet chic and chess is implied.”
“Sort of cool. But we’d prefer that chess be mentioned.”
“THEN YOU WILL NEVER HAVE MY IDEA!!!”
“Alright, we’ll find another one.”
“Have a good one.”
10: “There’s all these fat kids, and we see them signing up for a chess tournament, and then they’re working out in the gym, eating right, they get skinny, they get girlfriends, and then the screen goes black, and the words come up: ‘Chess. Is it in you?’”
“We’re going to go for a chest-chess pun.”
“Ooooh, that is good.”
Saturday, April 11, 2009
On SAN DIEGO ZOO
March 23rd
On SAN DIEGO ZOO
The San Diego Zoo
Balboa Park,
San Diego, CA
Dear The San Diego Zoo,
I recently went online and saw your awesome video about wirking at the zoo. Although the film’s slow pace and soothing music made me feel a little sleepy, I still think I am the right fit for this zoo as an employee.
Anyway, how are you? My name is Dave, and this is my cover letter!! Hooray! I thought I’d lighten things up with a little humour.
My job goal is to eventually be the zookeeper for the whole park. But I understand that, to get there, I will probably have to work at one of the other jobs first, like Food Service Clerk or Merchandise Sales Clerk. That’s cool by me.
Here’s a list of animals I do like: Hippopotomus, Elephant, Tiger, Gorilla, Koala Bears, and Giraffes. Here’s a list of animal’s I don’t like: spiders. Please keep me away from the spiders. Thanks!
My previous job experience includes working at my dad’s bank. It’s called Scotiabank, and it’s here in Canada. PS, if I get this job you have to buy me a green card. Don’t worry, I’m worth it!
Another job experience I had was to start my own business, called Laughtrackers: people would send their writing or TV shows to me, and I would tell them if it was funny! Unfortunately it didn’t do that well, but at least it made me take the time to make a real nice home office in my basement.
The reason I want to work at the San Diego Zoo is that (as if you couldn’t tell) I love animals! It’s my understanding that the San Diego Zoo is the best zoo in the world, and that’s why I want to work there.
In terms of experience caring for animals, I have had one dog (run over by car) five cats (cat cancer, cat diabetes, cat osteoporosis, run over by truck, cat stomach cancer), two rabbits (neglect x 2), a mouse (still alive) and a hermit crab (accidentally buried alive). As you can see, I’ve learned a lot about taking care of animals! I sure know the way NOT to take care of them! Ha ha!
Thanks to my mom’s hard work, a sparkling resume is attached. She is great at helping me edit things, especially when dealing with the business world. She is a high school guidance counsellor, so I have a built in advantage when it comes to applying for jobs, colleges, and choosing courses, and also not taking drugs.
I don’t know a lot about San Diego, but I am a big fan of their football team, the San Diego Chargers. If hired, I think that my love of all things Charger could prove to be a key icebreaker in the zoo locker room.
In conclusion, I am happy to have had the opportunity of having the chance to write you with my request. Please consider it with the utmost seriousness.
Love,
David Barclay
On SAN DIEGO ZOO
The San Diego Zoo
Balboa Park,
San Diego, CA
Dear The San Diego Zoo,
I recently went online and saw your awesome video about wirking at the zoo. Although the film’s slow pace and soothing music made me feel a little sleepy, I still think I am the right fit for this zoo as an employee.
Anyway, how are you? My name is Dave, and this is my cover letter!! Hooray! I thought I’d lighten things up with a little humour.
My job goal is to eventually be the zookeeper for the whole park. But I understand that, to get there, I will probably have to work at one of the other jobs first, like Food Service Clerk or Merchandise Sales Clerk. That’s cool by me.
Here’s a list of animals I do like: Hippopotomus, Elephant, Tiger, Gorilla, Koala Bears, and Giraffes. Here’s a list of animal’s I don’t like: spiders. Please keep me away from the spiders. Thanks!
My previous job experience includes working at my dad’s bank. It’s called Scotiabank, and it’s here in Canada. PS, if I get this job you have to buy me a green card. Don’t worry, I’m worth it!
Another job experience I had was to start my own business, called Laughtrackers: people would send their writing or TV shows to me, and I would tell them if it was funny! Unfortunately it didn’t do that well, but at least it made me take the time to make a real nice home office in my basement.
The reason I want to work at the San Diego Zoo is that (as if you couldn’t tell) I love animals! It’s my understanding that the San Diego Zoo is the best zoo in the world, and that’s why I want to work there.
In terms of experience caring for animals, I have had one dog (run over by car) five cats (cat cancer, cat diabetes, cat osteoporosis, run over by truck, cat stomach cancer), two rabbits (neglect x 2), a mouse (still alive) and a hermit crab (accidentally buried alive). As you can see, I’ve learned a lot about taking care of animals! I sure know the way NOT to take care of them! Ha ha!
Thanks to my mom’s hard work, a sparkling resume is attached. She is great at helping me edit things, especially when dealing with the business world. She is a high school guidance counsellor, so I have a built in advantage when it comes to applying for jobs, colleges, and choosing courses, and also not taking drugs.
I don’t know a lot about San Diego, but I am a big fan of their football team, the San Diego Chargers. If hired, I think that my love of all things Charger could prove to be a key icebreaker in the zoo locker room.
In conclusion, I am happy to have had the opportunity of having the chance to write you with my request. Please consider it with the utmost seriousness.
Love,
David Barclay
Friday, April 3, 2009
On CUTE AS A BUTTON
March 21
On CUTE AS A BUTTON
Chet stared at the tiny button on Marianne’s top and figeted with his club sandwich. She was much more mature than he remembered, and had really gotten it together, fashion wise.
“So you don’t want to get back together?” he asked Marianne.
“Aw, Chet, you’re so cute!” she said in an annoying voice, and made a few noises like she was playing the trumpet to try and lighten the mood. They were at their local Kelsey’s on Labour Day, catching up on the summer happenings. Chet hadn’t told her about Sherry, the girl he had kissed once while working at Disney World during the summer. She had ended up leaving him for a guy from the Italian Pavillion anyway, so that was all ancient history. Chet’s plan was to come home, go on this lunch date with Marianne, get back together so they would be boyfriend and girlfriend, and then proceed with their final academic year of high school. This plan was not working. In fact, it looked like Marianne was intentionally making Chet feel bad about himself.
“I’ve moved on,” she said pretentiously, “while you were at Disney World I couldn’t just wait here for you to come back, twiddling my thumbs, working at the pool and watching the View.” In fact, for June, July and half of August, that was precisely what she had done. Then, with Sally’s help, she had asked out the guy with spiky hair and a cool neck chain in the produce section at Bruno’s. Sally asked out his best friend, a video store clerk, and it turned out they were both big into theatre. The next thing they knew they were driving to Toronto and hanging out in all these cool theatre bars and seeing experimental pieces in black box venues.
“Chet, the world of the theatre is a different place. It has comedy, yes, but also heartache,” she explained to him. It felt odd to have Chet, a figure from her past life, take her to Kelsey’s like this. She was used to places like The Green Room now.
Chet thought to himself, ‘I think I know a little something about heartache,’ but didn’t say it out loud, because he didn’t want to act as annoyingly dramatic as Marianne was acting.
“So Sally and I are probably going to join the drama club, and focus on that as our primary extracurricular,” Marianne explained.
“No band?” choked Chet. Marianne played the clarinet and Chet palyed the tuba, and they had often passed notes between songs in previous years. The drama club was a dangerous place, where free expression reigned, and everyone was artistic and had inside jokes. It was a place Chet could not follow Marianne, except maybe as a techie, and even then, he would be invisible.
Marianne lifted Chet’s chin, and looked him straight in the eye. “I will always love you,” she said.
“I don’t think that’s true,” he said.
“Well it is,” she said, annoyed. She finished her salmon, and said, “this was a really good salmon,” pretending that she was totally cool with this whole conversation. Overall, it was a lot harder than she thought it was going to be, but at least she had said what she had come to say. The bill came, and she made sure to pay her half. She didn’t want Chet telling this story to President Michael French later, and finish it by saying, “and the worst part is I had to pay for her stupid salmon!”
On CUTE AS A BUTTON
Chet stared at the tiny button on Marianne’s top and figeted with his club sandwich. She was much more mature than he remembered, and had really gotten it together, fashion wise.
“So you don’t want to get back together?” he asked Marianne.
“Aw, Chet, you’re so cute!” she said in an annoying voice, and made a few noises like she was playing the trumpet to try and lighten the mood. They were at their local Kelsey’s on Labour Day, catching up on the summer happenings. Chet hadn’t told her about Sherry, the girl he had kissed once while working at Disney World during the summer. She had ended up leaving him for a guy from the Italian Pavillion anyway, so that was all ancient history. Chet’s plan was to come home, go on this lunch date with Marianne, get back together so they would be boyfriend and girlfriend, and then proceed with their final academic year of high school. This plan was not working. In fact, it looked like Marianne was intentionally making Chet feel bad about himself.
“I’ve moved on,” she said pretentiously, “while you were at Disney World I couldn’t just wait here for you to come back, twiddling my thumbs, working at the pool and watching the View.” In fact, for June, July and half of August, that was precisely what she had done. Then, with Sally’s help, she had asked out the guy with spiky hair and a cool neck chain in the produce section at Bruno’s. Sally asked out his best friend, a video store clerk, and it turned out they were both big into theatre. The next thing they knew they were driving to Toronto and hanging out in all these cool theatre bars and seeing experimental pieces in black box venues.
“Chet, the world of the theatre is a different place. It has comedy, yes, but also heartache,” she explained to him. It felt odd to have Chet, a figure from her past life, take her to Kelsey’s like this. She was used to places like The Green Room now.
Chet thought to himself, ‘I think I know a little something about heartache,’ but didn’t say it out loud, because he didn’t want to act as annoyingly dramatic as Marianne was acting.
“So Sally and I are probably going to join the drama club, and focus on that as our primary extracurricular,” Marianne explained.
“No band?” choked Chet. Marianne played the clarinet and Chet palyed the tuba, and they had often passed notes between songs in previous years. The drama club was a dangerous place, where free expression reigned, and everyone was artistic and had inside jokes. It was a place Chet could not follow Marianne, except maybe as a techie, and even then, he would be invisible.
Marianne lifted Chet’s chin, and looked him straight in the eye. “I will always love you,” she said.
“I don’t think that’s true,” he said.
“Well it is,” she said, annoyed. She finished her salmon, and said, “this was a really good salmon,” pretending that she was totally cool with this whole conversation. Overall, it was a lot harder than she thought it was going to be, but at least she had said what she had come to say. The bill came, and she made sure to pay her half. She didn’t want Chet telling this story to President Michael French later, and finish it by saying, “and the worst part is I had to pay for her stupid salmon!”
Thursday, April 2, 2009
On YOGURT
March 20th
On YOGURT
Here are some reviews of my Favourite and Least Favourite foods
Yogurt: Awesome. I prefer eating fruit at the botttom, and eating all the yogurt and then all the fruit. As a wise person once said, it’s like having two snacks in one. Also, if you are in
Raisin Bread: The best. Sometimes I just eat a few slices of raisin bread, and it hits the spot. When I moved from
Swiss Chalet Quarter Chicken Dinner: Also the best. Every time we celebrated something growing up, our family would go to Swiss Chalet. The reason? It tastes great. A+
Mustard Ugh! The worst F
Green Peppers Bleeeech F
Red Peppers Ugggggh F
Any Peppers Deeesgusting F
Things I didn’t like as a kid but I like now: Mushrooms, broccoli, Salsa, Indian food, Chinese Food, Thai food., the skin of a baked potato (I was so wrong about that!)
Things that I officially do not like but I eat things with them in it and like it all the time: Mayonaisse, Cream Cheese, Sour Cream
Dill Pickles Krista loves dill pickles and eats them out of the jar. That is super gross. I like sweet pickles, but dill pickles are all blecchy and briny. FFF
Poutine I love poutine, especailly in theory, and then when I eat it I usually feel bad inside. We are going to a poutinerie for my birthday this year. B+
McDonalds Chicken Nuggets A Big Mac D- (no meat, all lettuce and bun) Angus Burger C
Zucchini The king of the green vegetables B+
Spaghetti Delicious, I like how my mom makes it with nice meat sauce. A+
Pizza Cowabunga! A
Anything my mother-in-law Barb makes So good. Table-groaning feasts every time. Then sleepiness. A+
Apples My mom used to give me apple skins as a kid when she was peeling apples. So good! I like to eat all the skin of an apple first, and then move on the the fleshy insides. A
My favourite fake flavours: 1. banana 2. cherry 3. Apple cinnamon 4. Strawberry. Last: Blueberry I don’t know, it doesn’t work for me.
Stouffers Lasagna The only frozen meal that deserves to be called Gourmet A-
A couple of fresh buns, a bag of baby carrots and a thing of hummus is sometimes what I have for dinner. A-
Hamburger Helper You know what I’m talking about!!!! It’s a special day when I make Hamurger Helper. A
Slushies Once I was in a Slushie Club as co-president Sir Slush-a-lot. My co-president was George W. Slush. I think that joke has some mileage. B+ (but on a really hot day, A)
Preferred Beers: Rickards Red or white, sleemans, creemores, Waterloo Dark.
On MATTHEW MCCONAUGHEY
March 19, 2009
On MATTHEW MCCONAUGHEY
Chatting with the Stars
Starring John T. Nohands
And
Matthew McConaughey
JTN: Hello and welcome to Chatting with the Stars with John T. Nohands. I am John T. Nohands.
MM: And I’m Matthew McConaughey.
JTN: Matthew McConaughey, out of all the stars I have met, you are the most like people’s impressions of you. Does that make sense?
MM: All right all right.
JTN: It’s kind of you to say so.
MM: What’s going on with you Nohands?
JTN: Well, ever since my breakthrough interview with Uma Thurman where I almost got her to show me her breast, I’ve been given my own TV show called Chatting with the Stars with John T. Nohands.
MM: Way to go, buddy.
JTN: Thanks. So, it’s been about ten years since you were in a good movie.
MM: Cool, buddy.
JTN: Unless you count Tropic Thunder.
MM: I always do. Failure to Launch, Fool’s Gold, Tropic Thunder. Three movies.
JTN: We are really getting along well. Do you think it’s because I’m so cool and laid back?
MM: No man, I’m cool and laid back. You’re the one saying the last ten years of my life have been a waste of time.
JTN: I’m just trying to get a rise out of yah.
MM: Awww, yeah.
JTN: Matthew McConaughey, we’re best friends, right?
MM: Sure man, wanna play some fuckin’ naked bongos or something?
JTN: Whatever!!!!
JTN and MM take of their clothes, play some fuckin bongos and give each other non-gay hand jobs. Then they have some cheesecake.
JTN: This cheesecake is the fucking best.
MM: I know, man.
JTN: Hey, look, I’m sorry about what I said earlier about your movies sucking. Two for the Money was with Al Pacino, so I can understand why you did that.
MM: That’s cool, man. I only do these movies to support my addiction to sports gambling. Then I wrote that movie about it.
JTN: Two for the Money?
MM: No, We Are Marshall. Man, Hollywood can sure change a script around, am I right?
JTN: You are, man!
They laugh together.
JTN: Man, you’re like, Bob Dylan, man, but, like, without the negativity, you know?
MM: Man, that’s crazy! That’s not true at all!
They laugh together again.
JTN: Oh, man, sometimes I just wish all this stuff would just melt away and it would just be, like, what’s real, you know?
MM: I know, man.
JTN: Did you ever host Saturday Night Live?
MM: Yeah, with the Dixie Chicks five years ago.
JTN: Coooool.
MM: All right all right.
JTN: I hope this never ends. I feel like I’m heading for a big emotional crash right now, this is too good to be true. Any closing thoughts.
MM: Man, I just love being so laid back. I think I’m gonna keep going with that. It’s like I said in the movie Sahara, just keep living, you know?
JTN: You could have said anything just now and I would have believed you, because neither I or anyone I know has seen that movie, and I don’t know what it’s about.
MM: Cool.
JTN: If I knew someone who owned a DVD of that movie, I would wait till they left the room, steal their DVD, and throw it out.
MM: All right.
JTN: Sorry, I went way negative there.
MM: That’s all right. This was a good interview. Let’s do it again. Awesome show buddy.
JTN: Thanks!!!! (blushing)
On MATTHEW MCCONAUGHEY
Chatting with the Stars
Starring John T. Nohands
And
Matthew McConaughey
JTN: Hello and welcome to Chatting with the Stars with John T. Nohands. I am John T. Nohands.
MM: And I’m Matthew McConaughey.
JTN: Matthew McConaughey, out of all the stars I have met, you are the most like people’s impressions of you. Does that make sense?
MM: All right all right.
JTN: It’s kind of you to say so.
MM: What’s going on with you Nohands?
JTN: Well, ever since my breakthrough interview with Uma Thurman where I almost got her to show me her breast, I’ve been given my own TV show called Chatting with the Stars with John T. Nohands.
MM: Way to go, buddy.
JTN: Thanks. So, it’s been about ten years since you were in a good movie.
MM: Cool, buddy.
JTN: Unless you count Tropic Thunder.
MM: I always do. Failure to Launch, Fool’s Gold, Tropic Thunder. Three movies.
JTN: We are really getting along well. Do you think it’s because I’m so cool and laid back?
MM: No man, I’m cool and laid back. You’re the one saying the last ten years of my life have been a waste of time.
JTN: I’m just trying to get a rise out of yah.
MM: Awww, yeah.
JTN: Matthew McConaughey, we’re best friends, right?
MM: Sure man, wanna play some fuckin’ naked bongos or something?
JTN: Whatever!!!!
JTN and MM take of their clothes, play some fuckin bongos and give each other non-gay hand jobs. Then they have some cheesecake.
JTN: This cheesecake is the fucking best.
MM: I know, man.
JTN: Hey, look, I’m sorry about what I said earlier about your movies sucking. Two for the Money was with Al Pacino, so I can understand why you did that.
MM: That’s cool, man. I only do these movies to support my addiction to sports gambling. Then I wrote that movie about it.
JTN: Two for the Money?
MM: No, We Are Marshall. Man, Hollywood can sure change a script around, am I right?
JTN: You are, man!
They laugh together.
JTN: Man, you’re like, Bob Dylan, man, but, like, without the negativity, you know?
MM: Man, that’s crazy! That’s not true at all!
They laugh together again.
JTN: Oh, man, sometimes I just wish all this stuff would just melt away and it would just be, like, what’s real, you know?
MM: I know, man.
JTN: Did you ever host Saturday Night Live?
MM: Yeah, with the Dixie Chicks five years ago.
JTN: Coooool.
MM: All right all right.
JTN: I hope this never ends. I feel like I’m heading for a big emotional crash right now, this is too good to be true. Any closing thoughts.
MM: Man, I just love being so laid back. I think I’m gonna keep going with that. It’s like I said in the movie Sahara, just keep living, you know?
JTN: You could have said anything just now and I would have believed you, because neither I or anyone I know has seen that movie, and I don’t know what it’s about.
MM: Cool.
JTN: If I knew someone who owned a DVD of that movie, I would wait till they left the room, steal their DVD, and throw it out.
MM: All right.
JTN: Sorry, I went way negative there.
MM: That’s all right. This was a good interview. Let’s do it again. Awesome show buddy.
JTN: Thanks!!!! (blushing)
On BACKYARD
March 18th
On BACKYARD
In 1989, when I was nine years old, my family moved from the house where I had lived since I was one to another house a kilometer away. My old house, 1013 Vanier Drive, was closer to the highway, and had a great backyard. There was a big hill with a tree at the top, and the tree was divided between us and our backdoor neighbours. My sisters and I used to roll down this hill a lot – I remember drawing a picture of rolling down the hill in Grade One. I drew myself rolling down the hill from a side perspective, as three concentric circles: a small blond one representing my head, a larger red one representing a red shirt, and then the largest blue circle representing my pants. It almost makes sense if you see it, and I think really captures the whirlwind feeling of tumbling down a hillside.
The best part about the backyard, though, was the sandbox. I really loved my sandbox. Sometimes I would break through the plastic on the bottom of the sandbox to the soil below, and eventually worms would come up through the bottom and interact with our sandscapes. One time we had a whole nest of worms in our sandbox. It was super gross, but it lent an element of danger to the sandbox experience.
We moved to 1423 Tecumseh Park Drive. I wasn’t happy about the move because the new backyard did not have a sandbox. My mom likes to tell the story of how upset I was about the lack of sandbox at the new house. It had a big stepped garden, two levels of soil held up by railway ties. No hill to roll down, no sandbox. But, there were lots of places to get lost, and our dog, Crackers, used to have a good time running around the different levels. I used to spend hours in the winter trying to get my mittens back from Crackers as he would race back and forth on the different levels of our backyard. In the first summer in the new house, I spent hours in the yard recreating the 1989 American League Championship Series with a baseball bat and a tennis ball.
Krista and I are thinking of buying a house in the next year or so. I really haven’t concerned myslf with the backyards of all the places I’ve rented in the last nine years, but if I own a house, I’m gonna have to mow the lawn, and maybe someday have kids that will play in that yard, a yard which will be sort of an arbitrary decision on our part, but if we have a kid, it’s gonna be that kid’s whole world. Maybe I will make a sandbox, and look for a backyard with a hill. It makes me wonder what my parents thought when they had me and my sisters, and if they knew what it was going to be like, and whether they felt like they were prepared.
On BACKYARD
In 1989, when I was nine years old, my family moved from the house where I had lived since I was one to another house a kilometer away. My old house, 1013 Vanier Drive, was closer to the highway, and had a great backyard. There was a big hill with a tree at the top, and the tree was divided between us and our backdoor neighbours. My sisters and I used to roll down this hill a lot – I remember drawing a picture of rolling down the hill in Grade One. I drew myself rolling down the hill from a side perspective, as three concentric circles: a small blond one representing my head, a larger red one representing a red shirt, and then the largest blue circle representing my pants. It almost makes sense if you see it, and I think really captures the whirlwind feeling of tumbling down a hillside.
The best part about the backyard, though, was the sandbox. I really loved my sandbox. Sometimes I would break through the plastic on the bottom of the sandbox to the soil below, and eventually worms would come up through the bottom and interact with our sandscapes. One time we had a whole nest of worms in our sandbox. It was super gross, but it lent an element of danger to the sandbox experience.
We moved to 1423 Tecumseh Park Drive. I wasn’t happy about the move because the new backyard did not have a sandbox. My mom likes to tell the story of how upset I was about the lack of sandbox at the new house. It had a big stepped garden, two levels of soil held up by railway ties. No hill to roll down, no sandbox. But, there were lots of places to get lost, and our dog, Crackers, used to have a good time running around the different levels. I used to spend hours in the winter trying to get my mittens back from Crackers as he would race back and forth on the different levels of our backyard. In the first summer in the new house, I spent hours in the yard recreating the 1989 American League Championship Series with a baseball bat and a tennis ball.
Krista and I are thinking of buying a house in the next year or so. I really haven’t concerned myslf with the backyards of all the places I’ve rented in the last nine years, but if I own a house, I’m gonna have to mow the lawn, and maybe someday have kids that will play in that yard, a yard which will be sort of an arbitrary decision on our part, but if we have a kid, it’s gonna be that kid’s whole world. Maybe I will make a sandbox, and look for a backyard with a hill. It makes me wonder what my parents thought when they had me and my sisters, and if they knew what it was going to be like, and whether they felt like they were prepared.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
On POT OF GOLD
March 17th
On POT OF GOLD
The Publicist – Chapter 3
The publicist, lugging a surprisingly light pot of gold on his back, strode easily down the dusty road heading out of Rock Pile, WY. Accompanying him was a small black child.
“What do you got in that pot, Mr. Getz,” asked the black child.
“Gold, my son,” answered the publicist, “Lots of wonderful gold.”
“Did you find it at the end of a rainbow?” asked the black child, “Are you a leprechaun?”
“Nope,” answered the publicist, “I found it by investing in constuction and remodeling companies, and reaping the profits when a publicity boom hit this fair town. But I am a leprchaun.”
“You’re pretty tall for a leprechaun,” commented the black child.
“That’s true,” remarked the leprechan publicist, “I’m the tallest in my leprechaun family. But because everyone expects Leprechauns to be short and angry, I get away with it.” Then he said, with an Irish accent, “That and I don’t speak in an Irish accent anymore.”
“So you scammed our town pretty good, huh?” scowled the black child.
“Not really,” smiled the publicist, “I invested, and then I worked to make my investments improve.”
“Isn’t that, like, insider trading?” asked the black child.
“No,” replied the leprechaun, “It’s more like investing in your own company.”
“But everyone in the town is dead, or broke,” countered the black child.
“Well I can’t help that,” evaded the publicist.
“Little Bob shot himself with a shotgun when his bar went a million dollars in debt by installing fountains that sprayed liquid gold,” said the boy.
“Well, I don’t know who would have told him to do that,” said the publicis huffily.
“And Big Bob’s Haggis emporium literally collapsed in on Big Bob when he took out the walls because they weren’t upscale,” the black child reminded the man.
“That was fairly preposterous,” admitted the leprechaun, “Still, nothing that can be directly tied to me.”
“What about the fact that because those bars were so popular, everyone in town spent up all their money buying drink?” asked the black child, “all that money was invested in renovations, which you got as dividends on your stock, which you changed at the bank for gold, and now it’s in your pot!”
“Well, you seem to have a handle on it,” said the publicist, “now why don’t you run along.”
“One last question:” posed the child, “What are you gonna buy with all that gold?”
“Cigarettes, of course,” answered the leprechaun.
“You don’t smoke a pipe?” asked the child.
“Nope,” answered the leprechaun.
“You are the least leprechaun-like leprechaun I’ve ever seen,” said the child.
“What about these sideburns?” asked the leprechaun.
“They could be bushier,” evaluated the child.
Five minutes later, the black child killed that leprechaun. No one knows why – it wasn’t for the gold, that pot is still there, full of gold, beside that dusty trail. Maybe it was revenge for destroying the boy’s hometown, although everyone in the town was awfully racist towards that boy. Maybe it was because the boy was disillusioned when he finally met a leprechaun, his favourite of all the faeries, and the leprechaun turned out to be a nasty, tall, Amercian-accented crook. Or maybe his teachers had emphasized the evils of tobacco a little too much, and the boy took the lesson too much to heart. Maybe it was none of those things. After all, kids these days are sociopaths more often than not, killing people and things for kicks, just as they’re told to in their video games. I guess we’ll never know.
On POT OF GOLD
The Publicist – Chapter 3
The publicist, lugging a surprisingly light pot of gold on his back, strode easily down the dusty road heading out of Rock Pile, WY. Accompanying him was a small black child.
“What do you got in that pot, Mr. Getz,” asked the black child.
“Gold, my son,” answered the publicist, “Lots of wonderful gold.”
“Did you find it at the end of a rainbow?” asked the black child, “Are you a leprechaun?”
“Nope,” answered the publicist, “I found it by investing in constuction and remodeling companies, and reaping the profits when a publicity boom hit this fair town. But I am a leprchaun.”
“You’re pretty tall for a leprechaun,” commented the black child.
“That’s true,” remarked the leprechan publicist, “I’m the tallest in my leprechaun family. But because everyone expects Leprechauns to be short and angry, I get away with it.” Then he said, with an Irish accent, “That and I don’t speak in an Irish accent anymore.”
“So you scammed our town pretty good, huh?” scowled the black child.
“Not really,” smiled the publicist, “I invested, and then I worked to make my investments improve.”
“Isn’t that, like, insider trading?” asked the black child.
“No,” replied the leprechaun, “It’s more like investing in your own company.”
“But everyone in the town is dead, or broke,” countered the black child.
“Well I can’t help that,” evaded the publicist.
“Little Bob shot himself with a shotgun when his bar went a million dollars in debt by installing fountains that sprayed liquid gold,” said the boy.
“Well, I don’t know who would have told him to do that,” said the publicis huffily.
“And Big Bob’s Haggis emporium literally collapsed in on Big Bob when he took out the walls because they weren’t upscale,” the black child reminded the man.
“That was fairly preposterous,” admitted the leprechaun, “Still, nothing that can be directly tied to me.”
“What about the fact that because those bars were so popular, everyone in town spent up all their money buying drink?” asked the black child, “all that money was invested in renovations, which you got as dividends on your stock, which you changed at the bank for gold, and now it’s in your pot!”
“Well, you seem to have a handle on it,” said the publicist, “now why don’t you run along.”
“One last question:” posed the child, “What are you gonna buy with all that gold?”
“Cigarettes, of course,” answered the leprechaun.
“You don’t smoke a pipe?” asked the child.
“Nope,” answered the leprechaun.
“You are the least leprechaun-like leprechaun I’ve ever seen,” said the child.
“What about these sideburns?” asked the leprechaun.
“They could be bushier,” evaluated the child.
Five minutes later, the black child killed that leprechaun. No one knows why – it wasn’t for the gold, that pot is still there, full of gold, beside that dusty trail. Maybe it was revenge for destroying the boy’s hometown, although everyone in the town was awfully racist towards that boy. Maybe it was because the boy was disillusioned when he finally met a leprechaun, his favourite of all the faeries, and the leprechaun turned out to be a nasty, tall, Amercian-accented crook. Or maybe his teachers had emphasized the evils of tobacco a little too much, and the boy took the lesson too much to heart. Maybe it was none of those things. After all, kids these days are sociopaths more often than not, killing people and things for kicks, just as they’re told to in their video games. I guess we’ll never know.
On LEPRECHAUN
March 16th
On LEPRECHAUN
The Publicist, Chapter 2
“Ye can go and fuck yerself!” said Big Bob. Big Bob was a tiny man with bushy red sideburns and a garish green suit and hat. He was thematically matched to his bar, Big Bob’s Irish Pub. It had taken a while, but the ironically named Big Bob had convinced most of the townspeople of Rock Pile, WY to do their drinking at his bar.
“You’re not really Irish are you?” asked the publicist, who was sitting on a green stool, cross legged, with a fruity green drink in his hand and a smirk on his face.
“Whu? Ah course Ah’m fuckin’ Irish!” Big Bob yelled from behind the bar. He hopped up on the stepladder he had behind the bar and thrust his index finger into the top of the bar. “Ah’m straight from the olde country!”
He wasn’t, but the publicist didn’t press the point. Big Bob’s Irish pub was completely empty, and it was all because of Tyrone Getz.
“Doesn’t seem like your establishment is very popular. Maybe you could use some marketing help?” asked Getz innocently.
“Ah donna need no help!” exclaimed Big Bob emphatically, “Ah got a great marketing scheme right here. Or it was bafore everyone got up and went to your Gangland Gas House.”
“An Irish theme?” remarked Getz, “In Wyoming? What are you thinking?”
“It’s exotic!” retorted Bob.
“Looks more like tacky,” said the publicist, gesturing towards the shamrock festooned jukebox and nuclear green carpeting.
“Not more tacky than the Little Bob’s Gangland Gas House Grill, with its Tommy Gun fries and its Al Capone Ale!” said Big Bob.
“True enough, true enough,” said the publicist, taking a sip from his drink, his pinky pointed towards the cracked ceiling, “Little Bob’s place is tacky. But that’s the thing with gimmicky marketing: people will come to whatever the next big new gewgaw is. What you need to do is go up to the next level: class.”
“I’ve got lots of class!” said Big Bob.
“I won’t respond to that,” said Getz, “But I will tell you this: don’t charge me for this delightful drink – what is it?”
“A Tom Collins,” said the tiny man.
“Don’t charge me for this delectable Tom Collins,” said the publicist, “and I’ll tell you how to get your customers back from that dastardly Little Bob.”
“Ach! I hate that Little Bob and his ironical nickname!”
“So, get even,” said Getz.
“Ah don’t want to give you nothing! You’re the cause of all my problems!” shouted Big Bob.
“Don’t be an idiot,” said Tyrone Getz dryly.
For a few moments, the large, black pupils of Big Bob quivered as he looked at the publicist. He had a tremendous amount of pride. Big Bob had travelled all the way across the Atlantic to find the most anonymous American town he could and make his fortune.
“All right, the drink is yours,” said Bob.
“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Getz, finishing his drink and hopping off the stool.
“What? Y’eraint gonn tell me now?” said Bob, outraged.
“You’re too emotional right now. You aura is too intense,” said Getz, “I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early. And be ready to work.”
Big Bob scowled at the back of the publicist’s bowlered head. The publicist turned around.
“And your accent is Scottish,” he said, and left, the Western-style saloon doors swinging closed behind him.
On LEPRECHAUN
The Publicist, Chapter 2
“Ye can go and fuck yerself!” said Big Bob. Big Bob was a tiny man with bushy red sideburns and a garish green suit and hat. He was thematically matched to his bar, Big Bob’s Irish Pub. It had taken a while, but the ironically named Big Bob had convinced most of the townspeople of Rock Pile, WY to do their drinking at his bar.
“You’re not really Irish are you?” asked the publicist, who was sitting on a green stool, cross legged, with a fruity green drink in his hand and a smirk on his face.
“Whu? Ah course Ah’m fuckin’ Irish!” Big Bob yelled from behind the bar. He hopped up on the stepladder he had behind the bar and thrust his index finger into the top of the bar. “Ah’m straight from the olde country!”
He wasn’t, but the publicist didn’t press the point. Big Bob’s Irish pub was completely empty, and it was all because of Tyrone Getz.
“Doesn’t seem like your establishment is very popular. Maybe you could use some marketing help?” asked Getz innocently.
“Ah donna need no help!” exclaimed Big Bob emphatically, “Ah got a great marketing scheme right here. Or it was bafore everyone got up and went to your Gangland Gas House.”
“An Irish theme?” remarked Getz, “In Wyoming? What are you thinking?”
“It’s exotic!” retorted Bob.
“Looks more like tacky,” said the publicist, gesturing towards the shamrock festooned jukebox and nuclear green carpeting.
“Not more tacky than the Little Bob’s Gangland Gas House Grill, with its Tommy Gun fries and its Al Capone Ale!” said Big Bob.
“True enough, true enough,” said the publicist, taking a sip from his drink, his pinky pointed towards the cracked ceiling, “Little Bob’s place is tacky. But that’s the thing with gimmicky marketing: people will come to whatever the next big new gewgaw is. What you need to do is go up to the next level: class.”
“I’ve got lots of class!” said Big Bob.
“I won’t respond to that,” said Getz, “But I will tell you this: don’t charge me for this delightful drink – what is it?”
“A Tom Collins,” said the tiny man.
“Don’t charge me for this delectable Tom Collins,” said the publicist, “and I’ll tell you how to get your customers back from that dastardly Little Bob.”
“Ach! I hate that Little Bob and his ironical nickname!”
“So, get even,” said Getz.
“Ah don’t want to give you nothing! You’re the cause of all my problems!” shouted Big Bob.
“Don’t be an idiot,” said Tyrone Getz dryly.
For a few moments, the large, black pupils of Big Bob quivered as he looked at the publicist. He had a tremendous amount of pride. Big Bob had travelled all the way across the Atlantic to find the most anonymous American town he could and make his fortune.
“All right, the drink is yours,” said Bob.
“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Getz, finishing his drink and hopping off the stool.
“What? Y’eraint gonn tell me now?” said Bob, outraged.
“You’re too emotional right now. You aura is too intense,” said Getz, “I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early. And be ready to work.”
Big Bob scowled at the back of the publicist’s bowlered head. The publicist turned around.
“And your accent is Scottish,” he said, and left, the Western-style saloon doors swinging closed behind him.
On PUBLICIST
March 14th
On PUBLICIST
The Publicist, Chapter 1
It was a quiet day in Rock Pile, WY, when the publicist came to town. He wore a pinstiped three piece suit with violet suspenders, and a blue shirt with a white striped collar. He had a long face, an easy smile with long teeth and long sideburns. He wore on his head a bowler hat, which fitted his head perfectly.
He strolled into Little Bob’s Bar and Grill, pushing the glass and metal door clouded with fingermarks. It was 4pm and the atmosphere was dusty, cloudy and squinty. The man behind the bar, Little Bob, was six feet tall and five feet wide, with a walrus mustache that curled over his lower lip and a red, shiny face.
“You must be Little Bob,” the publicist said, putting his elbow on the counter and crossing his right leg behind his left.
“That I am,” said Bob, “Who are you?”
“My name is Tyrone Getz. I couldn’t help but notice that your bar,” he said, drawing out the ‘a’ in bar, “needs some publicity.”
“It’s not that good a bar,” admitted Bob, “are you some kind of publicist?”
“That I am!” exclaimed the publicist, “Now we’re all on the same page. I’ll tell you what, Little Bob, I am awful thirsty. Terrible thirsty. Why don’t you sling me one drink, just one drink, and I’ll work my magic.”
Little Bob moved his head backwards and squinted skeptically. “Magic? What kind of magic can you do?”
“Why publicity of course! And here I thought we were all on the same page,” said Getz, shaking his head mournfully.
“Well, I guess one drink won’t hurt,” said Bob, pouring the publicist a beer. “I’m not much of a businessman, but one beer seems pretty cheap for a publicity deal. Is this going to turn out to be a big scam, like in ‘The Music Man’?”
“Nope!” said Getz, smiling widely, “No scam! Just leave it to me,” he said, taking a drink. “Ahhhh! What a refreshing drink. Why I think all of Rock Pile, if they only knew about this fine ale, would flock to this location.”
“Ah, they’re all over at Big Bob’s Irish Pub,” lamented Little Bob.
“Well, what’s Big Bob got that you don’t?” asked Getz.
“Customers,” said Little Bob.
“Not for long – trust me, I’m from the big city, and I know how people think. Back where I come from, they got whole big buildings of people figuring out what people are thinking when they want to go out drinking. And I’ve got everything they know up here in my head,” he said, pointing to his hat. “Now you just recommend me a decent hotel with no bed bugs, and first thing tomorrow, I’ll come over here and start working.”
“All right. You don’t want to stay for another drink?” asked Little Bob.
“Early to bed, early to rise.” Getz dismissed, “I’m not a drinker, I’m a thinker, and I’ve got a lot of thinking to do to make this bar the number one bar in this here Rock Pile of a town.”
“Well, there’s the Dude Rancher. Never heard anyone complain about that place,” admitted Little Bob.
“Good enough for me,” announced the publicist, hopping up out of his lean and waltzing towards the door. “You won’t forget, or regret, giving me a drink today, my friend. I tip my cap to you,” and he did, “and bid you good day.”
On PUBLICIST
The Publicist, Chapter 1
It was a quiet day in Rock Pile, WY, when the publicist came to town. He wore a pinstiped three piece suit with violet suspenders, and a blue shirt with a white striped collar. He had a long face, an easy smile with long teeth and long sideburns. He wore on his head a bowler hat, which fitted his head perfectly.
He strolled into Little Bob’s Bar and Grill, pushing the glass and metal door clouded with fingermarks. It was 4pm and the atmosphere was dusty, cloudy and squinty. The man behind the bar, Little Bob, was six feet tall and five feet wide, with a walrus mustache that curled over his lower lip and a red, shiny face.
“You must be Little Bob,” the publicist said, putting his elbow on the counter and crossing his right leg behind his left.
“That I am,” said Bob, “Who are you?”
“My name is Tyrone Getz. I couldn’t help but notice that your bar,” he said, drawing out the ‘a’ in bar, “needs some publicity.”
“It’s not that good a bar,” admitted Bob, “are you some kind of publicist?”
“That I am!” exclaimed the publicist, “Now we’re all on the same page. I’ll tell you what, Little Bob, I am awful thirsty. Terrible thirsty. Why don’t you sling me one drink, just one drink, and I’ll work my magic.”
Little Bob moved his head backwards and squinted skeptically. “Magic? What kind of magic can you do?”
“Why publicity of course! And here I thought we were all on the same page,” said Getz, shaking his head mournfully.
“Well, I guess one drink won’t hurt,” said Bob, pouring the publicist a beer. “I’m not much of a businessman, but one beer seems pretty cheap for a publicity deal. Is this going to turn out to be a big scam, like in ‘The Music Man’?”
“Nope!” said Getz, smiling widely, “No scam! Just leave it to me,” he said, taking a drink. “Ahhhh! What a refreshing drink. Why I think all of Rock Pile, if they only knew about this fine ale, would flock to this location.”
“Ah, they’re all over at Big Bob’s Irish Pub,” lamented Little Bob.
“Well, what’s Big Bob got that you don’t?” asked Getz.
“Customers,” said Little Bob.
“Not for long – trust me, I’m from the big city, and I know how people think. Back where I come from, they got whole big buildings of people figuring out what people are thinking when they want to go out drinking. And I’ve got everything they know up here in my head,” he said, pointing to his hat. “Now you just recommend me a decent hotel with no bed bugs, and first thing tomorrow, I’ll come over here and start working.”
“All right. You don’t want to stay for another drink?” asked Little Bob.
“Early to bed, early to rise.” Getz dismissed, “I’m not a drinker, I’m a thinker, and I’ve got a lot of thinking to do to make this bar the number one bar in this here Rock Pile of a town.”
“Well, there’s the Dude Rancher. Never heard anyone complain about that place,” admitted Little Bob.
“Good enough for me,” announced the publicist, hopping up out of his lean and waltzing towards the door. “You won’t forget, or regret, giving me a drink today, my friend. I tip my cap to you,” and he did, “and bid you good day.”
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