You are currently browsing the monthly archive for September 2007.
My cousin’s two daughters and one of their boyfriends came down to the “Big Smoke” to see a punk rock show last Saturday. They were decked out in their finest black clothing with all sorts of potentially offensive patches and slogans. Gnat had her hair up in several foot high spikes. It was beautiful in a stomach-turning punk sort of way. Even if it’s a bit repulsive, you have to admire how brave she is to buck the trend and go out with such a coif. I wish I had taken pictures.
After giving them directions, I walked them down to the corner to catch the streetcar, and then I headed off to get some victuals for breakfast the following morning.
They returned to my front door in the wee hours of the morning looking quite beat up but otherwise happy for the experience. The band apparently has a liking for fake blood and lots of gory display while they play their “asscore music.” Apparently “asscore” music is where you digest all of the good elements of music and shit them out the other end. The group was breaking in a new drummer apparently, so they chose to baptise him in gallons of fake blood. Of course there were a few extra gallons to spare, so the Collingworld punks got a good dose of it at the front of the stage.
If you had laid eyes on them, you would have thought they were in a massive street fight. Gnat’s once spiky hairdo was reduced to a flattened mess, her younger sister was a lovely shade of crimson, and D had a slightly puffy nose from being vigorously punched in the face during the mosh-pit action. Despite the chaos, it appears they had loads of fun. I’m not so sure I would find a punch in the face entertaining, but WTF, I’m not a teenager anymore. They were all laughing and smiling from the experience, and that’s what counted.
They scrubbed off a bit of the goo from the excessive stage show and retired to my living room floor for a night of rest. A splendid day for the Collingworld punks no doubt. I fed them breakfast the next morning and bid them a safe journey home.
Many years ago, I borrowed my brother’s couch on many occasions to take in a few rock concerts, and now it’s my turn to play host to the young’uns. Maybe I’ll get a ticket for the next one to check out the mayhem. As long as I don’t get head-butted or covered in goo, I’ll be fine. Earplugs are cheap.
I just got home from an aborted mission in the west end of town. Grendel and I hopped aboard a Queen streetcar to head over to Parkdale. All indications were good. The car said 501 Humber on the front. The Humber River is much farther west than my intended destination. Nice.
After a brief bit of congestion in front of City Hall, we carried on to Queen St. West. Much to my chagrin, a TTC inspector stuck his head in the door just past Bathurst St. to announce that the car was short turning at Shaw St. I wasn’t too concerned, because it was rush hour, and I didn’t expect to wait long to finish my journey. Was I ever wrong.
After waiting close to a half hour at the corner for the next streetcar, a woman wandered up to the group of us and announced that there was an accident between a streetcar and another vehicle farther east. There was no chance of a ride in the immediate future.
With this situation in mind, I figured I could carry on and walk for another 20 minutes or so to get to my customer. Or I could tender my apologies and turn back to make a return visit on Monday. Being late already made my choice easy enough. I turned back to head for home. I had every intention of keeping my eyes peeled for the TTC inspector to tell him what crappy service they provide, and to ask how I could apply for a refund of my fare.
It was one of those “it’s a matter of principle” things. The fare is cheap enough at $2.10 for a token. I was fuming, and was busy composing nasty letters and formulating strategies for berating the poor slob who answers the phone at the TTC head office. Despite the meagre amount of cash I was out, I wanted justice (and my lousy two bucks). Fortunately for me, and the poor slobs at the TTC, I soon realized that it was a pleasant afternoon for a walk, and I had my best friend in tow. It’s not worth $2.10 to duke it out with an intractable bureaucracy that really doesn’t care much about how the customer feels.
I finally made it home with a cooler attitude, and a wrinkled TTC transfer in my pocket. Grendel was happy for the walk, and he got to scamper around off lead for a few minutes at St. James park while en-route. All the size-nine dogs were out for walkies and Grendel got to run with the pack.
When the TTC boasts about cheaper costs and less hassle, I will think unpleasant thoughts about how I lost a couple of billable hours at my customer and a token for a ride half way. It may cost less, but the hassles are still there. Curse them.
I just returned home from a road trip. PJ and I figured that we would hit the road saturday morning to see the chihuahua puppies and then ramble onward. That was as complicated as we wanted it to be.
We arrived at the breeder’s house just after 11AM for a family reunion of sorts. Grendel met his sister Zoey and his mum Rosie. It was neat to see his sister all grown up. Despite the difference in markings, she has similar facial expressions and ticks to her big brother. Rosie was territorial and didn’t want much to do with her long lost son. Having a litter of five around will do that.
The puppies were awesome little fuggers. There were three boys and two girls this time. The little chocolate coloured boy is already reserved so it came down to the two white coloured guys. The breeder has decided to keep the two little girls for herself. One of the girls is the spitting image of Grendel when he was a pocket sized pup. She has the little white splash on her chest, and the tips of her toes have a little white on them, just like Grendel. It was almost uncanny. The other little girl had a mixed coat like Zoey. She resembles a miniature version of the dog in the Little Rascals movies if any of you remember.
Our hearts melted at the sight of the little fuggers, and so did my resolve to attempt rescuing one of JB’s black kittens. I whipped out my chequebook, and put a deposit on the little guy the breeder tentatively called Stripe. He has a slight brown spot on either side of his head with a white stripe running between his eyes. The pups will be ready to go in a couple of weeks, so it looks like we have a new housemate for Grendel. Lookout world, here comes another puppy!
We had planned to head north to Manitoulin Island, but the ferry from Tobermory to South Baymouth wasn’t running at convenient times. Kingston became our ad-hoc destination. From the balmy shores of Cook’s Bay, PJ and I headed east. We decided to program the GPS and follow it to our destination on Division St. The ground rules were no highways, and no gravel. It was a nice scenic drive across central Ontario. The leaves are still green for the most part, but they are starting to change colours already. It was nice to take the slow route so we could just rubberneck and chat.
We arrived in Kingston after an extra two hours or so. After getting ourselves a room, we had a bite of dinner and took Grendel downtown Kingston for a walk. If you’ve never been to Kingston, it’s a lovely place with a lot of old nineteenth century buildings in good state of repair. There’s more of old Kingston than there is old Toronto left, and it’s a treat to ramble around a city like that. I wish the city of Toronto had the foresight to preserve more of the old city instead of razing much of it during the mid sixties and early seventies.
Essentially, we drove 350 km or so to take the dog for a walk. Somewhat excessive, but at least PJ wasn’t in the cave, and I got to sit back and enjoy a nice long tour.
We retired for the night and headed out early this morning to return home to Hogtown. We weren’t in any hurry, so we programmed the GPS one more time to guide us along the old Highway 2 (aka Kingston Rd.) all the way. It took about 4.5 hours instead of the usual 2.5 if you were to take the 401. We stopped along the way to visit with PJ’s cousin for an hour. She lives outside of Brighton almost at the Northumberland County Line. She was delighted to see us, and Grendel had a good time scampering about with Benjie.
We headed onward after about an hour. Despite our lack of timing, we had a mission. You may not care to know it, but there are 29 Tim Horton’s franchises from Division St. in Kingston, and our place in Toronto along Highway 2.
We arrived relaxed and tired from the slow drive to Kingston and back, with a reservation for a puppy, and a few extra coffees under our belt for the trouble. I wouldn’t have minded another day on the road, but alas, the working life beckons, and I have to hit the ground running tomorrow.
I had my six month checkup at the eye clinic today. I rambled over to the St. Mike’s Golf and Country Club first thing this morning for a visual field test. The test is quite neat. It involves looking inside a semi spherical gizmo that flashes tiny lights at you. You have to click a button when you see the light and you never know where it’s going to appear. The technician can take the results and generate an accurate map of how much peripheral vision you have. They can also tell whether there are any blind spots. I’m happy to report that the results were pretty good, and compared to my vision last winter, everyone concerned is happy. Especially me.
I have a couple of small blind spots, one in each eye. Fortunately for me, this is the sort of thing that the occipital lobe can process, and is no cause for concern. My colour vision is still pretty funky. The resident tested my colour perception, and we discovered that it is not so good. It’s worse in my right eye, but it’s also something I can live with. The colour test could probably have turned out better. They socked those drops in my eye that freezes the pupil so the opthalmologist can have a peek at the retina. It’s a dirty trick they play on you. “Let’s fugg up your vision and then test it, shall we?”
While I was waiting in the clinic for the drops to take effect, I couldn’t help notice a miserable woman sitting there complaining about the long wait to see the doctor. I arrived a couple of minutes after she did, and all she could do was call the technician a bitch, and the residents a bunch of dummies over and over. She was her own worst enemy. I got to see the doctor before she did for obvious reasons. “Let’s deal with the grateful and pleasant patients first.”
The technician stepped into the room where I was waiting for the head Doctor. I made a point of mentioning to her that despite this woman’s protests, I appreciated her efforts and was sure that most of the other patients did too. She was pretty flustered, and certainly didn’t deserve being called a bitch. I suspect most people don’t enter the health care profession to make life miserable for others. It’s a noble calling.
After coming back from a state of total blindness in the wintertime, I have nothing but good will towards these people. They saved me from a pretty wretched fate. The hospital staff and all of my top notch friends are the greatest. I don’t need a seeing-eye chihuahua for one thing. I can still drive a car. Best of all, I can still see the stars twinkling overhead.
Does anyone need a colourblind saxophonist in their band? I’m available anytime except thursday nights.
Sass is going be irritated by this, but PJ and I are thinking of getting another mexican bulldog. I sent a message to the woman who breeds chihuahuas and she sent me some pictures of the current litter. Grendel’s mum, Rosie, has had another batch of five pups this time. There’s one little black one that is the spitting image of Grendel. There are two little white males in the litter, and a light chocolate brown one too. They are such cute little fuggers that I couldn’t help but smile when I saw them.
In the interest of keeping things on an even footing, I asked if they would be a bit on the big side. Grendel is a little dog, but he’s a big chihuahua. At 4 lbs over the breed standard, I wouldn’t want him to have an unfair advantage at the food bowl. The breeder figures the two white boys are a bit robust, so I’m thinking mostly about them first. The chocolate coloured guy looks good too, but odds are he’ll be on the small side. He’s a bit smaller than his brothers already.
The pups will be ready to go in two or three weeks, and I’m going to visit the breeder this weekend to see the pups. That may be the final straw, and I’ll likely whip out my chequebook on the spot. The only thing holding me back is the news that my pilates teacher, JB, has a batch of black kittens that she needs to find a good home for. A black chihuahua and a black cat would make a nice pair.
In the interests of having some fun, and letting all of you out in blogland, or the blogverse, or whatever it’s called this week in on it, I’d like to propose a “name that critter contest.” Grendel is named after a mythical monster from the story of Beowulf for all the non-literary types out there. I figured we need to call the pet something equally monstrous, just to keep the irony quotient high. Please feel free to make a suggestion, and the winner can come by and get a chihuahua tongue in the ear or one of their nostrils. It’s a heckuva prize. How could anyone resist? I might even throw in a can of Grolsch for the lucky winner.
I’m sure Sassinak will gripe a bit until she gets to stuff the little fugger into her pocket like she did with Grendel.
Recent Comments