I'm back, Baby!

Well, it's been a while, hasn't it?

I think it's time to blow the dust off and try to fire this bastard up again.
For starters, sheck out my new design over at Threadless:



If you feel like it, vote for the damn thing. In fact, feel free to click that little, "I'd buy this" button.
Go ahead and click it even if you'd rather pound roofing nails into your knees caps than actually buy it.

Consider it your good deed for the day.

Funny Hats and Moral Dilemmas

Let me just start by saying that I like Shriners.

I like the ridiculous hats, I like the tiny cars, I like how they've co-opted the trappings of Islam without the slightest understanding of what they mean. I like that "Shriner" is the very highest Masonic degree, as if the reward for all those years of secret rituals and plotting to rule the world is to dress up in silly hats, get drunk and drive a tiny car.

But most of all, I like it when they sell hotdogs in front of the grocery store for charity.

I don't know what it is, but somehow they use their mysterious Shriner voodoo to make these hotdogs taste better than any other hotdogs on the planet. The goddamn things are irresistible.

Also, I once stayed in a hotel during a Shriners convention. There was an occasion when I was on the "up" escalator with my wife and kids and a group of elderly Shriners and their wives were on the "down" escalator. These guys had the most fabulous jewel encrusted fezzes, sporting snappy titles like "Past Master" and "Supreme Potentate."

This situation created a superb opportunity to reach out and pluck one of these beauties from a passing head, but it also posed a formidable moral dilemma.

On the one hand I could ignore the fezzes and teach my kids a valuable lesson about exercising personal restraint and respecting other people's property. On the other hand, I could snag a sporty new lid and teach my kids a valuable lesson about seizing opportunities when they're offered, and only stealing hats from old people, because they can't run very fast.

As is often the case in these situations, I had only a split second to decide, and I opted for the high ground, leaving the fezzes untouched. So now I'm the proud owner of a sense of moral superiority, but that hardly replaces a cool new hat to barbecue in. Sometimes I still lie awake at night wondering, did I make the right choice?

It's a question that will haunt me for the rest of my days.

I Want To Be An Eccentric Recluse Too...

So J.D. Salinger is dead.

Probably spinning in his grave too, now that he's back in the headlines.
Apparently he never stopped writing, he just felt that publishing was a terrible invasion of his privacy. You've got to admire the man's convictions. He wasn't a basket case saving jars of his own urine like Howard Hughes, he just wanted to be left alone. Can't blame a guy for that. Although, I suppose if you're going to save jars of urine, better your own than someone else's, right?

Anyway, I'd sure like to get a peek at what ol' J.D.'s been working on for the last 47 years.

Now, where did I put those mason jars...

The Boy Scout Chronicles Volume 2 - Jamboree of Despair

When I first joined the Scouts, our entire inventory of camping equipment consisted of three heavy canvas army surplus tents.  


They appeared to date from the Crimean War, and setting them up was an exercise in Rubik's-Cubian complexity. When they were finally up and you pulled back the flap to enter the dark, damp interior, you were hit with a stench so powerful it felt like a physical blow. The primary source of this odour was decaying canvas, but a sensitive nose could pick out subtle notes of mold, mildew and what I believe was Trench Foot. As an added bonus, each tent weighed approximately 3 metric tonnes and took on more water than the Titanic in wet weather.


However, after years of diligent fund raising (See Volume 1) we finally saved up enough pennies to replace these monstrosities and purchased four shiny new Canadian Tire tents just in time for the big International Jamboree.


When the big day arrived, Mr. P. strapped the new tents to the roof of his station wagon and we all piled inside, eagerly anticipating a dry and odourless night's sleep. (Or at least as odourless as would be possible following the traditional Scouting meal of beans and weiners.)


Now, if you know anything about the Boy Scouts, you'll know that knot tying forms a big part of traditional scouting lore, so Mr. P. had a wide range to choose from when securing the tents to his roof.  We'll never know which knot he chose; the reef knot... the sheep shank... the clove hitch... all we can be sure of is that he performed the task with his usual level of competence, for when we arrived at Camp Shegardeynou, there was just a single, lonely tent left on that roof.


While Mr. P. scratched his head and peered at the car in confusion, our initial shock hardened into quiet fury as we pictured the terrible fate of our beloved new tents. There were two basic scenarios as we saw it.


The first, (and least awful) consisted of a series of 18 wheelers crushing the tents into unrecognizable wads of twisted metal and torn nylon.


The second, (and substantially worse) involved aluminum tent poles flying through windshields like javelins, family sedans careening out of control, multi-car pile-ups, flaming wreckage and unthinkable carnage.


However, neither of these theories were ever confirmed,no tents were recovered, and as far as I know, no charges were filed.


By the time Mr. P. headed out again on the three hour drive to fetch the dreaded canvas army tents, our anger had faded to a familiar dull ache of resentment.  If they gave out merit badges for Crushing Disappointment, our troop would have been the most decorated in Scouting History.


And who got to sleep in that one remaining new tent? 
Why, a certain heartless bastard by the name of Mr. P., of course.


Too be continued...

2009: Just the good stuff.

What with massive financial collapse, swine-flu, terrorism, wild-fires, earthquakes, floods, and Octomom, 2009 won't go down in the books as many people's favourite year.
A lot of bad things happened to a lot of good people.
Still, we dug around and managed to come up with a few highlights:


JANUARY:
Daniel Lanois at Massey Hall.
The man puts on a quality rock 'n' roll show.


FEBRUARY: 
Lux Interior of the Cramps dropped dead.
Okay, I guess that's more of a bad thing, really, but it gives me an excuse to post a Cramps link.


MARCH: 
44 New styles of Gotham from Hoefler and Frere-Jones.
Love that "Condensed."


APRIL:
Pizza and wings with the family at Sammy's Pizzeria in, N.F., N.Y.


MAY:  
Thoughtful and creative logo design appears to be back in style.
Check out these beauties on Francesco Mugnai's blog.


JUNE: 
A particularly transcendent roast beef sandwich. Horseradish, mayo, swiss cheese, and romaine on wood-oven-baked sourdough bread. 

Never underestimate the power of a good sandwich.


JULY: 

Midnight rides on the mighty GS850.


AUGUST: 
Finally, definitive proof that we don't have the world's most screwed up government: Jesse Jackson is crowned Prince of the Ivory Coast, succeeding the previous monarch, Michael Jackson. 
I'm not making this up.


SEPTEMBER: 
As we approached the 20th anniversary of the Berlin Wall coming down, newly released documents revealed a fascinating back story to the drama.
Thatcher, Mitterand, the Vatican, even beloved freedom fighter Lech Walessa, were all opposed to the wall coming down, and fought hard to stop it. At the same time, the Russians knew it was inevitable and were even considering tearing it down themselves.


OCTOBER: 
I was a runner-up in the "Take a Picture" Veer contest.


NOVEMBER:
Watched Stephen King and David Cronenburg swap stories at the Canon Theatre. Some serious brain power on display that night.

Even managed to snag a signed book.


DECEMBER: 

Grilled steaks in the fireplace, hillbilly style.


So there you have it. 

Some good did come out of 09, but all in all, I can't say I'm sad to see the bastard go.
However, 2010's going to be a good one. I can smell it.

Peace on Earth and Good Will Towards Men

Thanks to everyone who let me get creative on the asses of all 
these jobs in 2009.
Let's do it again next year!

The Boy Scout Chronicles Volume 1 - The Hixon Street Miracle

Like most small town boys of my era I was a Boy Scout.

Standing at attention in my beret and sash, flashing the official Lord Baden-Powell two-fingered salute, I was sure I looked just as cool as Sean Connery in "Dr. No," or maybe Clint Eastwood in "Where Eagles Dare."  Dashing... manly... debonair.  After all, what girl can resist a man with the words "Fruitbelt Camporee" emblazoned across his shirt?

However, before you get too far in forming a mental image of idyllic, Rockwellian youth, I should take a moment to point out that, just a few jamborees down the line, I was unceremoniously expelled from the troop and my scouting career ended in Nixonian disgrace.  Much later in life, I was also kicked out of a Sex Pistols concert and to this day I'm not sure which incident I'm more proud of.

Now, Scout Leaders have earned a reputation as being second only to Catholic Priests in the pedophilia department, but in our troop, the only thing they were guilty of was extreme stupidity.

Our first illustrious leader was Mr. P. (I'm playing it safe here, as I'm a little fuzzy on the legal ramifications of pointing out someone's idiocy on the internet.)

Anyway, Mr. P. had us going door to door for about two years, collecting old newspapers and magazines to sell to recyclers at something like 2¢ a ton. One day, a guy gave us a large stack of Playboy magazines.

I don't know if I can properly convey in words how significant this was in the days before the internet. It was possibly the single most exciting moment of my young life. It was like finding the Holy Grail.

Unfortunately, like most good things, it was too good to last. We would have been okay if we'd just played it cool and hidden them quietly, but word of the miracle spread through the troop like wild fire and there was no controlling us. Soon we were all gathered in an excited huddle, marveling at the glorious new world Heff was opening up for us, a world of buxom beauties, witty repartee, and velvet smoking jackets.

Suddenly, Mr. P. burst into our midst, nearly frothing at the mouth in his religious fury. He angrily snatched the magazines away and hurled them onto the top of the nearest recycling truck.

It was a crushing, heart-breaking blow and I swear I heard old Baden-Powell roll over in his grave as it happened. I feel certain that Lord Robert shared our appreciation for tastefully posed women with air-brushed breasts, even if Mr. P. didn't.

We finished that paper drive in a daze, our hearts heavy with the knowledge that a once in a lifetime opportunity had been stolen from us. I think a little part of me died that day, and from that moment on, the Boy Scouts were never quite the same for me.

To be continued...