A Stroll with The Floyd

Dear Takeover My Makeover,

2011-12-06T20:33:00.004-05:00

My name is Darryl Renwick, and I'd be the perfect candidate for your show. What kind of show will it be exactly? Will it be on TLC? Or maybe Spike? Or is it that new exciting OWN television network? Is it a game show?

OWN. How nice. An excellent brand for your own network, your majesty. Well done.

If there was a makeover show, and I could be on it... it would be the perfect mix of "What Not to Wear", "The Biggest Loser, and of course "Wipeout".

Very recently, a blogger friend entitled his new entry "Takeover My Makeover".
His blog post was an unnecessarily apologetic,(in that Canadian way) plea for guidance from his readers.

At least that's how I saw it.

He was looking for inspiration for the semi-continual flow of his recreation writing.

You see, this man juggles three great kids, a loving wife, and a beautiful circle of family and friends.

He's got a full-time job using his words to deal with this and that and conquering the work day.

And he eats right.

And he works out like a fiend.

Busy dude.

There simply aren't enough hours in the day for anyone to do everything they want. Priorities.

I wish I had fewer ideas to write about. Or at least to focus on one idea. When Floyd and I are alone together(almost always), we get bored.

The dog is bored.

I'm bored.

I can YouTube, iTunes, and FACEBOOK until I'm blue in the face. When I try to chill out with a Leaf game(they lose in overtime), all I can think about is riding my bike.

When I'm walking the dog through the 'hood, all I can think about is what will happen next on The Walking Dead.

I daydream about my wedding day, and a fun marriage, then I'm fantasizing about flying a helicopter.

Sometimes I wish my mind would just slow down.(some would say I need it to speed up)

Going to start working out at the gym. Burn off some of this crisco and clear the head a bit.

One of these days I want to write a blog post that isn't about writing a blog post.

I challenge myself.

The mission is to lose 10lbs by 2012.

And to begin writing a story about the crows that fly over Ottawa. Have you seen them?

Any day, about an hour before dusk, look to the skies my friends. The murder flies to Old Ottawa South.

You read it here first.

Apuckalypse Now

2011-10-14T19:20:00.004-04:00

What the PUCK is happening to the world of hockey?

The game has never been more beautiful, more skilled. Yet all we can do on tsn.ca is talk about a hockey player's squishy parts.

As Floyd and I trudged through our newest area of playdom, I was pondering a blog post. My squishy parts are always ready to type out a blahbber fest about a drooling dog. I can blog for hours about Metallica, The Foos, PJ, or Blue Rodeo. Or for goodness sake, I could stammer some more about pedaling in the forest. Yaaawwn.

The three of you who read this are maybe ready for me to aim my beak at another topic for once. Not exactly a new idea, but one rarely visited over the summer.

The Puck.

The current state of the NHL is a fascinating thing. There are many things to celebrate this season. Foremost, the return of the Winnipeg Jets has myself and a great many others grinning broadly. The Maple Leaf on our country's flag finally has a stem again. Or at least maybe it will have, after Les Nordiques are reborn. I would love that. Another bright spot is Phil Kessel's game 2 hat trick. Seeing Ray Emery getting a shot in Chicago is encouraging. There are always stories in Our Game that brighten our lives. Seeing a player like Crosby, or Stamkos, or Ovie. Ovie needs to stop gazing in the mirror and put the puck in the back of the net like only he can. You're ugly Alex. You look like a caveman. And your interviews are hard to watch. But I can watch your highlight reel on an endless loop.

Some poor starts out of the gate are ever-present also. The Ottawa Senators are on pace for a horrendous season. (Rebuilding) The career of Rick Dipietro of the NewYork Islanders is once again in jeopardy. People think Pascal Leclaire is fragile! Ricky D is made of porcelain.

But today's dose of negative, hard to swallow hockey, is coming through the tube from Pittsburgh, PA. Last night Arron Asham of the Penguins fought a boy named Beagle and knocked him out with a SOLID punch in the head. Jay Beagle went down in a heap, face first to the ice. Nobody likes to see that. Nobody wants to feel that. Just ask Kevin Stevens. Is he still alive? 478 points, 219 goals for Pittsburgh from 1989 to the 1993-94 hockey season. There were two 50 goal seasons in there and four seasons with more than 40 goals. By today's NHL standards, that is a furious scoring pace.

1.22 points per game in today's league for consecutive seasons is unheard of. The game is different now. Faster. More violent. Players cruise around the ice at speeds just shy of 50km per hour. Ever glide into an oncoming truck?

The constant talk of concussions in sport is very troubling. Brain injuries are serious. The NHL is doing the right thing in holding Sidney Crosby back and proceeding with caution. Ten years ago, and even more recently, a concussed player would be sent back into action much sooner. What happens to a player after they get their eggs scrambled too many times, is sad to watch.

Dynamite playmakers and scorers have watched their careers dwindle and die because that spark in them has been pinched out like a candle. How fast would you be willing to skate headlong into the corner boards when you knew Zdeno Chara was coming around the back of the net with you in his laser sights? How much can your mind be splashed against the inside of your skull before you realize it's better just to sit the next bunch of games out? Maybe call it a career?

A brain injury can be catastrophic.

Life at the pinnacle of hockey, can so easily be taken away. Players like Pat LaFontaine, Paul Kariya, Eric Lindros, and Marc Savard, have all seen their dreams for Lord Stanley aborted. Even players like Kevin Stevens. Although he was an integral part of two championship seasons, his face got caved in and his game never returned. Not to mention his rumoured struggles with the nightlife. I would love to hear Ron McLean interview Kevin and Don Cherry. I mean, to pick the healthy brain of a hockey player may not reveal much in the way of smarts(exception: Ken Dryden) but to sit between Kevin Stevens and the sour old Grapes and have a chat, would be interesting television.

The tragic deaths of three NHL tough guys, and a terrible plane crash killing an entire Russian hockey club... It's been a sad start to the season. Things must improve.

Rather than hearing about fighting, and headshots, and unsportsmanlike conduct...

Rather than all that, can we just get some more Blue and White wins? Can we get Sidney's pancake batter firmed up so he can skate around some guys and make some pretty plays? Can we get Ovie to stop talking and start shooting the lights out? Can we get more of Jerome Iginla's smiling face? Can we get anything to smile about out of Alberta for that matter?

Oilsands, schmoilsands.

The horror. The horror.

My Morning Jacket with Eddie Vedder - "It Makes No Difference" 6/1/06

2011-09-30T19:25:00.000-04:00

Yamaha says what?!

Label me, I label you

2011-09-18T16:39:00.003-04:00

This summer, I fell in love. It was something I've always had my eye on... something I've always wanted to try. Something fun and exciting and fast.

With the world being spun by the dual axes of time and money, the sport of downhill (DH) mountain biking has always been too great an expense. Some people look at it and consider it pure lunacy. They can't understand why someone would want to hurl themselves down a tree covered mountain. On a bicycle?

Those who know me and the Floyd know of our love of a bike ride. I have never labeled myself a cyclist. When I hear the word cyclist I think of the guy in the full lycra, neoprene bodysuit. His legs are shaved, he's got wraparound lenses covering his eyes. His quadriceps are made of stone. I love to go on bike rides. The few long road rides I've embarked on have always been little more than a stare down with the horizon. A road ride is great for zoning out... but so often, very much straight ahead. Can't label me a cyclist...I'm a mountain biker.

Cross-country(XC) mountain biking can honestly be considered my first love. I loved the XC even before I knew what it was. Actually, the sport (hobby) of XC and myself... are roughly the same age. But before I even laid eyes on a girl, I loved nothing more than going for a rip in the bush.

The world "cycling" often evokes thoughts of bright colours, big crowds, and competition. I prefer it at its roots. BIKE RIDE.

On every possible sunny Sunday since the month of May, I've been at the hill across the river. Every weekend at Camp Fortune from 11am to 5pm, and Wednesday evenings from 5pm-dusk, I was atop an aluminum, full-suspension, low-slung, beast of a bike.

First objective, conquer my intense fear of chairlifts. Just kidding. Like a lot people who think they're afraid of heights, it's probably just fear of the fall.

On Sundays, if I'm not visiting family, or away in a different city, or on the couch with a Strep infection inside my neck and face... Or on the couch with broken ribs... Sorry :( On Sunday's this summer, I've been on two wheels being sucked at by the nymph fairy we call Gravity.

On any given Sunday, I could be found with my knees flexed and heavily padded, bombing down a hill. My gloved hands holding on tight as my index fingers dance on the brake levers. An open, fast section has me tucked and aerodynamic. My goggles keeping the dust and wind out of my eyes. Then a step-up onto a boulder the size of a VolksWagon, back into the trees, and around the bend.

Around the bend, there's probably a large step-down. For me, the step-downs were the hardest to get my head around in the beginning. I'm talking the first few rides here. Step-downs (the ones at Camp Fortune) are now second nature. Really, a step-down is just a big drop. The fun ones give you a feeling of flying as you aim the bike to the landing strip, the front fork soaking up 8 inches of energy from the dirt and rocks below.

There is a trail at Camp Fortune called Megladon. This trail satisfies my curiosity about jumping. I don't mean "hopping". All mountain biking involves hopping. My XC bike and I are like a gall darn jackrabbit. I mean jumping. The Megladon trail has no less than 5 fairly big jumps. One of them is huge. For those who know the lingo, Megladon is like a bike park trail. Lots of wooden structures added.

The jumps on Meggy as we call it, are built to propel you and your bike high into the air, and then back down onto a fairly clear landing zone. Some riders find the time in the air to perform a tailwhip, or a fakey, or a Superman(off the big jump). Some riders settle for a Queen Elizabeth wave, or like myself, just focus on keeping the rubber side down. The seconds of silence after your tires leave the earth are beautiful.

The jumps on Meggy are great for practising.

The double jump on a trail called National, is what sidelined me initially for this part of the bike season.

On Sunday August 21st, I was barreling down National. Through the woods, at a pace that was new to me. You see, as you improve and learn each section of the trail, you logically become faster. You need to recognize individual roots, rocks, and puddles on the trail. You gain trust in the machinery. The bike between your legs becomes more and more a part of you. It weighs just over 41lbs from tip to tail. The 26" wheels are 32 spoke reinforced aluminum. The meaty tires are filled to about 50psi. Maxxis triple compound rubber. Aggressive, 2.5" tread print. This bike is built to shred.

The bike has 9 gears. But you rarely shift. The chainring on the front is snugly protected by a bombproof(and rock proof) composite bash-guard. Never mind shifting gears, you rarely even pedal. The pedals are very different from the ones on my XC bike. They're very wide and flat... and my shoes are not attached to them. The bottom tubes of the bike are wrapped in rubber from used inner tubes and held in place by zip ties. The rear shock is a plush combination of metal spring and a big gush of air. The double-crown front suspension fork sucks up rocks the size of beagles.

Anyway, on August 21st, I came into the double jump section on National a little too hot. My speed was so quick that I decided in a split second, to hit the bigger of the two jumps. You see, you need more speed in order to hit the bigger jump. These two jumps don't send you high as much as they send you FAR. If you don't hit the big jump with enough speed, you land short. You land not on the groomed landing strip, but instead in a sort of "no man's land". A kind of hole or indent in the trail scattered with small rocks and weeds. I landed here and got pitched off my beloved ride like a rodeo cowboy without the silly hat. BUCK off PHIL!! When you land hard like that, it's called "casing". I CASED, hard. I landed full blast on my left side. My arm was up at shoulder height and extended out in front of me. My ribcage took the impact. I was bounced/rolled into the brush beside the trail, my helmet smacking a log and my right leg whacking something else.

That's what happened. And since then I've only ridden my XC bike a couple times(foolishly) and my road bike sparingly. I'm beginning to go batty. Instead of feeling the wind on my face, my legs churning and my heart pumping... I'm on the couch Blahgging. Strep throat sucks. And not in the sexy way Ms Gravity does. On the couch eating popsicles and getting fat. I'm in a rut. And not the fun-ruts you find while tearing through a muddy section of trail.

My stubborness has prolonged my recovery time. My impatience with myself, and a false sense of well-being thanks to a wonderful drug called Naproxen has caused me to re-injure the ribs. Twice. So today, the couch it is. Sitting here, with a big smelly dog, feeling bored and sorry for ourselves. Painfully swallowing the "I told you so" vibes bouncing off the walls.

Come on bud, time for a stroll.

To Whom it May Concern... A Letter to Mr Eddie Vedder

2011-09-07T18:45:00.006-04:00

Dear Eddie,

Understand one thing.

Not many things can get my GIDDY up more than a live rock show.

Your band has brought me twenty years of shaking my fist and singing my heart out.
More often than not, in the car or the shower. Twice, I've had the pleasure of watching you guys rock out live. Rock and Roll truth. Hard, yet intimate. Driving rhythms. Soul.

In the past, I've written a couple of letters like this. I've tried to have fun and actually place letters in envelopes and passed them to the stage. I haven't heard back from Levon Helm or The Foo Fighters, and I don't expect to hear back from you.

Back in tenth grade English class we had a reading period (or something) and my friend Ruth brought in a CD. Check that, it was probably a tape. The album was Ten. Hasn't let me go.

Throughout my discovery of vehicular freedom, female vernacular, first jobs, alcohol. Love and responsibility. Pearl Jam is still a part of it.

The soundtrack for personal triumphs and heartaches. An outlet for my emotions.

The release of Man of the Hour a few months after my own father's passing was especially poignant.

The Saturday Night Live appearances. The collaborations. The shows you guys played after the world went dark on September 11 2001. Pearl Jam has been with me until now, and probably forever. The live stuff you guys lay down is one of the finer things in life. The albums are great... musicianship, songwriting blah di blah blah... but it's the live sh!t.

I don't know you Mr Vedder, and I won't pretend to. You, Mike, Stone, Jeff, Matt and Booooom... you're all very cool, but your personal lives are none of my business.

I will say though, what I do know about Pearl Jam, and about you Eddie, it that I haven't seen anything that I disagree with. You seem to balance the life of true iconic rock stars with absolute human beings. With real lives, and real opinions. I don't think I need to point out why your honesty is refreshing.

In the news today, everyone is talking about hurricanes and hiding psychotic dictators and plane crashes. An entire hockey team was wiped off the earth today. That's very heavy news and it affects such an international community.

Everyone's thinking about this Sunday's horrible anniversary. I just spent the long weekend with my overtly Muslim fiancee in NYC. In the places we biked through that were crawling with tourists, in a city of millions, I saw five Hijabs. In total. Including my Q. Not that there weren't Muslim people around us. There were many. But it was all very under wraps and hush hush. Actually much less underwrapped if you get me. It was very American.

The looks shot toward my fiancee were varied and relentless. They bounced off her big cheap sunglasses and reflected into an array of colours. Sometimes it was caution yellow. Other times, and these times were also regular and recurring, the people of New York gave off a hue of hope. You know what I mean. The feeling strangers get when they've shared a moment. That glow that fills you when you meet another lost countryman on the subway. You know that colour.

Just wanted to send this note out to say thank you Eddie. Pearl Jam and their affiliated organizations have been great at staying connected to their fan base and in tune with world events. Keep on rocking.

You inspire me.

Happy 20th anniversary.

Darryl

Metallica - One (Official Music Video) [HD]

2011-08-25T21:12:00.000-04:00

Recently watched the movie in this video. War is wrong.

LEVON HELM - Anna Lee

2011-08-25T21:09:00.000-04:00

Finding God

2011-08-25T19:57:00.003-04:00

This keyboard has remained untouched for quite some time.

I mean other than the daily surf session through waves of CBC, The BBC, TSN, pinkbike, far too much Facebook, a dollup of YouTube, TheWeatherNetwork... get the drift?

I just haven't had the desire, or the time to dedicate to this daydreamy stroll with The Floyd.

The strolls are very real. At least thrice daily. Usually quadraphonicly. A lot of time, the only werds I can share with someone are the drivellings I spew toward the big brown dog. Poor basterd.

I come to this blog, to twist and shout and juggle letters, and celebrate the written word. I come to this blog to express myself to the people who take the time to actually tune in on a regular basis. These people are patient, and most kind. Some are casual followers, others are family and close friends. Let me clearly tell you now, these people enrich my life. I am forever grateful to the constant reader. Thank you.

A friend and inspiring blogger recently said that you should never blog out of obligation instead of interest. I couldn't agree more.

What interests me right now? What doesn't? What is flying through my brain at a million miles an hour right now? Well, today's been interesting.

But you don't need to hear about me blahbb about mountain biking, my dog, my candy store, my deep sadness at the loss of Jack Layton, or my absolute JOY over being head over heels in love with a most amazing woman.

Soon, I'll blog about seeing The Levon Helm Band for the fifth time.(with my MUM this time!)

Soon, I'll write a "To Whom it may concern" letter to Eddie Vedder, and definitely one to James Hetfield.

Soon, I'll write about discovering downhill mountain biking. Yeah, that's a real sport. It's fast, and fun, and gravity assisted. It's nice to play with gravity a couple times a week rather than just fighting it all the time.

I may also write about Jack Layton. How the chalkwork on display at Nathan Phillips Square in Toronto touches me. How not just a politician died, but a real "human" politician. A husband and father.

I want to write about the woman I'd follow off the edge of the flat Earth.

I want to tackle a subject. A meaty one. I want to voice my current questions and concerns about religion. About God. About the very thing I've previously mocked. I want to discuss different theologies, and opinions. Just seems like so much.

Do you need to find God, even if you feel you've never lost Him? Do we need to bow in fear of God? Or reach for Him in awe? I think we need to just be good humans. Try to benefit the planet... not destroy it. And keep talking.

Pearl Jam- Just Breathe

2011-06-05T03:12:00.002-04:00

This Sundae

This Sundae is a beautiful thing.

It's an Oreo McFlurry with hot fudge sauce.

It's a 2am... home from a Saturday night out... not yet ready for bed, snack.

This type of indulgence is not healthy if it's enjoyed too regularly.

Not many indulgences are.

This Sundae tastes so good, on an easy breezy Saturday night walk.

This Sundae marks a definitive new beginning.

This Sunday, I face my family as a happy man.

I face my new family with open arms, and an open heart.

I am ready to take the next step toward a future shared with the most beautiful soul I've ever known.

Floyd my friend, we're in for a heckuva ride.

We shall proceed in peace.

The Adventures of Dim and Dizzy

2011-05-08T00:17:00.008-04:00

It was the best of times, it was the test of times.

On tonight's late night walk I was the one dragging the other. Having been away most of the evening for some delicious burgers with some righteous friends, I came home with the intention of taking The Floyd for a nice long walk. Floyd rather fancied a sniff. NeveRmind the walking business said the dog in his own very passive way...

Ever try to move 90lbs of thick strong dog? Ever try to move it when all it wants to do is drop anchor and sniff? The dog walk was quickly tUrning into nothing more than a glorified pit stop.

We get asked by neighbours all the time, "How many times do you have to take him out?"

They gasp when I tell them at least four times a day. It's simple... two lengthy walks, book-ended by a pair of short purposeful excursions.

Most of these people are not dog owners. Some are, but they own the kind of dog you can carry in one hand and train to poop in the cat box. You know, the kind that bark and bark and puff themselves up just to be drooled on by a big friendly boxer.

So, at the point where Floyd has reached maximum distance, he's already pooped and peed. All he wants to do know is mosey back toward our tower in the sky ...one ...slow ...sniff at a time. He, with his head down, and me, with my eyes glued to the mobile device in my free hand. Neither of us notice the two figures on bicycles racing down the hill toward us.

Then I hear the brakes. The first bike skids to a stop just six feet from where we stand. The second bike slows but can't stop right away. Its rider simultaneously braking and pedaling. Very odd.

SSSQweeeeeeeeeeeeeek!

In the dark I can see there is a female and a mAle. As they step into the streetlight, I realize it's our friends Dim and DizzY.

We stand there all looking at each other for what feels like at least 10 seconds.

Floyd recognizes them as allies, and sits at attention. He knows that Ms Dizzy always carries treats In her front left pocket. Long tendrils of drool begin their slow but eventual journey to the sidewalk. They touch the concrete, separate from his black lips and splash to the ground.

They are still standing there. We're all speechless. Dizzy n Dim both look utterly excited about something. Their gAwking eyes, and gaping mouths reek of good news.

"What's up you two?" I finally manage to spit out.

"Nothing." they say in unison, grinning from ear to ear to ear to ear.

Mr Dim wipes sweat from his eyebrows as Ms Dizzy gives us a slight curtsy and tips her large pink sunhat. Why the heck is she wearing a big sun hat over her bike helmet? I think to myself. Wouldn't she be more comfortable without? I can't deny her beauty though. The pale pink in the moonlight, in contrast with her big shiny brown eyes, is quite fetching.

(midway note: I wish Floyd understood fetching.)

"Forgive me for a moMent boys," trumpets Dim. "I seem to have a bug in my eye"

His grin has become the toothiest display of joy that The Floyd has ever seen.

"Can we tell him?!" he asks Ms Dizzy. They're both pretty much hopping now.

Dizzy nods frantically and holds out her left hand. Her other hand finds Dim's and they bounce together.

On her third finger is the most sparkly gem I've ever laid my eyes on.

"We're getting hitched!" they announce, again in unison.

I'm confused.

"Whaat?!" I say. "Quain?!" I'm not asking. They can't be engaged. I'd have known about their relationship long before this night. Maybe I did. They are pretty cute together.

"Yup" says Dim, "We're in love."

I give Dizzy a searching look, "Really? Wow! I'm happy for you guys."

And I truly am happy. I can see the joy in their eyes. And When they look at each other, I can sense the connection. I guess maybe there was always that current flowing between them.

I just never acknowledged it. You see, Dizzy is from Romulus. She's Romulan. Dim's cleArly a Vulcan. I don't need to explain what a rarity a marriage of that sort would be. For centuries, the Vulcans and the Romulans have fought, argued, debated and discussed, and fought some more.

The Vulcans with their stategic hold on Neptune and all its resources. The Romulans' grip on Saturn and all its precious rings. Both species, in Floyd's opinion, were better suited for Uranus.

History and tradition have dictated that these two peoples were better off in a futbol match, or a game of croquet, or bloodshed. Not marriage.

But the more I stared at them, with their ballsy affirmation, the more I realised what this moment meant to them.

"You're the first to know, Darryl." said DizZy as Dim nodded in approval.

"We saw you two out for a walk and just had to stop and share our good news." Dim said as he extended his hand for a congratulatory handshake.

I shook his hand. Then I gave his lovely fiance a big hug.

Floyd jumped up with paws outstretched. The FloYd never likes to miss out on a solid hug.

Shortly After, the two loveBirds pedaled off into the night whilst doggy and grOggy hUrried home.

We hurried home to share this sTory with YOU, Dear Reader.

Thank you for reading it.

Today

2011-03-29T20:45:00.004-04:00

I been thinking
of a little place down by the lake
they got a dirty little road leading up to the house
I wonder how long it will take till we're alone
sitting on the front porch of that home
stomping our feet on the wooden boards
never gonna worry about locking the door
Hotel Yorba by The White Stripes

Today is the day that we stand up, take notice and mull over our vote.

The votes we make in life, and the decisions we make are what shape us.

Pear is a shape.

The cursed couch hasn't helped much with my physique. It's been a place for relaxation, a place for dining, a place for Floyd and I to rock out with our socks off.

Last week, I spent the entire week in a foreign land. Far away from the couch. And it was the best week I've had in long time.

Was it because it was 25 degrees all week long, and the sun shone bright?

Maybe.

Was it because I got to ride my beloved bicycles through a beautiful blossoming part of the world?

Maybe.

Was it because it took my normally routine personal schedule and filled it with enjoyable things?

Yes.

Last week I spent with family from afar. This family is different, and it's new and it's amazing... and it's absolutely familiar.

The Mooneys of the South are remarkable people. Every single one of them is an absolute jewel. I spent time with each of my four cousins, my uncle and aunt. Everyday, there was something different to do, a place to visit, and conversations to have. Laughs to be shared.

I want to go back. It wasn't just a warmer place, climate-wise. The people were warmer. I've been to the US many times. I've been to Florida twice, but strictly as a tourist. Disney staff are paid to be warm.

Not my imagination. Just South of that Mason-Dixon line, The trees were blossoming, and the smiles were truer. People of all colours, nodding, smiling, saying how do you do? A sense of welcomeness I haven't felt since Brasil.

Yeah, there were Walmarts everywhere and giant-sized Dodge trucks. You couldn't find a Tim Horton's or even a Starbucks anywhere, it seemed. What you could find were Popeye's Chickens, Bojangles, Waffle Houses, on every third corner. And Cracker Barrels. Every cracker's favourite...

Tonight, I'm sitting here trying to recap the week's events. It's like a Santa Cruz blur.

Friday, dinner at Sarah's new house with both Gerald AND Phil. John Ryan came too.
Got to meet Alysha, Sarah's roomie.

Saturday morning I rode my awesome new fixed gear road bike like the wind. Destination: John Ryan's automotive garage for a community BBQ complete with classic car show, bloodmobile, and a big bouncy inflated castle for the wee ones. No shoes allowed.

Saturday night dinner with Sean and his lovely girlfriend Kelly and Uncle Jerry and a patio crammed with picnic tables and cold beer.

Sunday, we visited the flea market and I found a first edition Different Seasons by Stephen King. Then we had lunch at a place called Mellow Mushroom Pizza. The waitress was a sour old cow. But the food was great!

Sunday evening Mum and I went to Gerald's house and had dinner with the hounds of Fenwick Street.

Monday was spent in Charleston, South Carolina with Philomena and Sarah. Gorgeous.

Tuesday was another day trip to the Coast. This time we were in and around the city of Savannah. The history was dripping from the walls. Had breakfast at the beach on Tybee Island. Ate grits for the first time. Yum! Kind of like stiff cream of wheat that tastes like corn. The same day we had supper and a visit with Amy. Tried alligator for the first time. Tastes like chicken. Might have been chicken...

Wednesday I rode my mountain bike for the first time since November. My arms and legs and my back came alive. I sweat like a sow in heat. I got my picture taken with The Godfather of Soul, Mr James Brown. Then a big hill on a pretty street called Walton Way handed my sore ass to me on a plate. That night we had nachos at another outdoor patio called The Cotton Patch. It was trivia night.

Thursday I rode the fixie down to Broad Street and had lunch solo at The Pizza Joint. Sipped a Rolling Rock and watched a lady let her dog crap on the lawn in front of the trattoria. She picked it up after about five minutes. Thursday night we had supper at Kelly's with the twins, and Alysha, Gerald, Phil and Grannie Annie. Very good!

Friday I found it hard to rise from bed. I was a ball of spent muscle and bone. The perfect cure was cruisin' through Augusta with Sarah and watching some top-notch college softball on the field at ASU. We met the termite terminator at the house. He was the living breathing version of Dale Dribble. Sarah never watched King of the Hill so she can't vouch. Steak, baked potatoes, and crab n' carrots in Gerald's backyard. Augusta RiverHawks hockey game that night. They won in overtime. Only about 1500 people there, but they were all VERY into it.

Warmest goodbyes.

Saturday, drove right back home in seventeen and one half hours to this cold brown place. Outside Syracuse, we got ripped ten bucks by a white trash gas attendant only to realize it two miles up the highway.

My apartment has been newly arranged with style and taste. And the Floyd has developed a skill for opening the fridge and helping himself to whatever he feels like. Last night was a salad.

And today, I'm seriously wondering which way to vote. Do you vote for the party? Or do you vote for the douche at the head of their table?

Today I vote for standing up, shaking off this couch, and following my heart.

Tomorrow I'm pedaling to work.

Dizzy Goes Down!

2011-03-01T20:10:00.005-05:00

Floyd and Moyd trudging through the fresh fallen snow. I'm high-steppin' and the dog is at a gallop up ahead. Tufts of powder being thrown into the air by his big rubbery paws. I've launched Floyd's red squeaker as far as I am able. He tracks its descent in front of him and times his pounce perfectly.

"Good boy!" I exclaim.

The Floyd enjoys praise. What warm blooded mammal doesn't?

We're trespassing again. Fenced in, to romp about in the badlands where St.Laurent Blvd meets Tremblay Road. We like to return to this old haunt at least thrice a week.

There's a figure up ahead. Is it an apparition? Another human? Maybe they have a doggy with them...

Floyd's ears perk and his snout points into the breeze. He sees the person in the distance. And then he's off to the races.

"Floyd!" I yell "Stay here bud."

No use. When the Floyd decides he's going to meet someone new, sans leash, it's always a party. At the dog park it's encouraged. In this rectangle of Government land, the dog's exuberance is sometimes unwelcome.

When I finally catch up I realize that it's no stranger after all. The Floyd has come across a friendly face. It's our fellow Ottawan, Antoine Le Dim.

Something's not right. Mr.Dim is practically ignoring the big dog pestering him for a hello. Dim's eyes are fixed down at the ground in front of him. He's staring into a deep hole. And ohmygoodness! Dizzy Doucette's in the hole!

"Hello Floyd." Dizzy n' Dim say in unison. "Hello Moyd."

"Hi guys." I say "What's going on?"

"Dizzy fell into a hole," groans Mr.Dim "and it's all my fault."

"Don't be a sillynilly, Dim." she snaps "It's not like you pushed me in.

"But I'm the one who challenged you to a snow-angel contest."

I can clearly tell that Dim is not at all pleased with himself. And Ms.Dizzy doesn't look impressed either.

Meanwhile, the dog had wandered off to a corner of the lot. After a moment, Floyd returns with a large branch in his teeth and gently drops it into the hole with the Diz.

"Good Boy!" all three of us voice to the smiling doggy. His stubby tail wagging like a proud little rudder.

Dim and I reach down and grab our end of the branch. Dizzy clamours up the side of the hole in the ground, her pink boots scraping at the dirty walls of the shallow well.

With much grunting, and a few droplets of sweat, we managed to excavate our friend. Dizzy fell into the arms of Dim and they embraced for a second or twenty. Floyd greeted her with a big jumping hug of his own.

"OFF FLOYD!" I shout. Little bastard is always on springs.

"It's okay Moyd" Dizzy says, "Hello Floyd. Good puppy! I missed you too buddy... Yes I did!"

Now she's doing a type of roundabout dance with the dog, his paws on her waist and his muzzle buried in the breast of her warm winter coat.

They thanked us again for our help and we were on our way. Dizzy and Dim left us with one request. Floyd and I were not to tell anyone about Ms.Dizzy's unfortunate tumble. Nor were we to speak of Mr.Dim being responsible for such an occurrence.

I can promise I'll never utter a word about it. As for the dog, who knows what he's gonna do?

Donny

2011-02-24T19:34:00.015-05:00

Once upon a time, there was a platypus named Donny. Donny the platypus lived in a watery paradise very far from here. Donny liked to swim, and slide, and lay in the mud to cool off on hot days. He would dive down to snap up bottom crawlers and then rocket back to the surface smacking his duck-like bill. Clack Clack Clack. Many of the neighbouring animals would stop and stare.

You see, Donny was pretty unique as far as the creatures in his neck of the woods. Within his roaming radius of seven kilometres, there were none quite like him.

Oh sure, Donny had many neighbours in these woods. There were soft, fuzzy, climbing animals. Some climbed fast and swung from the branches and vines. Others were a little more slow and deliberate. There were creepy crawly neighbours, wet slimy neighbours, heck, there were literally thousands of winged, feathered neighbours.

Donny's ancestral genealogy taught him to stay away from certain neighbours. Some neighbours, you could swim with... some you just didn't want to.

Donny had seen a few platypi around his home over the years. On more than a couple occasions, Donny had to kick out his spurs to defend the love interest du jour. You see, at the heel of each hind foot, Donny had a sharp spur. These small spurs injected a poisonous venom into Donny's opponent. Donny wasn't sure just how potent his venom was, but he knew it always got the message across.

One day while laying in the mud on the side of the creek with Miss Otter, Donny was thinking about his situation. The autumn sun was warm on his furry belly. As the otter snored lazily beside him, Donny was pondering his place in the world. Donny wanted someone to follow. He wanted to know which way to turn.

Suddenly, a little bored with himself, Donny rolled onto his belly and scampered into the water. He paddled along on the surface for a few minutes and then dipped his face underwater to cool off his bill. Up ahead Donny saw two paddling feet much like his own. They were webbed and splayed wide, pushing through the water. As he approached the creature, Donny surfaced and saw that he was face to face with a duck.

Ducks were nothing new to Donny's brook. He had quite a few friends who were ducks. There was Teemu, and Giggy, and Paul. Down the fox path you'd find Daffy and Gabriel. Old Mrs Murphy made the best rola-rogy pies in all the land. There were ducks of all sizes, shapes and colours.

But this duck was different. Immediately Donny knew this duck had some style. His head feathers were shimmery and boldly tinted red and blue. Under his pale grey wings, his down shimmered more silver than white.

"Gidday, mate." nodded the duck "What's your name there fella?"

Donny was shaken from his stare by the duck's friendly greeting. "Oh, my name's Donny. And I'm a platypus, just in case you were wondering"

"Well hello fine sir." quacked the duck "My name is Berehowsky." And with that, Drake Berehowsky stretched upward while treading water, and flapped his glorious wings.

"Berehowsky huh?" asked Donny "What's that, Russian?"

"Polish, actually." quack quack "My parents flew here from Eastern Europe in 1968."

"Wow, I truly dunno, but that sounds like a long flight." said Donny

"Crikey! You got that one right, mate!" quack. "I've always wanted to make the trip back to the homeland, but haven't attempted it yet."

For the next couple weeks, Donny and Drake Berehowsky would bump into each other and take a lazy paddle around the lake. Within a lap, the two of them could get into conversations and relate about world issues, the benefits of being an egg laying species,(and there weren't very many, Donny thought) even the odd time, they'd discuss the weather. The colder season was drawing nearer but it seemed a little later than in past years. Drake said it was because of something he called global swarming. He said the human population had become more and more of an infringement the last couple of decades. Sometimes Drake Berehowsky got angry when Donny asked about the humans. Donny wasn't sure what infringement meant, but he really liked the way the duck talked. They would chat for hours. Drake warned Donny all about the hell that is an oil spill. The duck also had so many fun and exciting stories about trips abroad. The duck liked Donny's easy going humour, and he liked learning how to nab the elusive crayfish at the east end of Dawson's Creek. The two became good friends.

Then one cold day in November, Drake Berehowsky had to do what many ducks did. He had to fly north toward warmer climes. Drake had to migrate. The day of his departure, Donny served frog leg soup. The duck wasn't super keen on the meal but ate it nonetheless. The two friends suckled and rooted around the bowls of clay. When they were finished, the bid one another adieu and promised to go for a swim in the springtime.

A short while later, Donny was again swimming in the lake. Little schools of minnows racing out of his way. All of a sudden, a VERY LOUD noise...

SPLASH!!

What the heck was that?! Donny thought. The water around him started lapping at his pelt as ripples slowly crossed the surface of the lake. Then he saw it. A brown creature. The medium sized animal was furry like Donny. It had the same big flat hairless tail as Donny. It had the same swimming feet, but Donny didn't see any spurs. The creature's face was something very different from Donny's. Where Donny had a nice wide bill for smacking about, this animal had a small face like Miss Otter's. But it had something more. The thing (Donny had already quickly ascertained that this creature was no threat) had two HUGE yellowish teeth protruding from it's upper lip. Grasped firmly in its mouth, underneath these MONSTROUS teeth, was a tree.

Donny shook his head in disbelief. This animal was dragging a small TREE across the water. From a distance, Donny watched as the thing came to a huge heap of mud and sticks. It slowly crawled up the side of the heap with the tree still locked in its jaws. It placed the tree onto the pile just so, and with strong capable front paws, it packed the tree with mud and grass. The thing jumped back into the water and abruptly slapped his big tail. More splashes. The thing began swimming toward Donny.

When the creature stopped a foot from Donny's face, the two animals extended a paw at the same time and almost in unison said..."Hello."

The animal was a beaver, and his name was Gord. He explained to Donny that he actually had a much longer, prouder name... but just to call him "Gord". Donny liked Gord right away. Gord and his family had relocated from Canada. Apparently, the humans actually paid for all of it. Spared no expense. Gord wasn't sure what exactly his new home would be like, but the brochures with the cute cartoon Tasmanian Devil were a real selling point.

Donny began to learn so much from Gord the beaver. Donny helped the beaver family finish their den. He couldn't very well gnaw down a living tree but he was a natural at packing mud and sticks and long reeds into place. He even learned to love Mrs. Betty Beaver's tree bark salads.

Over time, the beaver revealed to Donny that the key to his success was all in following his nose. His own nose.

"You see, Donny," chewed the beaver "you've got to follow your own snout. Make your own decisions. Don't put any worry into what anybody else does. Mind you don't go peeing on the wrong tree, but find your own path my boy."

Donny saw all the similarities between himself and the beaver, but it was their differences that piqued his interest. The beaver was the self proclaimed hardest working of all animals. Donny pointed out that maybe the spider was a bit busier, as business went, and the beaver capitulated and agreed that he was the hardest working MAMMAL on Earth. Donny gave him that. Gord and Betty Beaver worked very hard. Heck, even the kids worked hard. They carried themselves proud and unassuming all the while. The beaver's were modest in speech but their actions spoke volumes. The borough in the woods quickly accepted them into the community.

In the evenings, when it got much colder, Gord would invite Donny over for a couple pops. The den was warm and quiet. Donny heard stories about Canada and all its beautiful things. The big sky, the mountains, countless lakes, and something called Moose. Donny didn't know if moose meant one or many, but he knew, from Gord's stories, a moose was LARGE.

One day Gord explained to Donny that he and the family couldn't see him for a while because they had to hibernate. It meant that the beavers had to take a nap until the spring.

"Really?" asked Donny "It's not going to get much colder, you know."

"Even so," said Gord. "It's just something we gotta do, Donny. Don't take it personal."

Donny understood. He accepted that he'd have to wait a while before he saw his beaver friends again. Spring was just around the corner and he couldn't wait to introduce his friend Gord to his duck friend Drake.

Time passed and Donny found himself spending more time with Miss Otter. Miss Otter was planning an excursion to the new water park in the next forest. She shared with him some of the fish she had caught. They talked about what it would be like to swim in a lagoon in Costa Rica. Miss Otter went on and on about her upcoming excursion to the new water park in the next forest. They lounged around, slid down the slippery riverbanks and lounged some more. Miss Otter reminded Donny that she was planning an excursion to the new water park over in the next forest. What should she wear?! He liked Miss Otter, they got along great. But he missed the intelligent conversations he shared with the duck and the beaver. He missed hearing about flying over Mumbai at dawn. He missed learning about maple trees and covered bridges.

Then one bright cold day, the earth shook with a ferocity previously unknown to Donny. The still water in the pond began to dance. Squirrels fell from the trees and everyone ran for safety. After a while, the ground was still again. Donny wondered if maybe God was unleashing HIS wrath on his small forest home. Then he gave his head a shake. Maybe God had just eaten some bad Vegemite.

As warmer weather approached, Donny's smile broadened and his activity increased. The birds chirped happily and the waters ran high as mountain snow melted.

Donny still thought about his place in the world quite often. He still had questions, but found that he was much more content with the way things were. He found very many similarities between him and all the other animals around him. Donny gained a new found respect for the snake, and the turtle and even the boastful hare.

He used to avoid things that were a little different, but now all Donny wanted to do was explore new things. To celebrate differences.

That spring, Drake the duck flew back into town, and the beaver family were busy again building something else. Miss Otter still slipped and slid and lay about in the sun eating river crabs and grubs. Donny was truly happy.

All he lacked now was a pretty little platypus to run with. Someone special.

And that my friends, is a story unwritten.

To Whom it may concern... A letter to Kay Mooney

2011-02-13T19:21:00.001-05:00

Dear Grandma,

The best Christmas present I've ever received (except for maybe the Millennium Falcon that Santa brought) was a hand-written letter from you. It was a gift from your heart, through your mind, down to your hand, into and out of your pen. You gave each grandchild a copy and I got the hand-written original. That was better than a million pairs of socks. Better than a truckload of jigsaw puzzles. Even better than the prettiest dish towels.

It was a chronicled glimpse into the stories and events of an 80 year old woman. Elegantly written and beautifully expressed. There is no doubt in my mind what side of the family my LOVE of words came from.

This past Christmas I thought of sitting down to write a letter to you, a gift of my own expression just for you. A note from a Mooney once removed. Better late than never. The hand written copy is en route to Hawkesbury and the digital version is due to hit the internet soon. I know I don't need to inform you of the digital revolution, Gramma. You're already a pro, what with releasing a Christmas CD and all.

I thought the Christmas song you recorded with Brandon was awesome. A song for all the Great Grandchildren. Wowzers now there's four! Can't wait to meet her if she's a cute as everybody says.

The memoirs, the song, the speech you gave at your 80th birthday party... These are things I will cherish for the rest of my days. And that was your intention, I know.

We had a great talk tonight on the phone. I never call anyone on the phone. Not never. Rarely. I SELDOM call people on the telephone. This day and age, we all use different means of communication. A great deal of it is chopped and disconnected. We grunt to the person at the cash register, we wave to the neighbour down the hall, sometimes we put an 85lb dog between ourselves and a certain passing stranger.

My favourite form of communication is the text message. My generation has become masters(and slaves) of the text message. It's lazy AND efficient ;)

When I called, you were reading a book. I'm reading a great book right now that I was thinking of lending to Mum and you. It's called Everything is Illuminated, and it was hard to sink into but now it's excellent.

We talked about the Floyd, and work. We chatted about Augusta in the springtime and about brand new baby Harper. We talked briefly about your friend Ron, and his last days.

I think more phone calls are in order. Don't you? A visit is necessary as it seems I only get to see you at special occasions and celebrations.

Basically Kay Mooney, the purpose of this letter is this...

On behalf of Amber, and Crystal, and Brandon, and Amy, and John Ryan, and Sean, and Sarah, and Kiah, and Riley, and Justin, and Chace, and Melissa, and Kayla, and Jenna, I would just like to tell you that you're the best Grandma in the world.

As a 34yr old adult Canadian male, I've met many grandmothers over the years and trust me, I know what I'm talking about.

So many of my fondest memories revolve around you, and Grampa, and all your kids.

From riding in the tractor with Ian to exploring PEI with Arlene... visiting Edmonton with Karen to theatre-going with Kim... staying with Barry in Georgetown to criss-crossing the countryside with Gerald for AutoTrader magazine.

I remember crashing my BMX bicycle in front of your house and having you tend to my scraped knee.

I remember riding in the backseat in 1984 while you and Grampa tolerated my Cyndi Lauper tape.

I remember what a happy day it was when we celebrated your 40th anniversary.

And now I get to finally visit Georgia and make some new memories.

None of it would have been possible without you.

I, with all my successes and failures, my victories and defeats, my sorrows and all my joys... I, with every beat of my heart, would simply not be me, without you.

In your life and in your legacy, thanks for setting the example. Thanks for being such a super lady, Gramma.

I love you.

Darryl

Spout! Absolute Audio Slave

2011-01-31T19:59:00.005-05:00

Instead of pedaling down Beechwood towards the core, the late day's sun setting before me, I find myself sitting on the couch. Laptop is perched on the top of my lap. Our hero, The Floyd sits curled like a fat red snake just to my right. This evening's march through the badlands was a brisk one. The air outside is biting cold. I gaze over at the quick two-wheeled machine in the corner. It doesn't return my gaze. The bicycle simply stands at attention. Fixed on the television.

Alone, muttering to the dog, pacifying him, doing dishes, showering, thinking thoughts. Thinking "how may commas can you put in one sentence?" Realizing, it doesn't matter. It doesn't, unless you're being silly, or expressive, or just real. It, doesn't, matter, one, bit, mmmkay?

Here we are(instead of on that bike). A slave to the Yamaha Sound Machine. The Sound Machine is by some standards, nothing really to write home about. It is a black metal box that was designed in Japan and assembled DAWG knows where. It is a common household electronic device. But you know what? It's heavy. It has lots of dials and knobs and buttons. It's capable of feeding to and from my TV, my DVD player, my jukebox CD spinner, my iPod, and probably even this very laptop.

In short, The Yamaha Sound Machine rocks. And it sways my day. Just push shuffle.

It seems that during this cold dark January it's been playing sad songs. It plays Eddie Vedder's soundtrack for Into the Wild. Tonight it randomly plays Blue Rodeo, and Bob Dylan, and Blackie and the Rodeo Kings. Sad songs about loss and losing. Pain and heartache. It plays Jim Bryson and Dave Matthews. It plays The Trews. It's all about "I miss you". And "I'm miserable". And it's all about wallowing.

But praise to all the gods, with every thwack of yin, there's always a big heap of YANG!

The beat is picking up.

Red Hot Chili Peppers.

War, pumping out Low Rider

A Tribe Called Quest.

Neil Young's distorted guitar on Sleeps with Angels.

And then it comes.

Audioslave.

I could write an essay about everything that's wrong with Audioslave. The tidal wave of corporate influence, a mere fact of life.

I could fill another sheaf of foolscap with why Audioslave sounds so good.

It's riff rock.

It's funk.

It's thrash.

Chris Cornell's wail weaves in and out of the music like a slippery, angry poltergeist.

It's manufactured, much like my stereo receiver. It rages against and through the sound machine, and it sounds HELLA good.

And as keen as the snout that snores beside me, my ears long for more.

Now playing, on my CD player, and LIVE at Bar56 tonight, is the lovely and talented Renee Yoxon. Let's Call It A Day.

And with that, Dear Reader, I must bid you adieu. I'm bundling up and heading downtown. And instead of mounting the chromoly horse, I'll be walking to the bus stop and dueling with Jack Frost. I'll be sitting amongst strangers on the bus, disconnected from human contact with the help of the aforementioned iPod.

And then I'll be with my friends.

1991

2011-01-11T20:49:00.003-05:00

Twenty years ago, (and trust me, it doesn't feel like very long ago) I was in grade 9. My fifteenth birthday was coming up. I wore the baggiest pants I could find and my haircut went from mullet to bowl cut within a year.

The music I listened to varied but was largely focused on Rap and Hip Hop. Public Enemy, NWA, 2Live Cru, and yes, even DJ Jazzy Jeff and The Fresh Prince.

And then things started to change... my horizons widened a great deal as I was introduced to different music.

The year 1991 marked the release of some of my all-time favourite albums. You know, the kind of CD's you'd want to have with you on a deserted island somewhere.

In 1991, I re-acquainted with the rock.

In 1991, the Red Hot Chili Peppers released BloodSugarSexMagic.

Nirvana unleashed Nevermind.

The Tragically Hip put out Road Apples

For the love of Crisco!... in 1991 Pearl Jam arrived with Ten.

And last, but CERTAINLY not least, Metallica released the untitled but aptly moniker'd Black Album.

Tonight, while riding the stationary bike, I watched a live Metallic show from Mexico City. As the pace of the songs quickened, so did my cadence. The pedals eventually becoming a blur under the towel I had draped over the handlebars to collect droplets of my essence.

As I listened to Holier Than Thou and Wherever I May Roam, I thought back to 1991.
Happy High School memories began surfacing and faces stepped into my mind's light.

I found myself grinning. Sweating, breathing quicker than normal, hunched over the bars... definitely grinning.

The Chili Peppers always make me smile.

Nirvana makes me slap my thighs to the beat of the drums.

I can't hear pre-1995 Tragically Hip without thinking of Brad McMahon.

Every time I hear Pearl Jam's debut album Ten, I am right back in English class with my good friend Ruth Lehrer.

Anything by Metallica reminds me how grateful I am to have Jake Staniforth as a friend.

A lot has happened in twenty years. The world has changed. The waistline has expanded, the knees have creaked, the hair has fallen out. But I'm still pedaling.

And still very much rocking out.

Dizzy and Dim Dominate 2016 Rally Racing Season

2011-01-08T22:37:00.004-05:00

And now, a glimpse into the future...

BANCROFT, ONTARIO, NOVEMBER 20, 2016 – Antoine Le Dim and Dizzy Doucette (Ste-Jean-sur-Richelieu, QC) of the Rockstar Mitsubishi team scored a decisive win in the Rally of the Tall Pines, the final round of the Canadian Rally Championship Presented by Subaru and supported by Yokohama. The win secures the team’s third Canadian Rally Championship and combines with their Rally America and North American Rally Cup titles to make them only the second team ever to win all three titles in the same year.

"I'm so happy that we've done it," exclaimed Le Dim, "The car was so good all season, and my family and sponsors have all been very supportive. I am so happy that I can show my appreciation by winning every rally title there is in North America."

Dizzy and Dim have developed into one of the most dominant teams in North America, winning six of the last seven rallies they have entered, and earning the US title in their first full season south of the border. Until now, Dim's development as a driver has been mostly through competition in the demanding Canadian Rally Championship. Dizzy Doucette's navigation skills have improved immensely over the course of the season. She has almost a sixth sense when it comes to guiding Dim and the Subaru.

Second place in both the event and the championship went to Craig Henderson and Lyne Murphy (New Richmond, QC) of Team Swap Shop. Known for clean and consistent driving, 2016 marks the first year the team have done the entire championship. Although happy for the strong finish, Henderson was happy to have the event finished, and with his second place, secured the manufacturer's title for Subaru.

Can I get some grits with that?

2010-12-27T20:39:00.008-05:00

The yuletide heavy lifting is done for the year, and these two beasts are left in recovery mode. The action at the Barn has gone from a near frantic pace to a standstill. All in a day. The big bad fat man in the red snowsuit has come and gone. He's left us with new joys, and bright horizons. And about 50lbs of candy to blow-out the door.

I find myself doing what I do, on occasion.(much to the jest of certain friends) I'm soaking.

The dog is laying on his brown faux-suede bed, gnawing on the gnarliest bones we ever did see. Santa gave him a basted and broiled bovine knee joint. Thanks Kelly. He loves it so much. And I love the peace and quiet. I love the fragments of bone strewn about the parquet floor... and I love the musky smell of dead cow every time I walk into the room. The dog is busy with THAT.

And I'm soaking. Sometimes when your muscles are tired or there's a knot in your back... it's just nice to soak. (*sidenote* is the knot in your back from lifting heavy bags of sugar, and lugging Merckens chocolate wafers to and fro? Is it from standing at a workbench for hours every day? Or sitting in front of a computer? Or at the wheel of an OC Transpo bus? Speaking in front of a classroom of deaf and blind minds? Or is it from falling off your roof? Daredevil Heathra!*)

Back in olden times, before the shower was invented, people used to have to sit and bathe themselves. Some were fortunate enough to have someone do it for them. Those times were more about getting clean and less about relaxation. There are people who just sit and stew. Not as much fun as soaking.

Sitting. Soaking. Reading about things like tapered headtubes and carbon fibre frames. Tire surface area and handlebar width. Pump tracks and long flowy ribbons of trail.

Sitting. Soaking. And listening to a new CD that Santa delivered. Jim Bryson and The Weakerthans. Thanks Jared. I can't get Metal Girls outta my head...

When left alone to our own devices there are many things we can do. We can scrub our kitchen surfaces obsessively with Fantasik all purpose cleaner. We can scrape our tongues with new-fangled rake-shaped toothbrushes. What do you do? Ever just soak? Put in some down-home southern rock like The Black Crowes, and just soak?

Nothing says "unwind" to me better than a stage full of musicians, background singers and a full horn section, just pumping out the gospel. Breathe it in. I should have brought two fingers of Old No.7 to the tub with me. Maybe some ice.

As I soak, I have time to reflect on the recent events of my life.

Christmas came and went so quickly but yielded great personal reward. Time spent with those near and dear shall never be taken for granted.

Santa, the aforementioned big fat man in the red suit, was very kind. Or at least all the people in my life were kind. Last time I actually saw Santa, he was scratching his ass at centre court @ St.Laurent Centre.. He was sitting in a huge spiky snow igloo/tent and his beard was CLEARLY fake. Santa fail.

On this crunchy cold December night, the winter has draped a blanket of black over my city. The beautiful view from my balcony bites with the chill. The exhaust fumes from the cars below hang in the air like ghosts.

Although my view from the balcony has darkened with the seasons, my outlook is ever-bright. Ever-reaching. I'm like a laserhawk peering to the horizon. Not so near sighted. Can't even focus on crossing my eyes. May need to check into getting some reading specs.

On the horizon I see a springtime trip to the South lands. Thanks Mum! I'm finally going to make the trip to Augusta, Georgia to visit everybody's favourite uncle and his squadron of children. The American cousins are a treat seldom enjoyed. Mum and I are heading down, with bike(s), to visit some very beloved family.

Quite often, through a blog post, I like to tell a story. Ants, and squirrels, and big lanky moose. (meese?) I embellish. I exaggerate. I boast. I am painfully ambiguous. Sometimes I just soak. I report to you, Dear Reader, on the things going on around me. And inside my precious skull.

Thank you Jenna and Steve for the indoor bike trainer you found. My knees, and my turkey-stuffed midsection are forever grateful.

Thank you all for making it entertaining. The crazy water lady, the neighbour who will not look at me, the nice man in the store downstairs. Thank you all for causing me to grin. By engaging in conversation, or for cutting me off in traffic and temporarily making me want to follow you and take a baseball bat to the hood of your car. A grin is a grin. Thank you Loco the Basset Hound. If I ever saw a face saggier than The Floyd's, it was your droopy mug.

Than q 4 all of it!

Puck

2010-12-04T20:42:00.006-05:00

This excitingly cold Saturday night finds us watching my favourite show. Well, I'm watching. Floyd is gnawing on some snow white rawhide. My favourite show is Hockey Night in Canada. I genuinely enjoy the CBC broadcast whenever I can get it. Having recently been shown how to watch a game online, I find myself tuned in, and turned on.

Reporting on the puck of late is not pleasant. When approached with a question about my beloved blue leafs, I usually grunt something profane and busy myself with the daily chores.

The start of this season filled me with a hope I haven't felt in years. Phil Kessel was scoring. Phaneuf was yelling his head off... My hockey world was a proud place. What only amplified my grin was the lack of commentary from Ottawa Senators fans all around me. You see, at the beginning, the hometown Sens were attached firmly by the teeth... to a giant scrotum.

And then things changed. Injuries to two key players, dumb mistakes on the ice, a general lack of scoring... The Maple Leafs began to suck. The sucking is nothing new to us. The sucking has been prominent for the last five seasons. A bigger, darker cloud of the suck has been looming over the organization since our Great Nation's Centennial.

1967.

My parents were 17. Virginal. Innocent, rural folk. God fearing, farming Canadians. Two high school kids who had yet to see a man on the moon.

A long time ago, in a galaxy much too far away.

Since 1967.

Puck.

Suck.

Boston just scored to take a one goal lead. The Air Canada Centre rose in a heavy peppering of black &yellow jerseys. There are Bruins fans everywhere. And why not? Since 1967, The Boston Bruins have enjoyed MUCH less suck than the Leafs. The Bruins have had some great, great teams through time. And they've had a consistent personality over the years. A steady balance of skill and toughness.

The Philadelphia Flyers also have an omnipresent aura about them. More grim and grimy, yet hard-nosed and determined.

The problem with the teams in Ontario is, they lack that personality. The incessant media has poisoned the team and fan base with a 24/7 approach that you just want to gag on. In Toronto, and in Ottawa.

I don't want to hear about the coach's job security. I don't want to know about how the teacher's union wants to feed the team in a shovel to the hungry maw of Rogers Inc. I don't want to hear how Dany Heatley is a bum. He's a bum who showed up for work on Thursday night at ScotiaBank Place.

Wow. Bruins keeper Tim Thomas is stopping everything thrown at him. Under a minute left and the Leafs are on the powerplay with the goalie pulled. Intense.

Versteeg scores! Tie game. Wow is right. This team doesn't give up. They'd better not.

What I want to see, is more of that. Scrappy, hard-skating, aggressive hockey. Every night.

Overtime. brb

End to end.

Tim Thomas just made one of the nicest saves of the year.

Penalty to Boston with 23 seconds left in overtime. I'm sweating.

Still no score after overtime.

Shoot-out.

Beautiful goal by Kadri.

Matched by Seguin.

Leafs win.

More, please.

Just more.

Tonight in Kanata, the Ottawa Senators played to a shootout as well. They lost by a Tomas Vanek goal. It was the only goal of the match. Talk about a tight game.

Don Cherry just said that Leaf fans are on the bandwagon again. What is this thing you call Band Wagon? I'm not riding on anything Mr Cherry. I just follow. And FAN the flames of discontent.

Simons Cat - An Internet Success Story | euromaxx

2010-12-01T23:29:00.001-05:00

We miss our Charlie. This is a fun story i found on one of my trips to the hinternet.

Skeletor's Insults

2010-11-14T02:03:00.001-05:00

This makes me laugh.

Of A Different Drum

2010-11-13T21:40:00.001-05:00

vvvvrrrrrrrooooooooooooooooooom!

Do you believe it in your head?
It's so safe to play along
Little soldiers in a row
Falling in and out of love
Something sweet to throw away.
I want something good to die for
To make it beautiful to live.
I want a new mistake, lose is more than hesitate.
Do you believe it in your head?
I can go with the flow
Go With The Flow by Queens of the Stone Age

When your life takes a turn and a change is made, the drums you beat to fade and flourish in all kinds of different ways. There's the rock steady Charlie Watts/Johnny Fay type of drumming. And there's the smooth hip-hop beats of ?uestlove.

The drummer in a rock band is kind of like the catcher on a baseball team. He dictates the pace and the eventual path of a song or a game. No other instrument on stage, can immediately bring the noise quite like bass and symbols. High Hat! Hammering snare drum. Ever hammer a snare? Ever snare a hammer? Someday I wanna Snammer a Hare!

A few of my favourite rock gawds are drummers. The dudes who set the pace. And the best rock 'n roll songs ever made, were written by drummers. It's true. Think about it. I don't need to give a list of songs. It's just fact. And by fact, I mean truth. Levon Helm and Dave Grohl are both drummers. Both can also sing and play other instruments with style and grace. But they're drummers. Phil Collins is another primo example. At his best when he was seated behind the kit. Non?

Damn Skippy.

Ever just sit at your computer with some great tunes playing on a Saturday night? With nowhere to go and nobody to go with... Your only form of verbal communication is a big reddish brown wallowing couch pig? There's ALWAYS somewhere to go, if you're so inclined. No TV. Just hinternet. And radio. Ottawa's Classic Rock Chez 106. And a gazillion cd's and dvd's. It's truly a man's paradise.

Is this what loneliness feels like? Where the hell is Mike? This new neighbourhood is pretty cool for the most part. But it's so freakin' different. Floyd and I are definitely walking a different beat. Getting better at socializing in public by forcing ourselves to ignore all the other weirdos walking around Montreal Rd and St.Laurent Blvd. Sad to see summer go, our brief taste from within the new pad, was exquisite!

Neil Peart is credited with writing most Rush Songs. He's the geek, perfectionist drummer. And I mean geek in the absolute coolest way.

Angry drummers can be fun too, right Lars? You brat.

All kinds of people. All kinds of drums. Whilst wriding the wrhythm of life, we must always follow the beat of the best drum.

AND go with the flow.

It's kind of like patting your head, and rubbing your belly.

Crosstown Traffic (public transit logsheet 1)

2010-11-06T20:38:00.006-04:00

Where can you see and hear live Jimi Hendrix music? Where can you see the likes of Jonny Lang, Robert Randolph, Kenny Wayne Shepherd and Steve Vai all on the same stage?

On a tour stop for the Experience Hendrix Live Tour, that's where. A traveling show boasting a roster of celebrated axemen from all over the US.

First, you gotta stand beside the front gate of the Notre Dame Cemetery like a bus stop cowboy. A corduroy cowboy. A corduroy cowboy in blue suede shoes. With a warm hoody. Pacing the sidewalk waiting for the red and white number twelve hybrid accordion autobus. Waiting for the bus to come and take you away.

Having forgotten the iPod at home, the wait is a bit of a boring one. Some dude in a toque holding a closed umbrella, approaches. I always try to get a stranger's eyes in a half-second hello, before looking away to stare at something else. He's got his BlackBerry out, and he's hammering away with his thumb. Like Thumbelina! He's completely disengaged from Montreal Road on this cold and dark Monday night.

I could mug this guy right now! And then, suddenly, I'm glad I'm sans iPod. I can actually hear the traffic coming. If only it were a few degrees warmer, I could be on a bike. But public transit is a treat from time to time. It's good to rub shoulders with other humans sometimes.

Sometimes.

The ride is quiet but fairly short. The NAC is buzzing with people and Southam Hall is full. I find seat #27 and plop it down between two other portly fellows. Jacket stowed, hands on lap, ready.

So, after a 10 minute warm-up-video-montajz documentary, Ernie Isley and some dude from the Jimi Hendrix Experience on bass take the stage. And Stevie Ray's drummer from Double Trouble. Names?

Then Living Color come out and crank up the funk. How do I not know more about this band? Lead vocalist Corey Glover tries with all his might to rile the chilly November Ottawa crowd. He gets people clappin'. He gets people standing. There's even some mild mannered stompin' in the room. But do you think he could get people singing?! No way. Not in Ottawa. And definitely NOT on a Monday night.

Funny really. I wanted to maybe help him sing along, but I honestly didn't know the words he wanted us chanting back attem. Entertaining though. Raw energy from a fun looking band.

Jonny Lang came out and ripped it up. Dude's still packing the chops and worked hard to win the crowd, and eventually did. I was beginning to see the evening as a live Jimi Hendrix concert with a Guitar Hero or Rock Band twist. Big, Pepsi/X-Box concert. The guitarists begin to resemble characters in a video game. With each searing solo, a bright pink energy bar glows in the top right corner of my vision.

Then Brad Whitford from Aerosmith comes out for a couple songs. Not quite Steven Tyler's American Idol paycheque but Bradley's doing well for himself.

Kenny Wayne Shepherd comes out, and I think he's the singer. But he's not. I always thought he was the one singing that plodding Blue on Black song from the late nineties. Nope. That's the dude beside him on the stage with no guitar. Just a microphone. He's the singer. And he's a great singer. But the guitar humping blond man is Kenny Wayne Shepherd. He deeeestroys the strings on his guitar. I don't know if it's a fender or a gibson, but I'm betting it's a Fender... and he melts the strings. But not until he tickled the chit outta them first. Wow.

Then out comes the man I've wanted to see live for two years now. Robert Randolph. And he delivers, smilingly. But all too soon, he's drowned out by two other slide guitars and it becomes a mash to my fat ears.

And now the moment we've all been waiting for(apparently by the sound of the receptive applause)... Strutting with a razor thin bravado, dyed black hair, groomed goatee, tight black leather pants, flowy open-button silk shirt. It's Steve Vai. Oh my goodness. I've heard of this man. There has been mention of his name in certain guitar conversations over the course of my years... But oh my goodness. What a dick. He was wriggling his face up and playing to the crowd. Prancing like a big dorky spider. Ever play the Disney's Alladin video game for SuperNintendo? At the end when Jafar turns into a venomous snake? Yeah, Steve Vai, one of the most amazing guitarists on the planet, is strutting and prancing, and making faces at the crowd. Really selling it. Swaying like a big bad skinny cobra. And his playing is flawless. Perfect. But it's better when a guitarist makes faces at the guitar. Oui?

Now there's six guitars all trying to out-Jimi each other. Passing around riffs and trading solos. My ears ring with the bling and they're reaching for the throbbing bass. But the bass don't come. The bass is playing second fiddle tonight folks. More like ninth fiddle. WHHOIinG! WAAAAh! WaaaAAH! Wiki wiki Weeehhjha!

Have you ever been experienced? Well I have.

Off to catch the bus back to the snoring boxer, but first a quick Beau's Lug Tread Lager at Bar56. Not only is it funkadelic blues night in the Capital... It's also Jazz Night. Every Monday :)

Catch Kenny Wayne Shepherd play Jimmy Fallon this week. Jimi's estate is having him play the Stratocaster Jimi hendrix played at Woodstock... On Jimmy Fallon's show. Gotta push those ratings. This fabricated moment in your history is brought to you by Tide, we get even the dirtiest skids out.

Well folks, soon to bed. Tomorrow, a cold weather ride(could be the last of the season) and yep, you guessed it... laundry.

Renwick Versus The Ants - Chapter 12... Cease and Desist

2010-11-06T20:12:00.002-04:00

Well it's all right, even if they say you're wrong
Well it's all right, sometimes you gotta be strong
Well it's all right, As long as you got somewhere to lay
Well it's all right, everyday is Judgment Day
End of the Line by The Traveling Wilburys

...(continued from Chapter 12 part one)...

I'm on my feet in a flash and the earwigs have found my pant leg. I stomp around quickly and head for the door. Floyd is on my heels. The bugs are crunching underfoot.

I can feel a large group of insects on the hair of my belly as I enter the hallway. Surely the earwigs have not crawled that high! I look down and see that my pajama pants are speckled with squirming earwigs all up the left thigh. I stop to peek down my T-shirt and my chin is met with a moving carpet of the black ants. They crawl up my neck and onto my face. I can feel it almost like a punch. My eyes water as they enter my nose en masse. The ants' pincers pierce my flesh and it stings. It feels like all the hairs in my nostrils are being ripped from my face. These ants are unreal. This class of Formicidae is not of this Earth.

I open my mouth to yell and inhale what feels to be twenty ants. Gotta keep moving! If I can just get to the shower I can try to rinse them off...

And the earwigs have achieved crotch. They're not biting but I can feel them wriggle.

My face is numb with thudding pain and blood streams from my nose and lips. With eyes closed, I bounce off the guest bedroom door and CRASH through to the men's room.

I land with a thump beside the tub and the floor gives-way under my weight. We(the insects and I) sink down 2 feet as the bathtub rears up on its side and leans in, as if to encapsulate us. CLUNK!

For a full second there is silence. The dog is perked, clung to the edge of the hole in the floor, looking down at me. There are many questions in his big brown eyes. His eyelids sag under the weight of his lips. The silence is absolute and then, outside, the cackle of a crow rings from above. Hekyl? Or JEKYL?

BOOM! A pipe bursts and there's a spray of water wetting us. But it's pressure is weak and misdirected. This newly sprung fountain of hope at 1320 Avenue U is no match for the army of invading alien ants. They cover my face and another swarm enters my nostrils. My airway is blocked and I open my mouth, gasping for breath. I swallow more and more. They are trying to bite the inside of my mouth... the backs of my lips taking the brunt. I swallow again. This time, with purpose. The ants wash down my gullet, swimming in dribble. I'm salivating more and more and my throat burns with the intrusion. I gag.

I'm gonna hurl. I crawl up onto my knees and lunge for the toilet, but miss. My stomach bile chases a vomrocket out of my throat and all over the bathroom floor. My temples pulsate and my eyes bulge. Grrrraaaaaack! G GGraaaG!

Ants everywhere. The ones in my puke are dying. They're dying quickly. The storm of ants on the floor advance on the growing puddle of barf... At first. Then something happens. All the ants in the ENTIRE bathroom retreat. All at once. It was like watching a flock of birds flying in unison. Like a stone's ripple in a pool of water, all the ants backed away from the centre of the bathroom. They had given me an inch.

This was my cue to take the mile. I aim my head at the wall and splash another good sized serving of vomit. Ever fart when you barf? Yeah, me neither.

The ants part as I spew hot & sour all over the bathroom. The ones that get hit begin to shrivel and die. The floor shakes again and sinks another decimeter. I can hear the walls creaking in protest. The plaster now has big cracks running diagonally. The house is crumbling inward like a giant sugar cookie.

The flow of ants into my bloody nostrils slows in waves as I brush them away at a continuous flap.

Floyd is barking and bouncing. And he's spinning in circles as the insects nibble at his HYDE.

My bile is toxic to these ants and as they scurry away from me, I sweep away all the earwigs from my pants. They fall stupidly and begin to crawl without much aim. The earwigs were never a threat. It's these damn ants. I thought the exterminator had pretty much solved the problem. But I can clearly see now that the walls and the duct work are full of them.

The ground begins to shake and the mirror falls from above the sink and onto the counter. It slides off and hits the floor. But it doesn't break... it falls flat. Much vomit is displaced and splatters the lower half of all four walls. The ants are now frantic. They drop from the walls and sizzle to death on the floor. The ones that remain unscathed are in full retreat. They make haste for the window and and the vent above the toilet. I look up and see a new hole, torn into the ceiling. The ants are fleeing the scene.

Floyd and I have gained our feet and race for the front door of the house. Pictures are jumping from the walls and the hardwood floor splinters as the house gets sucked into the basement. The house isn't exactly falling in, as much as it's being pulled down. Sucked downward by a million sticky strands of silk.

As we approach the front door, the door frame explodes under the weight of the roof and walls. Shards of wood are flying everywhere as we dive into the dooryard to safety.

Mike has managed to lock Ellah in his car and out of harm's way. But Mike's in trouble. He's laying on the hood of his Honda, pinned down by what looks to be... a huge bat? But it's not a bat. It's the size of a large raccoon and it has the black leathery wings of a bat, but it appears to be hairless. It's glowing red eyes are staring down at mike and it's producing a low growling sound.

Without thinking, I reach for the garden rake we have propped at the side of the house. I bring it back over my head ready to swing, when suddenly from behind I'm launched forward onto the picnic table. I'm sprawled on my stomach and then I can feel it land on my back. It's another one of these freakishly large bats. It's claws dig into the flesh on my back as if to tell me not to move. I spin onto my back and grab for the creature but it clutches my throat with a huge webbed claw and slams my head back into the wooden planks below me. It's eyes lock on mine and I can see death.

Behind it, the house sags and bends. Roof shingles are raining down on us, slapping the driveway with an eerily soft sound. The walls of the house tumble and fall. Where there once was a musty basement there is now a deep dark hole. Millions of ants scurry away from the crumbling house... across the lawn, onto the street, away from the havoc.

I can hear Floyd yelp as yet another bat-thing swoops down and plucks him up. The dog is too heavy for it to carry very far, and they come crashing down in the yard just beyond the picnic table. Floyd scrambles to his feet and bites at the evil beast. The thing beats his wings at the dog and they do a terrifying dance around the lawn.

Remembering how my vomit burned the ants, I force myself to gag up some bile and spit it into the ugly face of the creature perched on my chest. Nothing. No reaction at all from the bat-thing. It stares down at me... my saliva dripping from its skin onto my own face. Is it smiling?

I can feel something crawling onto my arms and torso from the surface of the picnic table. MANY things are crawling onto me and I cringe at the thought of the biting ants. But it's not ants. It's small white spiders... much like the one dangling above me when I woke, not twenty minutes ago. Geez, I hate spiders. I shudder in disgust. But they're not hurting me. They crawl from me onto the alien thing that's pinning me down. And it shrieks. It howls. It wails!

The spiders, about thirty or so, are biting into the hairless creature and causing it to wiggle and twist. It's grip is loosening on my throat. The white spiders are killing it. It tries to fly away but only manages a spiraling dive into the hole that once was a house.

Floyd and his opponent are circling each other under the tree like two fighters trying to size one another up. The thing lunges for my dog and at that exact instant, something black falls from the tree onto the bat-thing's back. There's another shriek of surprise as the batty bastard is killed almost instantly. It's Charlie, the cat. He managed to break the creature's neck within two seconds of engagement.

Floyd and I simply stand there gawking in awe. Charlie, the Shinobi assassin, turns to face the hood of Mike's car. Like the Ninja that he is, Charlie silently and quickly crosses the distance to the car in three long strides. Mike manages to get his knee up between his chest and the bat-thing... slowly prying it away from himself.

Charlie pounces onto the hood of the car and cartwheels over the creature, landing on the roof of the Civic. The bat-thing looks up from Mike's red face and into the eyes of Ninja Numba Won. Charlie immediately hits it with a flying heel kick to the face. The thing falls back off the car onto the pebbles of the driveway. More and more ants stream past out onto the street, into the neighbourhood. Running in fear.

The bat-thing takes to the air, but the NinjaCat is much too quick. Charlie launches from the roof of the car and into the midsection of the frightened creature. It falls like a stone onto the lawn and the cat swipes at it once. Twice. Done. The bat-thing lay there dead.

Mike and I stand there speechless, Floyd sits licking his crotch and Ellah wags her tail from the front seat of the car. Charlie calmly rubs past my legs and walks away, purring.

"I think it's time to move." Mike says with a chuckle.

Good idea.

You burn through all your gasoline.
Asylum overtime
Nevermind...
You've reached the end of the line.

Time... Choke the clock
Steal another day.The End of the Line by Metallica

And this my friends, is the final chapter in this silly story. Since the sinking of U-boat 1320, The Floyd and I have moved to a new haunt. A more urban setting in the North end of our beautiful town. Walking the beat of a different drum. Thanks for reading.

A knock on the door...

2010-11-06T17:47:00.001-04:00

Now there's no love
As true as the love
That dies untold
But the clouds never hung so low before

It Makes No Difference by The Band

Floyd and Moyd sitting on the couch. K-I-S-S-I-N-G. Swaying to the Last Waltz.

Rockin' out to some groovy tunes, and stammering and hammering a new blog post.

Knock Knock.

Who's there?

It's Dim.

Dim who?

Ok, I didn't say "Dim Who"... that would just be nutty.

I open the door.

It's Dim alright.

He's beaming! He's the brightest Dim, in my short time knowing him, I'd ever seen.

Brightest dim? Is that like tallest midget?

"I got a postcard from Ms Dizzy!" he exclaims.

I turn to put the dishes in the sink, and he marches in and sits right down on the leather recliner. That's right. I won't wear a leather jacket but I'll have no less than three leather covered IKEA chairs.

"How did you know where I live, Mr Dim?"

"I saw you the other day, remember?" he says

"Right..." I do remember.

"She says she's coming back soon!" he's gasping with excitement.

"Great!" I reply.

"I think she misses me too much."

"Probably Dim. You're a pretty special dude."

"Do you think she wants a house in the country, with a hobby farm, and a 4x4 Tacoma?"

"Prolly man." I say, "Who wouldn't?"

"Do you think she wants to settle down and have some Dizms?" his cheeks peak.

"Dizms?" I ask.

"Yeah. If she and I had children, they wouldn't be like all y'alls chilluns. They'd be Dizms."

"Wow, dude." I grunt. "Well, Floyd and I should be gettin' out for a walk. It was nice seeing you, Mr Dim."

"Likewise." he says, "Thanks for having me over."

After he leaves, I look into the mirror, truly perplexed. And slap my face soundly. Smack smack.

Time for some fresh air. My boogers are getting scabby.

Can You be Dim Without The Dizzy?

2010-10-22T20:04:00.008-04:00

On tonight's walk we came across an old acquaintance.

Sitting inside the bus shelter on StLaurent Blvd was our friend Mr.Dim.

He was wearing the handsomest blue coat I'd ever seen, and HUGE earphones over his big ears. A baseball cap snugged his scalp underneath the band of his headset. In his lap, he held a mid-nineties era Sony Discman. No iPod for this cowboy, I thought to myself. As Floyd and I approached, Dim looked up and right away I knew something was different. He was singing along to a sad Pearl Jam song.

"Hello!" I greeted the slouched figure before me.

"Oh, hey guys." Dim replied, sounding rather disinterested. It was as if the shine had been removed from his smile. But he WAS smiling... it just wasn't the beaming grin we were used to seeing.

"Waiting for the bus Mr.Dim?" I asked, foolishly. Of course he was waiting for the bus.

"No, actually." He answered, "Just resting for a bit before I continue my walk."

I knew that Mr. Dim was fond of taking walks but I'd never seen him out alone. This was the first time I had actually seen him without his partner in crime, the one and only Ms.Dizzy.

"Honestly Mr.Dim, I almost didn't recognize you without your buddy Ms.Diz" I said with a chuckle.

At that, his face dropped. He stared down into his lap for a few seconds before returning his eyes to mine. A single tear slowly descended his cheek.

"Oh, sorry," I apologized. "none of my beeswax."

"No no, it's okay." said Mr.Dim

He started fidgeting with the buttons on his coat and again shifted his gaze downward.

"I just really miss her" he said. "Diz has gone home to her family for a while. She said she has some things to sort out."

"Oh, okay" I said. "When's she due back?"

"That's the problem you see," He stammered "I don't know if she's coming back."

Then Dim got up from his bench, gathered his gloves, and began to walk away.

"See you, man" he said as he shuffled off. "Bye Floyd."

I could hear him singing again and that's when I realized that is earphones weren't even plugged in. The cord dangled at his side as he trudged down the sidewalk.

"Bye Dim." I said, confused.

He raised his left hand up as if he were making a right turn on a bicycle, and waved so long.

And these days, they linger on
And in the night, as I'm waiting on
The real possibility I may meet you in my dream
I go to sleep
Come Back by Pearl Jam

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QJ88vIGdGCw

Tales from the Tub

2010-09-24T17:51:00.002-04:00

Well, hey pretty mama
Lord, just take that city hike
Said go ahead pretty mama
Lord, just take your city hike
Well, I'd rather live with the hound dogs
For the rest of my natural born life
Swamp Music by Lynyrd Skynyrd

Floyd sit still.

Sit.

Stay.

Wait.

It's your fault we're in this situation, you silly silly dog.

I hurriedly scrub all my 2000 parts as the pooch sits at the opposite end of the white porcelain bathtub. He's blinking as the droplets ricochet off my muscular masculine frame and into his eyes.

And as I chatter along to him I hope deep down inside that he know's what he did. He can understand that the impromptu bath is merely a consequence of a split decision.

He's already clean. He's just waiting to exit the shower until his human has scrubbed himself of the last 15 minutes.

The mud that came off that dog was blacker than molasses. It smelled of cattails and frog shit. You know, that heavy scent of stagnant, mucky muck. Slightly fishy, and slaughtly shitty. Boggy depot. Seven-foot reeds and mud up over your ankles. Dead birds, squashed frogs, sleeping raccoons... who knows what else?

We were experimenting with a length of rope I bought at C-Tire. Thirty yards of yellow nylon freedom for one Floyd Mayweather. We managed to play half-assed fetch for about 15 minutes in the mowed field near our new home. The field is a little bit bigger than a soccer field with one length bordered by the street and the other side framed by swamp. Beyond the shitty swamp is another mowed area and then the freshly paved Aviation Parkway.

Well, guess who ushered his ever-curious dog too close to the side with the shitty-muck-fuck? Yep. Uh huh.

It took about 5 seconds to dart into the tall cattails and go belly down, skidding through the dark shitty mud.

Hey! I yell.

HEY!

Little bastard comes flying out of the jungle in front of me. About 30 feet to my right. He's looking up at me confused. The rope attached to his collar is taut. He can't come any closer.

As I advance on the black shitty dog, he makes no move to bolt again. When I meet him, I quickly remove his leash from my shoulder and clip it to his collar. With the dog secured once again to my person, I begin the task of extracting my newly purchased yellow rope from the leachy shitty swamp.

No dice. That rope is coiled around at least six different bunches of cattails. Twisted, contorted shitty yellow rope. I pull and I tug. Grunt grunt. The only way that rope is coming free is if I walk in there and untangle it. Well, not in my blue suede Gazelles it's not.

End scene.

Now we're back at the pad and Floyd is draped in a warm blue towel snoring on the couch. And I'm dreaming of taking my bike on an autumn night trail ride.

Happy Friday.

Pearl Jam - Bugs

2010-09-20T23:56:00.000-04:00

I got bugs
I got bugs in my room
Bugs in my bed
Bugs in my ears
Their eggs in my head
Bugs in my pockets
Bugs in my shoes
Bugs in the way I feel about you

Bugs on my window
Trying to get in
They don't go nowhere
Waiting, waiting...
Bugs on my ceiling
Crowded the floor
Standing, sitting, kneeling...
A few block the door

And now the questions:
Do I kill them?
Become their friend?
Do I eat them?
Raw or well done?
Do I trick them?
I don't think they're that dumb
Do I join them?
Looks like that's the one

I got bugs on my skin
Tickle my nausea
I let it happen again
They're always takin' over
I see they surround me, I see...
See them deciding my fate
Oh, that which was once...was once up to me...
Now it's too late

I got bugs in my room...one on one
That's when I had a chance
I'll just stop now
I'll become naked
And with the...I'll become one

Renwick Versus The Ants - Chapter 12

2010-09-20T21:11:00.008-04:00

Do you want to see me crawl across the floor to you?
Do you want to hear me beg you to take me back?
I’d gladly do it because
I don’t want to fade away.
Give me one more day, please.
I don’t want to fade away.
In your heart I want to stay.
Bell Bottom Blues by Eric Clapton

I open my eyes, and after a few seconds, I find my early morning focus. There is a single solitary white spider dangling a foot from my nose.

Gross.

I kick out of my bedsheets as quick as I can, bucking off the snoring boxer that is so elegantly draped over my legs.

To the bookshelf in search of something to swat away this most unwelcome intruder. A week old newspaper firmly rolled in my fist, I turn back toward the bed... and it's gone. On the ceiling, crawling fast, the small spider disappears into a crack in the corner of the room.

"Ick, Floyd." I yawn "Very ick."

The dog replies with a big whiny yawn of his own and our day has begun.

The house is as quiet as it ever is at 6am. I can hear the summer birds outside my window and the hallway is filling with a fresh crop of sunlight. I can hear Floyd pacing outside the bathroom as I drain my bladder. I cock my head over my shoulder and peer out the open door. Yup. Brown dog heading East, brown dog heading West. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Patient pooch. Yawwwnn.

We're just about to step out for the day's first walk when Floyd turns and rips back down the hallway and stops in front of Mike's bedroom. His stubbed snout is at the floor, snorting under the door.

And then there's a noise like a noise I've never heard. High pitched but deep. Desperate and confused. It's a scream.

"Mike?" I implore.

"Mike?" no answer.

One more time, louder. "Mike?"

Nothing. Then...

CRASH!!

That lamp is clearly broken. Violent struggling and another SMASH from within.

I try the door but it's locked.

"MIKE."

"Yeah." he gurgles. "I'm up, I'm up."

He's alive.

There's a faint click as Mike unlocks the door and lets it swing open. We are both caught staring, immobilized. Mike's beautiful dog Ellah is shrieking. Her brown muzzle is engulfed with crawling ants. Her eyelids bat them away and they fall like black rain onto the floor, only to re-join the fray and scurry up her front legs toward her face.

Ellah's head is quickly being swarmed by big shiny ants. She shakes her head side to side frantically but only a few ants become displaced. Floyd starts barking and lunging at her. And bouncing. Nipping, and recoiling, like he does with the vacuum cleaner. Ellah screams again and we both reach for her. I hold her still as Mike brushes the biting insects from her nose and eyes. He's sweeping her head with his hands and the ants are falling off by the hundreds. There is so many of them. This is nothing like the time Mike secreted them from the boil on his foot. Way worse.

Mike and I are both cursing like sailors and cringing like little girls. This is a troublesome sight. It seems like a dream to me but the pain in my knee is early-morning real. I squat over the trembling dog to keep her calm as Mike tends to the bugs. He has her mostly cleaned off, bends and hoists her out of harms way.

I straighten, and !OUCH!

Something just bit my bum. Damnit!

WOOF! WOOF! Floyd's bark is shrill.

I spin on my heels but it's too late. The army of ants has achieved the cuff of my flannel pajama pants.

I kick. I jump. I twist. And I Shout.

Gotta make my way to the shower. I turn to leave the room and a piece of ceiling falls in on us. Ants. They pour out of the hole above us like black strap molasses.

Instantly they're biting my scalp. At least two scurry up my right nostril and I sneeze. Floyd has gone all squirrely on me and is spinning like a top. Mike exits the room with Ellah in his arms. She's licking at her armpit.

The room starts spinning around me. No, wait. That's me. I've taken the boxer's example and I'm corkskrewing into the hardwood. My hands frantically swipe at my face and over my neck. I plunge my pinkies into my ears and clear them out. I shake my shirt out. I hop-step from one foot to the other. It's raining ants. And these black drops have teeth!

I make for the door and trip whole heartedly over Mike's laundry basket. Hit the deck, Shrek. This ogre's going down.

I lay there for a second and taste the moment.

Pfft Pfffst! They're in my mouth! Yuck!

My peripheral vision catches something and I turn my head to see.

With my left cheek firmly on the floor and my body all splayed out on my back, I see them coming. From under the closet door marches a battalion of small brownish red earwigs. There has to be a thousand if there's two. They are coming toward me, slowly and methodically. All lined up in perfect rows.

To be concluded...

WikiLeaks. There's been a rupture to the blogtank. (or, Journal entry number 1,873,102)

2010-09-08T22:28:00.003-04:00

It's late. As I return from a visit downtown, the city is quiet, nobody's around.

Slowly, I open the door to the (new) apartment as to not bash it into a sleeping Boxer. But the Boxer is on the couch curled into a tight ball of snoring, slobbery goodness. He perks as I enter and gracefully stands on his four long legs. Ssstreeeetch.... He licks his lips and then gives his head the old shakey shake. His ears flap silently and his big black lips audibly slap the sides of his face. His big black lips bounce off his bulgy eyeballs. There are torn bits of cardboard strewn about the floor all around me.

Remember those two cereal boxes, the juice jug and the egg carton you left atop the stove to take down to recycling? Dumbass. Forgetful Jones.

Come on Hound, let's go for a walk.

The night is cool as we emerge from our stacked community into the urban borough that has become our home...

Just a boy and his dog, two lone souls wandering down St.Laurent Blvd toward the bicycle shop. We gravitate toward the window and peek in. Suddenly, a song lights in my little brain and I start hummering under my breath. "How much is that Bikey in the window?"

You know, the one that's like the wind on the rails...

Formacidae - Alpha Class - Mission Log 11

2010-07-27T21:36:00.009-04:00

Some people say my love cannot be true
Please believe me, my love, and I'll show you
I will give you those things you thought unreal
The sun, the moon, the stars all bear my seal

N.I.B. by Black Sabbath

Stardate: who knows wtf number... Log reports have become a chore in this time of war. We don't talk in Stardates anymore. It's 534 Earth Days since we landed here on Earth. The human date is Tuesday July 27th, the year of our Gord, 2010.

Our preparation will pay off. The situation inside the house has become increasingly hostile. The dark haired human paces, and constantly talks to the large canine beast. The other human and the female beast rarely exit their quarters. They sit and talk to the massive television. Our time is now. Our army has suffered certain setbacks, but our numbers are great. And growing. In the walls. Under the floorboards. In ALL the duct work. We have developed well.

The squadron of Kbatypus has recovered their fallen comrade. She was found in the basement drowned in a toilet tank and rotted. Oddly, the reason she did drown was not because she couldn't swim(our home planet of Thorborg is absolutely covered in lakes of many fluids, water being one of them). The reason for drowning was murder.

Her death was a blatant act of war on behalf of the Albino Basement Spiders. Kbat #3 was found bound around the claws, the neck, the leathery wings. Kbat #3 had no chance once she flew into that sticky elastic spiderweb. The spider family has,(according to Ethel, Prime Minister of Earwigs)held the defense of this house for more than than 100 seasons. The earwigs, the silverfish, the mice and moles, have never been able to successfully infiltrate this human home. Until now. The Spiders are not taking our presence well. It must frustrate them to the end of each of their eight disgusting smooth white hairless legs. We outnumber them 420 to 1 now. Their great physical strength and size make them a most brutal opponent in leg to leg combat. But we can, for the most part, avoid them. We are faster, more stealthy and much smarter than the creepy white bastards. Some of the young ones are so sickly looking, they have a clear, greenish yellow hue. Gross.

Today, the human with the darker thinning scalp and the bad arches, trudged through the house, doing what seemed like the absolute minimum. Later in the afternoon, he gathered his bike clothes and left in great haste and much giddiness. We were left with the two beasts. They did little more than snore. The heat has affected the climate of the house. Everything slows and weakens. The rusty beams under the dry wood floor have sagged under the hot breath of the sun.

The humans will die. Our action is required now. Our plans have to be accelerated. The humans are not ready to leave. Not a budge. They will die horrible deaths but we will be as quick as antly possible.

Admiral Adam, out.

To Whom it may concern... A letter to Mr Healey Floyd Mayweather Renwick Von Landos

2010-07-25T20:48:00.004-04:00

Dear Floyd,

This weekend, your life will change a great deal. We're pulling up camp, and moving North. U-boat 1320 feels to be sinking. It's time to start anew. Anew new new. Nunu?

We're going to have to mind our manners Floyd. Less chomping at the bit, less bouncing on the guests, less peeing outside in the dooryard. You will be elevator trained. And you will learn to lose your interest in all the colourful people walking about.

Rabbits will be scarce. Moving vehicles will be near. Traffic lights will be obeyed. Your focus will be forward. As will mine, little buddy. As will mine.

Now, let's do something about making you that Porcupine mask we've been talking about.

Yours forever,

Darryl. (your dad)

To Whom it may concern... A letter to Mr Levon Helm

2010-07-10T20:22:00.004-04:00

This paper airplane will, with any luck, find its way to the man behind the drum-kit Sunday night. Its way will be lit by thousand watt smiles.

July 10 2010

Dear Levon,

Words cannot express. Words cannot express the excitement I feel on the eve of the Ottawa show. The appearance of The Levon Helm Band at Cisco Ottawa Bluesfest.

Having been to your home on the side of that mountain down in Woodstock three times in the past 4 years, I can only crave another completely joyous performance.

Each show was opened by the PHENOMENAL, ground-shaking sounds of the Alexis P Suter Band, and taken through midnight by The Levon Helm Band. The absolute mastery, and beautiful, beautiful melodies from generations of American(and Canadian!) music.

People close to me, know best NOT to ask me about my visits down to Levon Helm Studios and The Midnight Ramble. I will talk about it forever. Especially the first time. I consider that night one of the TRUE pleasures of my life. Nowhere before had I witnessed such a musical spectacle, and probably never will again. And I'm fine with that. In a world where big money, big time, big rock and roll concerts require big t-shirt sales, and big crowds... it's a special thing to see an intimate show like that.

Each time, I sat shoulder to shoulder with strangers from around the continent. Shared stories. Shared cookies. Made friends. The first night, J-Rock and I met another couple from Ottawa. A feeling of love and hope and the collective beating of a rock n roll heart.

Blah Blah Blah. Yakkity Yakkity.

Just thanks. Thanks Levon, for coming to my city. It's a beautiful place this time of year. I wish you all the best for today, and up around the bend.

With love and respect,

Darryl Renwick

To Whom it may concern... A letter to Mr Geddy Lee

2010-07-03T22:21:00.003-04:00

The following letter will hopefully find it's way into the hands of a Rush Roadie, when the iconic Canadian Rock Power Trio hit the stage at Bluesfest next weekend. And then, with any luck, will make it's way triumphantly into the hands of great influence.

July 3 2010

Dear Geddy,

This weekend here in Ottawa, along with the rest of the Nation, we celebrate our beautiful country. For a short time, we will gather, we will party... we will sing. In a current world of disasters and war, we will, for a short time, share our happiness. Share with our families, our neighbours, with our fellow Canadians, be them long-bred, or recent immigrants.

Tomorrow I plan to ride my mountain bike through one of the most beautiful chunks of the Canadian Sheild. The South March Highlands are nestled beautifully in the Ottawa Valley, between Kanata, and two towns called Carp and Dunrobin. After that two hour trail ride, I plan to attend a baseball game at the 10,000 seat stadium near my home. No longer Triple A ball, but good ball nonetheless. The beer will be cold and I bet my ass the majority of the two thousand fans there will still be adorned with red and white.

Here's the pitch...

I think Rush should someday play a big outdoor venue in either Ottawa or Toronto (or Sudbury!) and headline with Foo Fighters. Invite The Hip, Three Days Grace, Blue Rodeo, Sloan, Billy Talent.... whoever wants to come. Tom Wilson? Wide Mouth Mason? Cuff the Duke? Holly McNarland? Make it a weekend, invite Neil Young and get him to bring Pearl Jam. Haha! I'm nuts. But you get the picture. Something close to the scale of SARS-fest with all the love, but not the panic. Something for the good of human beings in Canada and abroad. A fundraiser of muscled proportions with a proactive goal. Something that will be heard yonder, around the globe.

Thank you for fueling my patriotism and rocking it for the geek geniuses of the world. You, Neil, and Alex are Canadian heroes for generations of fans. Well done lads.

With love and respect,

Darryl Renwick

It's a far cry from the world we thought we'd inherit
It's a far cry from the way we thought we'd share it
You can almost feel the current flowing
You can almost see the circuits blowing

One day I feel I'm on top of the world
And the next it's falling in on me
I can get back on
I can get back on
One day I feel I'm ahead of the wheel,
And the next it's rolling over me
I can get back on
I can get back on
Far Cry by Rush

My Sister's Birthday

2010-07-03T21:12:00.003-04:00

Almost 32 years ago, the world welcomed The Brooker. She tipped the scales at just over six pounds. 6 lbs. The coming weekend marks the anniversary of (notso?) long ago.

On said weekend, this keeper of rats will no doubt celebrate with his dear sister on her special day. Burgers will be munched and cold beverages will be sipped. I love you, sis.

Later on that night, I will be part of a slightly bigger, Canadian summer celebration. Thousands of people will flock like gassed geese to LeBreton Flats along the mighty Ottawa River. As our museum of War quietly stands guard, we will take in live music of the most outstandingly superbly majestic quality. Rush will be a big part of that bolleyhoo.

On that evening, I Darryl Renwick, rock n' roll geek and disciple, will attempt to deliver two more letters to iconic rock gods. Back in May, ten copies of the same letter to Dave Grohl of Them Crooked Vultures and more famously of Foo Fighters and Nirvana was passed into the crowd at ScotiaBank Place. A few of the notes found their way into the sound booth to be sure.

The letter to Mr Grohl outlined a hair-brained idea about a future Canadian Foo Fighters concert in a huge park or against a big body of water. The Foo Fighters should play with Rush. Raise money. Party for a cause.

Next weekend I plan to pass a letter to Mr Geddy Lee of Rush, the bird-like master of the BASS, and the shrillest of rock cries.

Another letter will be passed that night, in gratitude to one of the Holiest men of The Rock and Roll TRUTH. A real down-home Arkansas ass-kissin'. So to speak.

Wish me luck on your birthday sis.

NINJA!

2010-07-01T00:55:00.003-04:00

Closer to the Heart - Rush
Fly at Night - Chiliwack

Tonight's stroll finds us, at midnight, walking down the North side of Tremblay Road. The black cat we share our home with stalks us from a mere two metres back.

"Charlie!" I turn to scold him, just having realized that he has crossed the big road to follow us. He stops, and looks at me. My obvious concern for safety is reflected off his green eyes like lawn darts off a cement patio. He doesn't give a rat's ass. Fear is a stranger to Charlie the Cat. A trained Shinobi assassin, this feline is remarkably cool. Anyone who's seen him get mugged by two slobbery bouncing boxer doggies, understands that he quickly and certainly always comes out on top. Leaving the two dogs bonking and panting in a dance of confusion.

We cross back over to our home side of the road, and like a true creature of the night, Charlie stealthily scoots from hedge to hedge and tracks our steps.

We turn the corner back onto our little Avenue and the three of us instantly freeze. Twelve feet in front of me and Floyd are two young rabbits. The one we'll call Jack, with the flatter, ramp-like forehead, is nearest, and he is glued to the asphalt. His cute bunny friend Shelly is also as still as death.

Floyd's blue leash is taut, his body tense with anticipation. Corkscrewed with intrigue.

"Sit." I command. Pooch reluctantly obliges. Every 7 seconds or so, his little bum slightly lifts from the pavement, his legs trembling with happy excitement.

We all stay like that for what seems like at least five minutes. Nobody wanting to jump-start a trixxy situation. Then it happens... Charlie the cat slowly tiptoes wide left and underneath the neighbour's white Mazda 3. He parks himself carefully and deliberately between the two rear wheels of the car. Now, he's between us and little Miss Shelly. Watching. We're all watching, the five of us. Esti.

Enough of this, it's way past curfew, and there's an IMPORTANT Canada Day trail ride tomorrow on the hills of Camp Fortune. Bedtime Floyd.

The dog and I make our way toward the two rabbits, headed home.

Shelly decides she can't take it any longer and !bolts! South. Jack Rabbit jukes right, JIVES left and the cat is on his tail like a heat seeking missile. It's a sprint and the gap is closing quickly. Each animal taking long, leaping strides back North toward Tremblay. I hear sirens blaring from there but I'm not sure if it's maybe coming from the Queensway or not.

The rabbit rips around the corner by the neighbour's hostas and out of sight. The cat in hot pursuit.

Happy Canada Day, Canada. Tomorrow we celebrate a history, a future, a Monarch, a Maple Tree.

Humps

2010-06-02T23:31:00.003-04:00

Wednesday, June 2 2010.

Is it any wonder I don't particularly enjoy watching the evening news?

Just in from a fun night hanging with friends, and I am confronted with the CBC Evening News. The first thing that seeps its way into my brain is a story from England about a man who gunned down and killed twelve humans in public. Cheerio.

Then there's a bit about the fountain of crude oil spoodging into the Gulf of Mexico. BP has set up an online forum for the general public to submit ANY ideas on how to cap the flow of black death. Even James Cameron in all his aquatic mastery, has been consulted.

Wendy Mesley is as cute as ever.

There are many humps the humans have to overcome. Many lumps need to be whisked from the gravy. The biggest kernel in the craw is the absence of peace in the Middle East. Israel and Palestine are non-stop.

North Korea keeps nuking stuff like big bad farts in the wind.

AIDS in Africa.

Famine. Disease. Disaster. War.

When will things brighten? Will we ever see that bright, green, peaceful, future?

All I wanted to see when I turned on the boob tube.... is the hockey game over? Who won?!

Yay Puck. Hooray for Puck.

Goodbye Hump Day.

CrackerJack

2010-05-21T20:12:00.003-04:00

Crack her back.

Black Jack Davy.

Enjoying The White Stripes Canadian Tour DVD, grinning from our summer walk. The thickets are thickening and the pulses are quickening. Insects abound, there's new life all around.

EEEEEEEEKK! It's a grimy groundhog. But he's really cute. Immediately to his right, through the brambles and fallen limbs, is a big brown dog. Its rubbery black muzzle snorts wildly at the air. All the wee hog can process with his tiny rodent brain, is EeeeK! "He's found us."

The dog is standing less than 10 feet away. The groundhog doesn't understand 10 feet from two feet. All he understands is that big dog's exuberance is coming fast. 8 feet.... 5 feet... BAM! Hog's down the hole in a flash. The pink tongue of the Floyd hangs in the heat. It's dripping with frothy white drool. It's rooting in the door jam, into the foyer.... That dog's head is like an anvil.

"Hello!" says the Floyd. Then he gives up, realizing that trying to sniff out a den of groundhogs is futile. It's about as productive as chasing birds. Nobody needs a bird dog, and we won't have a digger. Floyd, my friends, is all boxer. At his prime as a healthy two year old beautiful dog, Floyd is glorious. And he continues to be my muse. Without a daily dose of that hoser, we'd go batty. Gotta remember to pick up his Heartworm prevention. The voice on my right shoulder asks me when the last time I heard of a dog dying of heartworms? Still. Ick. The voice on my left, (and most of us righties lead with our left) slaps me and tells me to get er done.

The news of late is never good. The oil spills and explosions make me twitch. And itch. But it is springtime and the first long weekend of the year. It's a time for rejuvenation. A time for sweat. And a time for forward progress. Follow your snout. Keep your head up. Get that rusty hinge looked at, and recover the spring in your step. Feeling the love for family and friends in May 2010. Good humans. And some adorable pets.

Kicking back with a sample of a local beer(that's not very good) and a trusty CUZ squeeeeek toy, we ingest the White Stripes in all their contrived, yet soulful gloury.

The long weekend is very near.

Tomorrow we ride. We get dirty. We party. Happy Victoria Day to all my Canadian brothers and sisters.

o What's worse? Thistles between your toes? Or a mosquito bite on your JAHnson? What's your itch?

Revolver

2010-05-09T02:44:00.004-04:00

Tax Man
Eleanor Rigby

I'm drunk on Yagger and DIET coca cola

Floyd is glad I'm home. He burrows for my attention. For my massaging love.

LoneStar beckoned for a Jedi. The council delivered.

Not interested in the fluff. But that's all it is.

Fluff.

Jasmine with your cheeks, and familiar dimples. Your curly hair bouncing as you groove to a sexy lady singing Enter Sandman. This is wrong. Confusing.

Cant write when smashed.

SHANT.

To Whom it may concern... A letter to Mr Dave Grohl

2010-05-08T19:56:00.001-04:00

The following letter will hopefully find its way into the hands of the drummer at this week's Them Crooked Vultures show at ScotiaBank Place in Kanata Ontario. Here's hopin'...

May 8 2010

Dear Dave,

As a proud Canadian Foo Fighters fan, I would just like to thank you for visiting our beautiful Nation's Capital once again. I've seen you guys every time you've come, except for the Bob Dylan show. A few years back, I read a blurb about your recollections of an outdoor show at a horse racetrack... flying meadow muffins and all. I was there.

I've noticed that on the last couple of DVD's, The two London shows, you've shared the stage with some pretty ICONIC figures in Rock.

Howzabout coming back to Ottawa(or Toronto) and playing a huge outdoor show with a bunch of other bands? A festival for something true and something good. I think you should play with Rush. Taylor can give up the stool for Neil Peart and the lot of you could jam out up front with Geddy and Alex.

Every time I hear Time Stand Still
I cannot help dreaming about how it would sound played by one of my favourite live acts, The Foo Fighters. The energy would be palpable.

Just a thought.

All the best, Dave. Please, keep on rockin'!

Darryl Renwick

New Fangled Think Thangles

2010-04-07T19:25:00.007-04:00

NO MORE!!!
The crap rolls out your mouth again
Haven't changed, your brain is still gelatin
Little whispers circle around your head
Why don't you worry about yourself INSTEAD!!!

Who are you? where ya been? where ya from?
Gossip burning on the tip of your tongue
You lie so much you believe yourself
Judge not l'est ye be judged yourself
Holier Than Thou by Metallica

Steal another day.

Two more veins have opened up with fresh oxygenated blood. Two more veins of thought. Two more veins of personal importance. Had to jot them down the other night because they excited me, and made me smile.

Firstly, I want to write a recurring piece, kind of like a column of humourous comparisons and contrasts titled City Dog and Country Dog inspired by a child's story from long ago called The City Mouse and The Country Mouse.

Another direction I want to take the odd time should be called To Whom it May Concern, This one would always be written in letter format, and addressed to someone of consequence. A rant, a ramble, tumbleweed and bramble. My first one will be written to Dave Grohl of Foo Fighters in an attempt to get him to play a huge outdoor benefit concert in Ottawa or Toronto and share the stage with Rush. I need to hear the Foo do Time Stand Still. Another letter would of course be addrezzed to Geddy Lee, in the most Canadian of tones.

Those are the ideas I had to jot down and now I'm sharing them with you, READER. The oft acknowledged reader. Dear, dear reader. And I grin.

Wanna know what else makes me smile?! How about going to Disney World in just over a week with me mum? We're going to be rocking it condo style and visiting Donald Duck. In the hot sunshine. Parent and kid bonding in a world that lacks it. Venturing to a land that feeds it. Can't wait to do Animal Kingdom, Epcot.. all of it. Then Universal Studios. Thnaks for the Christmas present Heathra!

For now, I'm just glad that Floyd and I will soon be putting rubber to trail. It will do the body(and mind) some good. The bicycles are almost ready.

Almost.

33

2010-03-22T20:17:00.008-04:00

"Come on home, girl" mama cried on the phone
"Too soon to lose my baby and my girl should be at home!"
"But try to understand, try to understand
Try try try to understand
He's a magic man, mama, ah ...
He's a magic man"
Magic Man by Heart

A cold spring night on the eve of a day off. Tomorrow is Hockey Day in Ottawa South, and I'm not sure how this 34 year old knee is going to handle it. It seems the recovery time from week to week is expanding like a waistline.

What does this mean for bicycle season? Part of the pain problem, whether it's the knees, or the back, or the wrist, or the shoulder, is the winter weight gain. The couch and the food and the internet exercise. Calories 1.Darryl 0. I only had to shovel TWICE this winter. I need me some P90X. But I'm so lazy. Sick and uninspired by the diamonds in your fire.

The cure for such a maladie is wind in my face, and pine needles under my tires. This type of activity will be very beneficial for the physique. For the psyche, more importantly. But will the knee perform? Time will tell, they say... Time will tell.

Sometimes as we age, we become a little more vulnerable. This morning's Monday LOAD DAY brought with it various tales of the recent weekend. A co-worker survived an attempted mugging at 8pm Friday night in the South Keys parking lot. Four alleged wiggers tried to take my co-worker's longboard skateboard. He managed to dissuade them by revealing the firm grasp he had on the wheels of said skateboard.

As I was listening to his story this morning, my mind raced. What would I do in a similar situation? At this point in my life, if four tough looking teen-aged boys accosted me, what would I do? Do I have my hockey stick handy?

There was a time, and not long ago, when I fantasized about such a situation. I walked with the confidence of a Jedi. The odds of coming out on top in a skirmish were in my favour. Trained throughout most of my young life how to defend myself and stabilize a situation. Martial Arts practices, and Buddhist meditations, balanced me and allowed me to adapt. During the college years, my class was taught how to quickly subdue a perp in a very physical and precise manner. Humane, and efficient. Who knew?! ...all the things you could do to someone with your key chain.

If four big and strong 17 year olds wiggers came at you for your purse, or your gym bag, what would you do? Before they can kick you in the sore knee, what's your move? Before they dislodge your patella and render you a helpless mess, what do you do? Some would opt maybe to stomp down on the baggy crotch of their ass dangling jeans. Thus pinning both his sneakers to the asphalt, leaving only his reaching arms to deal with. Block with your forearm and with the other hand, shoot your knuckles into his throat, HARD. Grab his arm. Break it. Stomp his pants on the ground, and face the next one.

But what if he got your knee? And then the three of them beat you down until you're all blood and spit, and misspent rage. What could be worse than that? Maybe being immobilized and eaten alive by hundreds of crawling ants. Big, black, malicious ants. That would really suck too.

We're actually quite safe here in our home at present. The Mongloyd Mongrel is snoring beside me. His anal gland giving off a ripe and remarkable scent. He's dreaming of the chase. The bold rabbits will be chased. Another song, this one by Led Zeppelin, but performed by Heart, provides the living room soundtrack to The Floyd's dream.

I gotta walk, can't stand still,
Got a flamin' heart, can't get my fill,
Eyes that shine burning red,
Dreams of you all through my head.
Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah...
Black Dog by Led Zeppelin

Great tune.

And as I sit here evaluating my 34th year of life, trying to be clever and insightful and honest and artistic and oh so wordy, something catches the corner of my eye. Something on the pine coffee table. It's a crumb of toast... It's a piece of lint. Nope. It's a fucking ant. Seriously? No, not seriously. But I did see one in the bathtub two weeks ago. It made me angry and happy at the same time. It made me want to write more stories about Admiral Adam Ant and his band of merry alien insects. It made me want to embellish a little. It made me want to march into battle.

Achieve the Slant

2010-03-18T20:39:00.003-04:00

Oh to join the rush
as the season builds
Jump into the rush
as the seasons build
The Lonely End of the Rink by
The Tragically Hip

The East wind meets Floyd's eyeballs as he marches us down the road. The air has cooled just enough to remind us that one musn't cling to an early spring. Like squeezing that bar of soap just a little too tight, and SQUIRT! Out it goes! There will be more snow. The trails will not be open until May. Officially.

Without the trail, our bodies have begun to seize. The Floyd leads us through the morning stretches, and then sets the pace for our daily walks. But it's not enough. We need to run. We need to ride. Wride wide. Pedal hard. And keep the rubber side down.

Whipping down a gnarly descent and leveling out, pedals parallel to the dirt. Coasting into the comfort of a hard berm left. Cranking out of it to pick up speed again. Hopping that log. Pitching the bars down over the next ridge. Ass back behind the saddle. Hands gripping tightly. Crooked index fingers dancing on the disc brakes. Playing the bike like an instrument. An instrument of speed. A weapon against the wind. A cleanser of the sweat glands. A purifier of the soul.

Don't you want it too? Grab it by the bars and cock your head into the next turn. Achieve the slant. Let out the brakes and GO. Give in to your spring vigor. The ache is deep. The need is great.

Just don't be puttin' the shovel away quite yet.

Feel The Funk Blast

2010-02-18T18:01:00.004-05:00

Stroll through the shanties
And tha cities remains
Same bodies buried hungry
But with different last names
The vultures robbin everything
Leave nothing but chains
Pick a point on the globe
Yes tha pictures tha same
Theres a bank, theres a church, a myth and a hearse
A mall and a loan, a child dead at birth
Theres a widow pig parrot
A rebel to tame
A whitehooded judge
A syringe and a vein
And the riot be the rhyme of the unheard
Calm Like A Bomb by Rage Against The Machine

Keeping the peace and keeping the cool are quite often like two passing ships in the night. There's the odd chance they may collide, and destroy each other in a fiery wreck. Most nights they just sail at each other and then away from each other without a clue.

Filled with a Rage that has reared of late. A lust for action. A craving for air. A need for speed. A release. Fed up with Febreze and Fantastik. Fed up with February. And other idiot humans. I've got my own thinking to do. Must I do yours for you as well? For real?

Must find Zen. Breathe. Stretch. Breathe. Push aside negative media. The negative opinions of the humans around me. Be like Fonzie.

And switch. Find a channel for the pent up energy. Find something to be cranked and happy about. Aim your good eye at something exciting. Look to the west. And there it is... something to cheer about.

Vancouver. The people in Vancouver... the fans, the volunteers, the media, and especially the athletes. These people must feel the world's eyes on them, look through the frowns, and see the ones that are smiling. These smiling faces around the globe are most often the ones who weep earnestly for the hardships of people elsewhere. In a world where earthquakes, and war, and greed destroy the lives of its occupants, it's nice to see a gathering of people on the West Coast of this great nation. A celebration of excellence with no regard for race or religion, or political beliefs.

Now, pass me the frisbee, so I can throw it back to you. You silly dog. Lets get ready for some good old Canadian ass-whuppin hockey.

Switzerland will fall.

What you say What you say What you say What you say WHAH?!!

Pucking Off Again (An Ontario Winter's Saturday)

2010-02-06T20:13:00.003-05:00

It's Hockey Day all over Darryl's smiley chin and The Toronto Maple Leafs are leading the Ottawa Senators 3 goals to none after one. It's Saturday night in Ottawa Ontario Canada and the denim couch creaks under the ache of my elation.

Our hero, the Floyd lay sprawled under the coffee table, panting. He has just completed sparring class with Miss Ellah. Our living room has become substitute for a bicycle. And our bones miss the sun.

Ok. Can someone tell me what is up with Sens fans? Sorry. Some Sens fans? And by some, I mean a lot of them... I've been told by many Sens fans the tired line,"I don't hate Leaf fans, I hate the Leafs." Over and over again. Such a bad organization. Rich and stupid. Cursed since Centennial. Child molesting. Wife stealing. Cocaine riddled. Homosexual. Defeated. Blah. Blah. Blah. Kiss. My. Ass.

I don't have a problem with the Sens. They're a good hockey team. It's the fans. And the crying every time the puck stops going in. Spezza's sessions with the shrink(er, I mean knee rehab) seemed to have paid off. He's finding the net again.

What makes this Maple Leaf wearing Canadian kid happy is thoughts of Gary Roberts' knuckles and Lanny's moustache and Tim Horton's coffee. There they are again, the Sevens. The first scientist to unlock the power of Sevens, will be revered by humanity. None of the negative stories about dead leaves on the dirty ground can sink my heart. There will be a day.

Today was a day. A cold hard Saturday in the Nation's Capital. A day where people gathered at Winterlude, played hockey, skated on the canal, came home, bundled up for the medicine we call the CBC.

And there it is, the first thing we hear as we thrust through the door and remove the leash and the ear buds. It's Bob Cole's precious voice. Mr. Cole perched on the brink of absolute retirement, plods along with the play by play with the speed of a Clydesdale. And sometimes he stumbles, and my heart swells for his Newfoundland flare. It's been a while since I've heard Mr.Cole now that Jim Hughson is frequenting Foster's chair.

Today was the day that the hotter than heck Ottawa Senators bowed to a hungry blue and white dog. The Ottawa Senators can only be dangerous once they understand how truly good they are. Cory Clouston is an excellent coach, and he has the team playing more like a team than they have in two seasons.

But this is the Battle of Ontario. Rarely a disappointment for either side. Hard nosed hockey. Puck pigs. It's just that some nights the score comes out a little more lobbsided than others.

Tonight the fresh and inspired Maple Leafs showed up for work.

And got Jiggy with it.

Watching hockey tonight was a great appetizer for this Month's greatest tournament in the world. Wear a Red Maple Leaf. A Red Maple Leaf that will not fall and wilt, but will instead rise, and turn to GOLD.

Whandering Wen?

2010-01-23T19:29:00.004-05:00

iPod shuffling through a crisp January night.

Plumes of vapour pour from the dog's snubbed nose. My big black boots crunch the old snow into the Earth.

It's dark tonight and there are no shadows.

Mary was the girl who taught me all I had to know --
she put me right on my first mistake --
Summer wasn’t good when I learned all she had to show --
she really gave all a boy could take --- Oh --

So now when I get lonely,
still looking for the one and only,
That’s when I wish was lying in the arms of Mary.

Just a boy and his dog, one sniffing, the other sniffling, in the frigid winter air.

The Floyd has seemed to find some fox poop or something of the sort to pry from the snow and nibble on. He looks up at me with his shit-eating grin as if to say, "What?"

But it comes out "Woof!"

"You're gross, Floyd. Tres gross. Leave it." I mumble as I stumble along.

Dawgie races to catch up, his red squeaker once again held firmly in his jaws.

Up next from the random magic jukebox clipped to the inside of my coat pocket, is Strawberry Fields by the Beatles, performed by the soulful Ben Harper. The song starts off very soothing and soft, and ends with big orchestral strings and screechy guitar. I'm getting my rock on. The weight of my stuffed sinuses and aching chest is temporarily lifted and I realise that I'm smiling.

Strange days have found us
Strange days have tracked us down
They're going to destroy
Our casual joys
We shall go on playing
Or find a new town

Yeah!

Wow, the Doors sure can be a downer sometimes. There goes my short-lived smile. Gotta head back home, it's farking cold out here.

Come on, Bud.

And then the song changes, somewhere in the woods, half way home. I don't recognize it right away. It's surely one of the new albums I've recently downloaded (Thanks Kat!)

This new song starts off with rocking potential. It reminds me of For Whom the Bell Tolls by Metallica. Smashing symbols and grungy guitar. It's a fun song. It's Weezer.

Right now everything sucks,
I can't express the things I want

Ive got to play in this game
And you know how dumb the house rules are

Someday I am gunna break outta here
and I will find what is true in my soul (I won't let go)

I work my skin to the bone
because I'm not gunna give up, I'm not gunna give up

I gotta get me some, I gotta live my life
I gotta heart that beats, and nobody else has time
They aint gunna keep me down,
Cause I've gotta reach the top
I gotta get me some
I gotta have my rock

There. My smile's back. It's not usually gone for too long.

Tomorrow my smile will broaden when I learn of a cousin's happy news. Looks like the Mooney clan has another little piper on the way. In about six month's time. Cheers to that!

Back down Ave U towards the shack and right there with us, is the Shinobi Prince himself, Charlie walking along beside us. I wonder if he does that with everybody who walks down the street. Creepy. Being stalked by a black cat isn't everyone's idea of a good time.

Arms of Mary - Chilliwack

Strawberry Fields - Ben Harper

Strange Days - The Doors

Get Me Some - Weezer

Chasing Snowmen

2010-01-16T20:01:00.009-05:00

Huff Puff run run. Knees high through the snow. The leash is released and we're off!

Fresh clean air rushes in through our noses and out through our gaping mouths.

Get the squeaker! Get it, boy! Good Dog!

We stop running and look up. The field is empty, save a few trees. The snow is melting in this unusually mild weather. It's as if somewhere, somehow, a piece of the Earth opened up and let out a dose of hell. Oh wait...

The city is blocked off from us by a few hundred metres in every direction. It's our little hunk of heaven. The Floyd comes here to run off some crated steam. Heavy comes here to let the day fall away.

The orange glow of the city lights reflects off the snow, creating a sepia of urine. I can see the Floyd up ahead clearly in the dim. The trees that line the South end of this field hide the train tracks and the OC Transpo bus yards, but the city's glare still peaks through.

Behind us, the sound of the Queensway at seven pee-em drowns out most other noise.

A Rural Canadian winter's eve, smack dab in the Nation's Capital. Sshhh! Please don't tell anyone of our secret place. We're trespassing. We're trespassers.

Get moving. The night is mild and comfortable. Enjoy the stroll. Everyday people.

The dog pulls away into another sprint. He's heading to the gap in the fence that leads to another open space. He shoots through and disappears from sight. Then like a flash, Floyd races back into view. Something has scared him. He's standing there, about 40 metres ahead of me, staring at something through the fence. Frozen. Rim-rod straight. Nimrod straight.

God of the Hunt.

I pull out my left ear bud to see if I can hear something. Growling? Barking? Yelping?
Nothing. Just 417 hum.

The Floyd is keen. And he is standing at attention.

What do you see, Bud? Whaddiya got?

Statue.

What is this?!

I finally catch up from my trudging.

I look.

Nothing. No fox. No cat. No confused groundhog.

Good boy. Walk nice. Let's go.

And as we proceed cautiously, it comes into view. It's white. It's half the size of my couch. And it's round. One of the biggest snowballs I've ever seen. It's galldarn Huge. Pushing that would be like trying to roll a round bale of hay.

Floyd is entranced. This definitely was NOT here this morning.

Right or Wrong. It's Willie Nelson singing along to a swinging number with someone who sounds kinda like James Garner.

Floyd finally accepts the snowball and I laugh out loud. He's sniffing it, poking at it. If that were another human being, or animal, Dawgie would be all up in its grill.

After we throw the squeaker a couple more times, we head towards the tracks and home. But not without Floyd stopping beside his snowball, lifting his right leg and draining his little dragon all over it. His yellow fire boring holes into the sticky snow.

Into the woods we go, to the creepy sounds of Clint Mansell's Hope Overture. Just putting the right twist into the grey gush to inspire a blog. If only you could hear what I'm hearing as I'm walking down this wooded path. If my little head movie had a soundtrack, what would it be like? It would be an iPod set to shuffle. Creepy. A real mood setter. A mood lottery.

Please forgive me, it seems the scent of Spring may have roused the senses a pinch. Chasing squeak toys. Chasing a snowman. Chasing Rhubarb.

What are you chasin' at?

Happy Saturday.

Now, let's go get pissed.

I Slept With Bonhomme at the CBC - Broken Social Scene

Everyday People - Sly and the Family Stone

Epic - Faith No More

Right or Wrong - Willie Nelson and Asleep at The Wheel

Hope Overture - Clint Mansell

Forever for Her(Is Over For Me) - The White Stripes

Missles and Hairy Toes

2009-12-24T15:19:00.005-05:00

Rub a dub dub

Some of the world's greatest masterpieces were jreamed up in the bathtub. A rare moment of house to yourself indulgence is a holiday gift of its own. Bubbles.

Over the next couple of days, families from around the globe will gather to celebrate the birth of Our Lord And Savior Jesus Christ. It's a day of love and hope and togetherness and peace.

Glad to be a part of it. Really. I like it when people are nice to one another. You can see it everywhere you go this time of year.

Smiles and laughter.
Happily ever after.

People push their aches and grumbles aside, and give to others.

But I'd love it more without the religion behind it. The true gift of human compassion should rest on a Hope so strong that it can stand alone, without being tethered to Faith.

A Hope without Faith... until Faith can be found again, is still a Hope.

Merry Christmas to all of God's children, and by God I mean Buddha, Allah, Krishna, Wayne Gretzky. Safe and happy holidays to all of your friends and families. And all of their friends and families, and all the neighbours and coworkers, and all the whole world through.

Group Hug.

Come January, we can go back to crucifying Tiger Woods.

Tiger Tiger Woods Y'all

2009-12-20T19:39:00.007-05:00

Crushing metal, Ripping Skin
Tossing body mannequin
Spilling Blood, Bleeding Gas

Mangle flesh, Snapping spine
Dripping bloody valentine
Shatter face, spitting glass

Split apart
Split apart
Split apart
Spit
Spit it out!
My Apocalypse by Metallica

A song about driving your Cadillac SUV into a tree.

Not unlike the rest of everyday normal, snow-shoveling Canadians, I'm tired of hearing about Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods may have proven himself quite intriguing to the everyday average paparazzo. However, watching a public icon crumble before the world is not my fetish. Thank you very much.

Back in early October, I published a blog post about Tiger, and Derek Jeter, and Roger Federer. On July 5th of this year, these three athletes each excelled at his sport. Each turned in a dominant performance, and no doubt, each one of them shaved that morning using a Gillette Fusion razor. I thought maybe some money could have been made directly stemming from the events of said July 5 2009. So much for that.

Opinions being what they may, it should come as no surprise that we all seem to have one about billionaire athlete Tiger Woods.

Dear Tiger,

You screwed up. You let down your wife, your kids, your millions of fans, and maybe even your dead father. You disappointed a great many people. Your weakness was revealed. Your image as a stand-up, straight shooter kinda guy has faltered greatly.

You need to take your lumps and persevere. Recent news reports are speculating on your every move. Your wife Elin allegedly wants a divorce.

Do it.

Let your wife have everything she wants. Give your family everything they need. You don't need ALL the money. Let go of your image. Grow a new one. If you want to party like Jeter you can't be married.

Throw yourself into golf. Come out at the Masters and win. No more wearing red on Sundays. You should wear Bengal orange. Have the best golf season you've ever had. Show the world that you are still the most dominating athlete on the planet.

Because no matter how bad you messed up your situation, you can learn from it and move on. You should grow some dreadlocks, and untuck your shirt. You're allowed to skip the morning shave from time to time. Some girls like a little scruff.

Last I checked, a TIGER was a predator. And a tiger thrives when playing from the rough.

Regards,
Darryl Renwick
er... I mean... Anonymous.

Smashing Through the Snow (in a one-dog hopin' way)

2009-12-20T15:11:00.006-05:00

Floyd pulls me through the field toward the treeline. The steel claws of his prong collar digging into his thick neck. He snorts and his breath leaves a vapour I can see under the glow of the distant streetlight. My jeans have bunched up around my winter boots and snow is getting at my ankles. The dog pays no mind as we march diligently into the forbidden land behind our street.

Up ahead near the trees, I can hear voices. There is giggling and laughter. The Floyd hears it too, and he brings his snout up from the ground and stands at attention.

"Who is it, boy?" I whisper to the dog.

I can hear them whispering as well, and decide to approach with caution. Floyd's leash once again goes taut and his stubby tail wiggles with anticipation.

We pass through the treeline and into the clearing... and there they are. It's our old friends Dim and Dizzy.

Mr.Dim is standing there grinning with Holiday cheer. Ms.Dizzy is smiling broadly herself and they're both looking at us.

"Gidday mate" says Dim as he extends his hand, "Merry Christmas."

"Floyd... Off!" I wrestle with the leash. "Hey you guys. How have you been?"

"Good good" They answer in unison.

"Get your shopping done yet?" I ask, as I take in the scene before me. Both Dizzy and Dim are COVERED in snow. Dim's purple toque is pulled down over his bushy eyebrows and Dizzy's hood is packed with the white stuff.

"No sir," Dizzy chimes in, "we've been much too busy making snow angels and crawling through those big cement culverts over there."

Dim is brushing himself off, still grinning wildly. Dizzy adjusts the strap of her shoulder bag and starts rifling through it looking for something. "Do you have my phone?" she asks Dim.

"Nope" he shakes his head as he bends to stroke the slobbery Floyd.

Dizzy's purse-digging becomes more frantic. In her search she starts pulling items out and throwing them onto the snow in front of her pink boots. There's a wallet. There's a sunglasses case. An iPod. A big yellow and black striped soft cover book titled Ventriloquism For Dummies.
Wow. This girl is something else.

Dim and I both stoop to gather up her belongings before they are lost in the snow. She continues launching her things out of her handbag. Was that a hammer?!

"Ms.Diz, perhaps your celly is in that culvert over there." says Dim

She looks up, owly-eyed. An expression of hope comes across her face and she smiles the prettiest of smiles. "By golly, you're right!"

Dizzy scurries over to the culvert as we follow, knees up, trudging ahead. The Floyd is taking big leaps over branches and the tall dead grass.

"There you are!" she exclaims. Her smile gleaming ever-brighter.

She holds up her phone in triumph as the two of us begin handing back all her pursely possessions.

"Thanky thanky gentlemen." she purrs "much appreciated."

"Your welcome." we both reply a little Dimly.

The brown dog who has been politely watching the entire scene starts voicing his impatience.

"Wanna go home for some FOOD, Floyd?" I ask. That's right, I said the F-word. "Wanna go home and see Ellah?!"

"Woof!" he agrees.

And with that, we bid our friends a very happy holiday season and make our way home.

I can hear their giggles starting up again as we disappear into the woods toward the path.

I'm not weird. I just happen to have an unfocused, over-active imagination.

Budweiser Blues

2009-12-13T02:50:00.005-05:00

just in from a night of drunken goodness. the billgoat and i tested our wares at the Lone Star. our heads are numb and silly from the drink. we met sheila from Australia and we weren't old enough or successful enough or hairy enough.

"are you Army with your hair like that?" asks sheila. "Police?"

"Army?!" I chuckle. "No. I'm Low maintenance with hair like this."

"and I'm high." she quips

"you're funny! that's a good one sheila." i snort

"how old are you" needs sheila

"oh. that's how it is. You need to know my numbers." I grunt

"uh huh" is sheila

"i see," I sigh. "well then, I'm darryl and i'm 33 years old. this is my queenaged roommate michael and we like long walks on the beach, pretty sunsets, and playing balderdash."

"hello darryl i'm sheila. sheila is a derogatory term in australiia. don't make fun." she turns away to interrogate someone else.

sorry, that's what i do. why don't you piss up a rope. you bleach blonde klingon.

i also can't type when im hammed.

then there's Glitterface girl and her friend Whiteboots. retired strippers. whiteboots RECENTLY retired. every time they walk by, they eye hump us. white boots is naughty and wants us to know it. her eyes re dark like coal.. glitterface has two kids and an ex husband at home, and she wants some blow. some nose candy. homie don't deal that kind of candy honey. keep clear of these two mikey, they'z trouble. in the words of the reknowned Nicholas Lombo, it is what it is.

then we meet a pretty lady with a bright smile. this chick bores through me with her eyes. thers an instant of recognition. she sees the age. she sees the crows feet around my steel blue eyes. the shared maturity. we chat. we laugh. and then some young stud comes over and drapes her coat over her shoulders.

He's 20. she tells me. with a wink. That's right. He's 20. Like she wants a hero biscuit or something.

And then the youngin' pipes up with his own two cents.

"Yeah man, and I don't need no blue pill.

"cum again" i growl.

"i don't need no blue pill." says boy. "i'm not saying you do."

"gotcha." i nod. "just that some guys might need a blue pill, right?"

"right" sez boy.

"Well you two have fun" me says with a wink of my own.

have fun indeed.

Billygoat and i are off to the homestead for some toast and jam.

suckas.

Something to Cheer About - Metallica part 7 of 7

2009-12-11T20:38:00.004-05:00

The concert's over, and we're rushing for the parking lot. The four band mates are on the stage waving goodbye to Ottawa's loudest crowd of 2009. Tomorrow, Metallica will donate a portion of the proceeds to the Ottawa Food Bank. merry christmas. James is throwing out guitar picks like mini frisbees as Lars chucks some of his supertitanium drumsticks into the crowd. Lobbing them, as to not spear somebody's eye out.

These guys look old. They're all showing their grey hair and doughy skin. Are they tired? Are they happy? Nonsense. They're rock stars. Are they done yet?

We're being herded like cattle towards the wall of exit doors. Where are the Twisted Sisters? Where's Mr. Brown? Tall cousin and smaller cousin? What about all the other folks I knew who would be here tonight? My eyes scan the sea of smiling Ottawans before me. There's Jimmy, with the bill of his ball cap curved round like a spool. You know, Jimmy, Jimmy from Metcalfe. Or is it Johnny from Carp? Who knows? Everybody's smiling goofily. And I'm guilty of a massive grin.

There they are. The sisters loved it. They're grinning too.

Run to catch up to Stoy Boy, I mean Bandit.

Good. There's Meathead and ChunkySoup waiting under the huge Chris Kelly #22 banner. We're off toward Miranda and the getaway car.

Hurry. The cool autumn air is crisp in the face sinus.

That's it. Done.

The Eastbound Queensway carries a bittersweet love on this night. As it often does. In the car, we review the concert while it is still so fresh and breathing. Our ears ringing like tree frogs attached to our skulls. Recalling the gleam. The pageantry. The fire. The show.

For those familiar with deezthughts, you know I'm a little bit retarded for Metallica. And yogurt. To the people close to me, I extend an apology. Thanks for enduring the fanatical. But in the same breath, I urge you to be fanatical about something. Stand in awe. Grab an obsession. Or two. Find a hobby. Sing a damn song. Enter a race. Dance a jig. Seize the moment. Hug a mother.

If by chance you read this, and you were actually AT the concert, do me a monster favour and let me know if I got it right. Or at least trigger a memory or two of your own. Did I paint this seven-parter a suitable colour? There is no RIGHT shade of grey.

This blog experience has become a love-hate kind of thing. I enjoy the writing process, but I'm having a hard time focusing on one story. May have something to do with the cabin fever and the two unruly doggies. May be a thyroid induced general lack of motivation. There's a writing class I'm considering signing up for. A five weeker, where at each week's meeting we hand in a new chapter. It sounds like uber fun, but I'm not sure if I'm ready to jump on it.

Some of us were conceived from love. Some were conceived by accident. A great many conceived by duty or obligation. This little bloggy of mine was birthed by all three. And I'm glad about it. What I'm trying to say is thanks for reading.

I've got an itch.

Thanks for the scratches.

May you always have something to cheer for

STCA SIX

2009-12-08T18:28:00.003-05:00

Kirk's eyeliner.

That's what I'll remember most about this latest version of Nothing Else Matters. He's standing there playing his ESP guitar surveying the crowd. Not making eye contact, he's much too shy for that. He's looking over our heads at our hair(my Mohawk). His own curly black hair is starting to show silver tendrils. And he's definitely wearing eyeliner.

But this is clearly James Hetfield's song. Beautiful guitar work, heartfelt lyrics. The closest thing you'll ever hear to a love song by Metallica. Metallica don't do love songs. The words can be applied to any bonding relationship though, not just a lovey-dovey one.

This song is the glue that bonded that black album. It is melodic and pretty, and speaks of a love that knows no bounds. A hope for a better day.

The album was the first Metallica project produced by legendary Canadian music man Bob Rock. The album was new, and clean, with multi-layered songs, and expressive experimentation. A sonically sound album, in every aspect. Fuck, the dogs are fighting again.

"Floyd, Enough! Ellah, sit! That's enough!" whah whah whah!

So yeah, sorry. Sometimes this place turns to a goddamn zoo. Constant bickering and one-ups-man-shit. Dawg eat Dawg. Like at your job.

So anyway, the black album brought billions of dollars with it. And the next song we hear tonight will be the last one. The last song before the three song encore, that is. It's the most recognizable Metallica song in the world. It's played at high school dances, it's played on rock radio, and most importantly, it's played at NHL hockey games. Early and often. We're witnessing of course Enter Sandman
.

No need to describe this song. Babies come from wombs humming this song.

The song's over. The lights go up a bit. The crowd knows there's more. There's got to be more. My ears are ringing. What's next? This is the part on all the set lists I had seen, that was different on each one. It will be a cover song. A tribute to a band that helped shape the sound of Metallica. What'll it be?

Last Caress by the Misfits. A New Jersey heavy punk sound from the early 80's.

I've got somethin' to say
I killed your baby today and it
Doesn't matter much to me
As long as it's dead

Well, then. There's that.

And to close the show, the guys go back to their first album. 1983's Kill em All.

Those people who tell you not to take chances
They are all missing on what life is about
You only live once so take hold of the chance
Don't end up like others the same song and dance

Motorbreath
Its how I live my life
I can't take it any other way
Motorbreath
The sign of living fast
It is going to take
Your breath away

That's Motorbreath, written by these middle aged men when they were nineteen years old. It's played quickly and violently like it was meant to be. Some of the younger people in the crowd may have heard it once or twice... some others may have never heard it at all. It's the first time I've seen it played live. And it's something I'll never forget. I played this album in my car for a solid two weeks after this concert. Just to relive the energy of that moment. To drive home with a song in my head and a smile on my face.

And last but certainly not least is Metallica's first crowd favourite from the bars and concert halls of early 1980's California.

Seek and Destroy .

Kick ass. Crowd hollering. Crowd going hoarse. Crowd bouncing and singing from it's toes. I'm watching Robert play bass in front of us. I realize at that point that I can't really hear the bass. But wait. There it is. It's been there the entire time. My sternum is vibrating with it. My insides feel it move.

The Bulgarian Bandit leans over to me, and asks...

"Darryl, is your eyeliner running?"

To be concluded...

STCA V

2009-11-29T18:18:00.002-05:00

Taste me you will see
More is all you need
Dedicated to
How I'm killing you

Come crawling faster
Obey your Master
Your life burns faster
Obey your Master
Master
Master of Puppets by Metallica

1986's brilliant title track. A song written by four California punks getting their first taste of fame and fortune and a lifestyle of exceeding excess. It's a song about the struggle against alcoholism and addiction.

The crowd is alive. The ones who have seen this stuff before know the concert's about to turn into a shit-show. The barking. The chanting. The beautifully melodic middle section with the two guitars simultaneously soloing. Yum. Very Yum. The guys around me can see my good time. It's all over my face. Like reading a story, and right about near the end, you realize it's going to be a happy ending. All over your face.

Master, Master, you promised only lies
Laughter, Laughter, all I hear or see is laughter
Laughter, Laughter, laughing at my cries
Hell is worth all that, natural habitat
Just a rhyme without a reason
Neverending maze, drift on numbered days
now your life is out of season
I will occupy
I will help you die
I will run through you
Now I rule you too

A rhyme without a reason?! I mean, c'mon... that's Hetfield at his goofiest. Some heady lyrics no doubt. Why are we all grinning? And singing? Funny thing, the human being.

The song serves it's purpose and wakes the crowd from its trance. We are alive. Like racing through a long rocky smooth decent at Camp Fortune. Pedaling through it with gusto... your eyes tearing at the wind. Hello Ottawa! How does it feel to bounce together? We like it when you sing! The base of my skull throbs from the headbanging. My neck is going to be stiff tomorrow. And I can't feel my ears. More is all I need.

Up next is Battery. A song I've never seen live. I've seen it on a DVD. That's not the same. This is hard pounding war-cry stuff. A "don't stand in my way" kind of song. Clear the track, here comes Shack. Another one of those 1986 space shuttle exploding angry songs. Not smart enough to be political, but hard hitting enough to be heard.

Now let us gather and pay homage to the stuff that brought massive fame and commercial success. The album that is the reason black terrycloth wristbands sales remain high. The one without a title. Or is it self titled? You've all seen the cover. It's black. That's it. The black album. How cliche? I don't know, I can't tell... it's so black. No wait. There's something there. In the lower corner. Something is embossed on the the black paper. Turn the CD(cassette) case in your hand. Achieve the slant. It's a snake coiled up. It looks a little like a dollar sign.

Enough of that. It's time to tune into the Canadian Formality known as The Grey Cup. I hope the tens of thousands of fans at that cold Calgary Cow Party rock the hell out. I want them to feel alive.

To be continued...

S ask QUAT ch eer about

2009-11-26T19:26:00.005-05:00

Digging in for some cold November, dark outside, hockey watchin'. Cozying up with a bone. Resting. Watching Rick Nash take on Angry Alfie and your Ottawa Senators.

Trying to recall one of the happiest nights of my life.

T'was just a short while ago.

Sad But True is played next.

And Sadly, but truthfully, this concert is half way dead. I mean done.

After that formality, the lights go out and I can hear distant BOOMS. Gunfire. Machine gun fire all around us. This is what we've come for. Stoyan(from here on in, only referred to as The Bulgarian Bandit), nods in understanding. This is the One we were waiting for.

And although this time there were no epileptic seizure inducing strobe lights and ear-cracking explosions, Goodness Gracious Great balls of Fire it felt nice!

And then, with no signs of a band who is playing their third show in four nights, Metallica tears into All Nightmare Long, another new song from the Death Magnetic album. And it's polished. And it's tight. And it's so loud. (Louder than this Ottawa Senators 3rd period I'm watching.) The beams in the roof of ScotiaBank Place are vibrating in song. The sound is clear and very clean. Polished high, like the antique chrome microphone stands.

Luck runs out

The light that is not light is here
To crush you out with your own fear
You hide, you hide, but will be found
Release your grip without a sound

One more Death Magnetic song is thrashed out in the form of The Day that Never Comes. A feel-good flagship of a song for the born again megaband. The clean and sober and married with children and divorced and re-hab'd, angry rock band. Squillionaires.

And now it's time to party. This tired toad is ready to use his jumpin' legs. Bouncing with energy, I share a grin with the Meatball...

The crowd is amped and ready for some sing-song action. We're rounding third, and heading for home.

To be continued...

One Last Ride

2009-11-24T01:29:00.003-05:00

Look at you, looking at me, with longing in your eyes.

You're hurting, I can see it in the way you move. You've got a wobble in your stride.

You want me to mount you again.

You want me to be on you, holding tight. Dripping. My sweat dripping all over you.

Panting.

It's not a good idea. You could barely contain yourself the last time we rocked. We need to stop.

Give it a rest.

Although I'll miss your lust and skill,

My focus shifts t'ward a different thrill.

Goodnight Zed.

Time-Out

2009-11-20T20:54:00.003-05:00

Pink cloud has now turned to gray
All that I want is to play
Get on your knees time to pray, boy
Angry Chair by Alice in Chains

What's a good night to kick back? Would anyone object to Friday? Most average Canadians would consider the first night of their weekend a stay in, kinda relaxing night. And then go out and fraternize on Saturday night. Get er done. That's always been the pattern for this old boy. I'm sure some people just stay in to feel sorry for themselves... it sure beats going out and feeling sorry for everyone else.

With Floyd laying down getting to business with a new bone, and Ellah prancing around investigating the kitchen, I hunch over the keyboard and tap out my thoughts.

Why?

Because there's a new Alice in Chains album out. I want to hear it. But first I'd have to listen to it. We learn at a young age that there's a world of difference between hearing and listening. All I know is that The band has a new singer and has released an album. I've heard the single on the radio and thought it was pretty OK. The new singer sounds a lot like Layne Staley. And you can hear Jerry Cantrell's voice in there too. I can't remember what it's even called... California something...

What made me think of it recently was a glowing review given to it on Facebook. The book we shall not speak of. The comments were made by someone whose musical taste is respected. So, tonight with the dogs to myself, and a kickin' stereo at my disposal, I popped in my finest source of Alice in Chains music.

It's the 1996 live and acoustic performance for MTV Unplugged.

Such a painfully pretty show. The DVD allows you to watch them play the instruments, strumming the guitars and plucking the bass. The drums thumping softly.

Jerry Cantrell's guitar playing is a gift.(He needs to record a country/rock album with James Hetfield and others soon) The harmonizing voices are entwined perfectly.

I know I've written about Alice in Chains before and I know I tend to blather. But c'mon it's such a cool concert. One of the dirtiest, scratchiest grunge metal bands to come out of the eighties. And they're playing on a tiny stage, surrounded by a couple hundred people. (I need to get Pearl Jam unplugged) The songs they are playing are soulful, and beautifully arranged. The written lyrics document a deeply tortured view of the world.

On this glorious Friday evening, I wasn't planning on "BLOGGING" at all. I wanted to keep busy with other things. But the diminishing levels of vitamin D are making me itch. And bitch. I can be a grumpy asshole sometimes. Can't you? We all succumb from time to time to the incessant stupidity of the world. The human race. The mailman. The bus driver. The receptionist. The by-law officer. The Fucky VanPelts of the world. What's your disfunction?

Basically it's a time-out away from the doubletalk and propaganda. Heavy D being heavy. Some of you may see my blog posts and just keep on going. That's cool. But I know some people read it. Quite a few people get on it and occasionally some of them honk my horn. To all of you, I Thank You. I've even been accused of writing over some people's heads... I apologize. It's never intentional, I assure you. It's just so I can connect with the person standing behind you. Other people may feel embarrassed reading this, the way you get uncomfortable when you hear someone sing who shouldn't be singing.
Should I not be writing?

I used to live to write. It was often how I passed the time as a kid, and it was a major reason why I did well all through school.
I often wonder the "what ifs" of never having put the pen down. To actually learn to write... whatever, the blog will have to serve its therapeutic purpose. All I want to know is... can I get some love? Gimme a nod. A prod. Jenna's the best at it. She cuts no corners and edits the posts for me over Sunday dinner. I love it.

Throw me an opinion. Some advice. What should I write about? I wanted to make a real review for the Metallica show, but it feels like it's lost momentum. I find it hard to keep picking ants off my dastardly dog. A motivation? A muse? A new CD?
How bout the new Alice in Chains disk?

Sometimes all a cowboy needs is a new shirt.

Grimmy Grin Grin

2009-11-17T17:52:00.004-05:00

And now i rub my eyes, for he has returned
Seems my preconceptions are what should have been burned
For he still smiles...
And he's still strong
Nothing's changed, but the surrounding bullshit that has grown
And now he's home
And we're laughing like we always did
My same old, same old friend
Until a quarter-to-ten
I saw the strain creep in
He seems distracted and i know just what is gonna happen next
Before his first step
He's off again
Off He Goes by Pearl Jam

Listening to Pearl Jam's live acoustic performance at Benaroya Hall wherever the heck that is. That's some good shite. The best shite. Like the finest of wines. I peck peck away at the keys trying to keep pace with the steady drum. My bicycle claw hands seeking the letters, and diving. Seek, dive. Seek dive. Like gannets spearing mackrel.

A two hour trail ride is sometimes an iPod assisted escape. Great music, exercise AND fun. It was so much fun that Floyd and I went for a super long walk through the dark streets of Ottawa. iPod assisted.

What's got Ottawa so tense tonight? The traffic is thick, and the air is cold. What's got the city's goat? Why are there so many slow moving cars on the Queensway tonight? What draws them so tightly? What's that creepy-looking guy smiling about? He's got a cool flashy light on the back of his bicycle. I want one.

Walking along the path on the North side of Tremblay, it's so dark out... people are just getting home from work. Everyone is brisk and grunting to themselves about how it's not even hump day yet. When can we get some goddamn hump day?! Ignore them. Floyd don't stare. Eyes forward, Dawgy Retawd. Shoot! that was Margit from next door. Should have given her more than the passing glance. I got Pearl Jam pumping through my tubes and I just want to walk, and write a story. Sorry Margit. Tuesday night is write night. Dog blog night. Couch. TV. Wrestling boxers and boxing wrestlers. Filling the stainless steel water buckets. Sharing your toys. Yeah right.

Why is there the chill of excitement tonight? The hustle and bustle of a city bracing for winter? It's the black and blue daily struggle.

It's the clashing of symbols in the distance.

It's the salt and pepper.

It's the man and woman sitting in that parked car in the dark.

It's the sand in your gears.

It's the sores on your hinges.

It's the bee in your bonnet.

It's the corn in your craw.

It's the Toronto Maple Leafs!

It's Hockey Night in Ottawa!

STCA III

2009-11-10T21:26:00.007-05:00

I can hear a heartbeat. Thump thump. Thump thump.

I blind my eyes and try to force it all into place,
I stitch them up, see not my fall from grace!!
I blind my eyes, I hide and feel it passing me by,
I open just in time to say goodbye!!

Almost like your life,
Almost like your endless fight,
Curse, the day is long,
Realize you don't belong,
Disconnect somehow,
Never stop the bleeding now,
Almost like your fight,
And there it went,
Almost like your life!!

Thundering opening song! Six minutes of fast barking metal. The greeting of death.

Right into The End of The Line. A bom bom ditty about running out of gas in the centre lane.

Two songs from the newest album to open the show. No surprise for this Metalliac as I've been studying setlists for the last two weeks. Now they will surely play something from the 1984 album Ride the Lightning. Please be For Whom the Bell Tolls. Please be For Whom the Bell Tolls. It's not for Whom the Bell Tolls, a November song about young soldiers marching to death in a far off land. Instead it's Creeping Death... a song about the plague sweeping through Egypt. Great fucking song. They've played it every time I've seen them. This time it made me think about the Swine Flu. Porcine influenza. Pig Snout Fever.

One hundred plus through black and white
War horse, warhead
Fuck 'em man, white knuckle tight
Through black and white

Ooh, I burn,
Fuel is pumping engines,
Burning hard, loose and clean

And I burn,
Churning my direction,
Quench my thirst with gasoline

That's right. Everyone's favourite song about a race car charging the finish line. Raging to the checkered flag. White knuckle tight. What does your race car look like? Gimme Fuel Gimme Fire Gimme that which I Desire!

Up next is some chatter at the crowd from James Hetfield. He wants us to be feeling bad, so that he can help us cheer up... like we inevitably cheer him up in return. It's all very much like a love-in. A little bit like the mood I'd imagine a U2 show to have. Lot's of bright light and crowd participation.

On that cheery note, James sets up for the next song with TWO guitars and starts playing the mellon collie that is Fade to Black . To quote Anne, "The depths of despair".

Then it's the rally cry du jour off of Death Magnetic called Broken, Beat and Scarred.... we die hard! This is less a song, and more a chant. A kick in the ass. A motivator. A perseverance. A gritty gin.

Next is Cyanide . My least favourite new Metallica song. It's got some great ketchup guitar riffs though!

To be continued...

Something to Cheer About(Part Deux)

2009-11-10T18:55:00.002-05:00

A Metallica concert is and always has been something that feels good. Rockin' out with tens of thousands of happy strangers. And some very close friends. Rockin' out to the stomp of your favourite band. My favourite band.

Now, I'm talking about Metallica the BAND... never to be confused for Metallica the CORPORATION. When they're kickin' out the old stuff, with machine gun accuracy, the James Hetfield bravado, the Lars Ulrich ferocity, the Kirk Hammett shiny ribbon throughout... (the Robert Trujillo rumble in the jungle)... it's a thing of beauty. Pure Energy. And then you add the crowd.

The Scotia Corel Bank Palladium Alcatel Centre is jammed to the rafters with T-shirt and jeans-wearing smiling people. There is a vibe in the building that I can feel in my bones. Like a Jedi swimming through the Force. Swine Flu?! H1N1? Yeah, right. No match for the positive, healthy throng in this building tonight.

We're meeting with Mr. Brown and the tallest cousin. We catch up for a few minutes with another awesome cousin(one of those rare COOL young people) and her gang of friends. She's excited to get in... Lamb of God is hitting the stage soon. Mr. Brown and The Tall One head up to join the Twisted Sisters in the fray. Stoyan and I head to the floor with Meaty and Chunky. Chunky buys beers. Life is great.

Lamb of God rip up the stage hard. I don't know any of their songs, and they kind of all sound somewhat the same to my 32 year old ears. But it's good. Really good. And very heavy. The crowd is getting pumped and we're all jokes right now. Giddy. Matt and I are nodding out the cuties to each other... Stoyan gets a sniff, and he wants in. All the pretty people of Ottawa came out tonight. A damn fine looking bunch is the lot of us, Meatball included. Chunkmaster E is standing guard. Always on the alert. It's his and his lady's heads-up tenacious ticket buying skills that got my ass right here. On the floor. All of 15 feet from the stage. Ever grateful to the Chunks.

House lights are on, and the stagehands are preparing for The Four Horsemen also know as Metallica. A thrash metal band that formed in San Francisco in 1982.
We're still laughing at people who are no doubt laughing right back at us. Hey, look there up behind us! It's one of the purrtiest smiles I've ever seen. Waving at us. She brought the little sibling for an adult sized dose of party. And then, out of the din, is a double WHAPP! WHAPP! to Lars' snare drum. I awake from my reverie. This is all happening. That's Lars' drum kit. It's less than thirty feet away. The double Tama bass drums are a glittery dark copper colour. Sweet.

The lights go down and some smoke effects begin to slither along the huge dark rectangular stage. The opening notes to The Ecstasy of Gold come across the loudspeakers. It's the haunting theme from everybody's favourite spaghetti western, The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. I've been here before, and I may never get to be here again. I'm here NOW. If only we greeted everyday with the love and enthusiasm that some of us save for trivial silly occasions.

It feels really good to have something to cheer about. My pulse quickens and I breathe in deeply.

To be continued...

Something to Cheer About(Part One)

2009-11-09T22:23:00.002-05:00

Well, here it is.

That Was Just Your Life
The End Of The Line
Creeping Death
Fuel
Fade To Black
Broken, Beat And Scarred
Cyanide
Sad But True
One
All Nightmare Long
The Day That Never Comes
Master Of Puppets
Battery
Nothing Else Matters
Enter Sandman
- - - - - - - -
Last Caress
Motorbreath
Seek and Destroy

What to say? What to say? I've had almost a week to post a review of the most anticipated concert of my life. But I don't know where to start. Where to Finish... or even what colour to paint this drivel.

Were you there? What are your thoughts?

The evening began with a late afternoon beer(or four) at the Bulgarian Bandit's downtown apartment. The two of us were graciously provided a ride to the show by the lovely Miranda. Her Suzuki was already burdened with the weight of The Meatball and The Chunky One.

Much to everyone's chagrin, I was sporting my pretty Blue and White hockey jersey... you know, the one with the big Maple Leaf on the front. It fit just right with my feeble Mohawk, and dirty mustache.

To be continued...

Solstice (Are YOU talking to ME?)

2009-11-02T18:39:00.007-05:00

(And the road becomes my bride)
And the road becomes my bride
I have stripped of all but pride
So in her I do confide
And she keeps me satisfied
Gives me all I need
And with dust in throat I crave
Only knowledge will I save
To the game you stay a slave
Roamer, wanderer
Nomad, vagabond
Call me what you will
But I'll take my time anywhere
Free to speak my mind anywhere
And I'll redefine anywhere
Anywhere I roam
Where I lay my head is home

Wherever I may Roam by Metallica

Tonight's walk through the winding streets of Ottawa South, was a lengthy one. A jaunt, you can be sure. A frolicking hop skip and jump through the neighbourhood. The streets don't actually turn. No winding streets here. We march the grid and then we make our way onto the forbidden, no trespassing, gov't land. We lurk through the dark woods and stalk the rabbits. We can hear something moving on the dry leaves up ahead. Bunny? Raccoon? Skunk? Fox? Maybe it's a coyote... Our city prods Mother Nature at a pestering rate.

The pink leash goes taut and Floyd stares into the underbrush. Nothing is moving. Whatever it was, is gone... or just sitting in the dark watching us. Let's progress, Pooch.

We come to the clearing and are met with a patch of Scotch Thistles tall enough to swat me in the face. The dawg must feel prickleez on his toes too, because he stops again, turns and leads me back the way we came. We trudge back to where the trees meet the asphalt and the streets are oddly dark. It's only 5:30pm!

Later on, while shaving my head in the bathroom, THE scene from Taxi Driver races through my thick grey matter. And there it is. My scraggly goatee becomes a trucker's handlebar mustache. I think to myself, Geez, I look less like a disciple of Hetfield and more like, well... more like Uncle Ian.

But wait, there's more. I then take the electric clippers and carve the most modest of mohawks into my hair. It's absolutely all my balding scalp can muster. There. I'm ready. Tomorrow night has been something I've waited for for over five years. I need to bring it.

Sharing a Metallica show has become a soul quenching experience for this horny toad. A beast will be released. A chanting, jumping, singing animal. I apologize to all those in attendance ahead of time. You will be witnessing the Renwick in all its glory. One of the few events, where being a total dingbat is not only accepted, but widely encouraged. A gathering of energy and black T-shirts. Denim and leather. Cowboy hats and Doc Martens. Whiskey and beer. A pulsating hive of positive energy. And a big goofy grin.

To ease my excitement I pay a visit to my oldest friend J-Rock and we take in an episode of Mad Men. Great show, but all I can think about is songs about war(For Whom the Bell Tolls), songs about fast cars(Fuel), songs about addiction(Master of Puppets), and songs about hunting(Seek and Destroy).

After taking the Floydster for another walk, I head downtown for a beer at Bar 56. Tonight is the first night of a Monday night residency for local Jazz sensation Renee Yoxon. What a treat. A voice so rich it makes me crave a glass of milk.

This Solstice celebration will be enjoyed to the hilt, I assure you. Tonight was just a warm-up.

Renwick Versus The Ants - Chapter 11

2009-10-27T22:20:00.001-04:00

It puts the ant in the glass jar. It feeds the ant crumbs of bread, apple peel, cat food. The ant always puts the lotion in the basket.

That's the biggest fucking ant I've ever seen! For true. It's got to be the size of my thumbnail. A queen no doubt. There's another one. Smaller. Throw it in there too. Watch them share the bread. Itch. Scratch scratch. Someone in this house had better not have ticks. Ellahh? Fllloyd? Ninjaa? Gillly? Gillllly? Did you bring wood ticks into this house?

Last night, I saw a centipede in the basement. It scurried under a hockey bag before I could get at him. Mike said he saw an earwig behind the toilet, but it was probably a silverfish. Whatever. Old house. Great place though.

We've had no recent hatchings from Mike's blistered skin. The ants are still around. But, it seems the pest control expert did the trick. Since Michael's foot trauma, we've been relatively incident free. I freed the captive. Set her free out by the garbage at the street.

Gotta get back to the laundry and the dawg walking and the selling Halloween candy to fat children.

What's that skunky smell coming from the basement?

It's a Celebration, Betchaz!

2009-10-27T21:20:00.002-04:00

Like a sniffy boxer running through the autumn woods, we're off! Snout down tracking a chipmunk. Those little effers are lightning fast! As hard as he may try, Floyd cannot ride the lightning.

There's a lesson somewhere in life between, "don't eat yellow snow" and "stop chasing squirrels." What is it? What's to be learned? What does a rambunctious little dawgy have to do before he learns to focus his intent on something more calming? Tonight I bought Floyd a whole cow hoof. Like, the whole bottom of a cow's foot. Braised and roasted in the most flavourful of ways. It was Floyd and I celebrating with some beef products for numnums. A three hour trail ride through the wilderness sometimes(a lot of the time) earns some Wendy's Hamburger calories.

Sitting here clackitty clacking the keyboard. Pecking. Terribly. Keyboarding-grade-nine was a long time ago. Never even owned a computer until just over a year ago. Click> clack toe!

Never one to be slow on the uptake, Floyd is all over anything that moves. Still needs to stop and see it. It's a bunch of fun.

Today, I left the little bastard at home, while I enjoyed a day off. Got my teeth cleaned, had a cookie, rode my bike. Churned it. Came at the Outback Trail with confidence. And still plenty of trepidation. Stopped. rested. took a breather. daydreamed. Tracked some beaver. The cold air has tightened my spine and aches my knees. Riding helps. Need to find a spin class.

So the sorrow of my soul on this day is the end of a life saving bike season. It's getting colder out, and snow is no longer considered a non factor. Snow will come. You'll see. Bah Humbug Feliz Navidad!

The joy in my heart swells when I think about one week from tonight. It is going to be a party, y'all. There won't be any country blues metal songs about James Hetfield's mama. It will be hard heavy master of puppets kinda fist pumping great times. With a full ScotiaBank Place, lit up like the sun... and shaken to it's foundation. You think that place is loud when the Sens make it to the Stanley Cup Final? Try Vancouver 2010 Men's Hockey Gold Medal Game... Now add explosions, a raging set of Tama skins, loud crunchy guitar speed metal, rumbling spooky bass, searing lead guitar, like creepy classical guitar on crack. Shouting. Yelling. Chanting. Actual heartfelt singing. And pure energy for thousands of big eared Metallica fans. I can't wait. It has become an event. A must see. For me. Something I remember forever and cherish. A stirring of the soul. A boot stomping, head banging(without the hair)Thing (That should not be)? But in a cool way, like Flea. A snatch of time. A kick in the ass.

Praise God. God is Just. God is Pure.

Gotta get that front end checked out. Exiting the trail on the road toward the car, I could feel a definite wobble.

Cheers to a lovely Autumn! A little whiskey in the jar. Cheers to you.

Rambunctious. Wow. Ever try spelling that one? Reem BunK shaazz!

Formacidae - Alpha Class - Mission Log 10

2009-10-27T21:00:00.000-04:00

Stardate 4539219826

The large male canine beast has foiled our plan. The nest we planted on his ear has vanished. In its place are five purple stitches. What has become of our new soldiers? Such a costly loss to our movement.

In other news, also not encouraging, Kbatypus 3 is missing in action. The Kbats assembled for debriefing this morning and number 3 was not present. Her whereabouts remain unknown.

Queen Latifah was captured by the dark haired human and kept in a glass prison for seven days. She was provided food and water and then she was released outside of the human's home. She successfully made her way back to base camp yesterday, swearing revenge. The earwigs escorted her across the driveway, through the cedar hedge and into the house.

These are dark times for our young colony. The team of Kbatypus has been unable to gain access to the sleeping quarters of the humans. It seems the faulty latch on the dark one's door has been repaired. Our spy ants have reported that the canines have taken up sleeping on top of the humans' beds with their masters.

New plans must be laid.

Admiral Adam, out.

Ninja Chronicles volume 3

2009-10-13T23:48:00.000-04:00

Tonight while tidying the kitchen I happened to look out the front window just as Charlie was sprinting across the street toward home.

Even in the dimming daylight, I can clearly see he has something in his mouth. I rush to the front window with Floyd at my heels.

"Look at that, boy." I whisper "Charlie's got a bird."

Floyd is up on his hind legs with his front paws on the window ledge. His ears perk at the sight he is seeing. The Floyd knows the word "bird". He has even heard on many occasions, that the bird, is in fact, the word. Sometimes while walking through the borough, Floyd will stop and stare as a crow hops along a driveway. He wants to chase. And that's when I remind him that he'll never catch a bird.

Our resident Ninja however, destroys the winged ones on a regular basis. As we watch, he drops the small brown (finch?) bird and it flutters about two feet away. Charlie's on it again fast. I knock on the window, and the cat looks up at the two of us, peering out at him. His front paw holds down his prey as he licks his feline lips. Then he jabs at the bird with his mouth quickly and accurately and there is no more flutter. No more struggle. No more attempt at freedom. The tiny bird is dead.

There are dead birds and rodents all over our yard. Beside the recycling boxes, in the flowerbed, under the clothesline. Mice with their innards pulled out, birds with no heads... squirrel pelts crawling with maggots. It's a gruesome garden, a courtyard of carnage.

But I pick them up. I pick them all up with doggy doodoo bags.

And then we all cuddle. Floyd nestled in next to me on the couch, and Charlie the Ninja Assassin on top of him. Purring along to the rhythm of the Floyd's breathing.

Sunday July 5 2009 - the birth of an idea

2009-10-07T19:33:00.006-04:00

Tiger! Tiger Woods won his own AT&T National tournament with a closing round of 3-under 67 that edged hard-charging Hunter Mahan by one shot at Congressional Country Club.

Roger! Roger Federer beat Andy Roddick in the longest Wimbledon final in history. The marathon 30-game fifth set was also the longest in Wimbledon history.

The win was a historic victory for the 27-year-old Federer: he won his sixth Wimbledon title and a record 15th Grand Slam title, making him arguably the most successful tennis player in Grand Slam history.

Jeetah! Derek Jeter led the New York Yankees to victory at the new Yankee Stadium on his pursuit to become the Yankees all-time leader in hits. He went 4 for 5 at the plate, hit 1 homerun, came in to score 3 runs. Drove in 2 RBI with a dominant performance against the Toronto Blue Jays.

If this isn't a no-brainer Gillette Fusion commercial, I don't know what is...

It all happened on the SAME day! Surely each one of them shaved that morning.

Sunday Muddy Sunday

2009-09-27T11:55:00.003-04:00

if you can hear a piano fall
you can hear me coming down the hall
if I can just hear your pretty voice
I don't think I need to see at all
don't think I need to see at all
Dead Leaves on the Dirty Ground by The White Stripes

We sit here, on the couch, staring at the TV, flipping between muted football games and listening to kd lang. Trading farts. The Floyd and I are living the Sunday dream. The laundry is spinning, the coffee is hot, and the house is quiet.

Never mind, Mike and Ellah just got home. All hell has come detached, and we're back to contemplating.

To ride, or not to ride? Do we wrap up warm, venture into the woods and brave the muddy trail? Or do we curl up with Harry Potter and waste the Sunday away? There are groceries to be purchased...

When will I be inspired to write a real story? Maybe revisit the war against the ants that breed in the walls?

When will I have time to just sit quietly and type to my heart's content?

The days are getting shorter, the air is becoming colder. It will be soon time to trade the pedals for the pen...

Sigh.

Skip This One it's numbsense.

2009-09-17T19:08:00.004-04:00

Oh I used to dream of oceans and streams
Flowing and growing strong
Where have all
Those days gone
Oceans and Streams by The Black Keys

Gotta get out of U-Boat 1320.

Floyd, get your swimming fins out. Actually the Floyd has a rare feature for a boxer. It has to do with his King Boxer fine Italian Grandfather. Skin so abundant and soft and saggy. Floyd's hide is magnificent. Anyone who's petted him and shared the couch with him knows what I mean. His skin moves on him like a greased banana peel on a bowling ball. The rust coloured pelt soft under your hand. This excessive amount of doggy skin is found everywhere on his body. Even between his toes. That's right, Floyd's got webbed feet. Kind of like Leanne Findlay's toes but not as pretty. I'm sure that once coaxed properly, the hero of our stories would make a great swimmer.

This toad can hold his own in the water too. Rapids? Not so much.

Need to escape U-Boat 1320. Swim up river with Stoyan. Swim to the cinema to watch another movie. The Hangover is supposed to be funny according to many people. One person who went off on The Hangover, was someone I haven't seen in forever. We'll call him Bud. Now, I'm not exactly familiar with Bud's taste in movies, but he spent the first ten minutes of our conversation talking about how much he loved East Bound and Down. Anyone who can let out his(or her) belt and laugh at East Bound, is my kinda hombre.

So if it's good, maybe I'll kiss it's ass in a lyrical review. If it's funny like Funny People but NOT as LONG, I'll like it.

Stoyan's up for anything. He's my pop-culture junky, shutterbug, world traveler, downhill mountain biking, playboy type party friend. And he's got soul.

He's the one who introduced me to The Black Keys.

Young Lust... or is it Young Rust?

2009-09-16T20:44:00.002-04:00

Did-did-did-did-you see the frightened ones?
Did-did-did-did-you hear the falling bombs?
Did-did-did-did-you ever wonder why we had to run for shelter
When the promise of a brave new world
Unfurled beneath a clear blue sky?
Goodbye Blue Sky by Pink Floyd

I am just a new boy, a stranger in this town. Rock n' Roll refugee, who's gonna show this new boy around?

Gotta get out of this dump. U-Boat 1320 was just the scene of a brawl. The two boxers just boxed themselves through the "dog couch". Bits of tasty foam is strewn all over the front room. I straighten up the old couch for what seems like the thousandth time.

That's it. I'm going a little Bruce Wayne here. Gotta get out.

"Dogs." I announce, "Into your crates."

Quizzical looks from both pouts.

I'm going to a movie. Don't let anyone ever tell you that you need a date to go to a movie. It's only a short stroll away.

After all, The King is Gone, But He's not forgotten.

Everything Zen?

2009-09-06T00:04:00.002-04:00

Impossibility. Like nailing diarrhea to a wall.

A Million Calories?

2009-08-25T20:45:00.003-04:00

The selfish, they're all standing in line
Faithing and hoping to buy themselves time
Me, I figure as each breath goes by
I only own my mind

The North is to South what the clock is to time
There's east and there's west and there's everywhere life
I know I was born and I know that I'll die
The in between is mine
I am mine
I Am Mine by Pearl Jam

That's just about what it feels like. Ever have one of those days where you just gave'r pig? Sure you have. The kind of day that starts early and fresh, just around sun up. A day that winds down into twilight... the sun is gone, and a cool breeze meets your face. The kind of day that you don't want to end? Holler if you know what I'm talking about. Honk if you're horny.

Filling the solitude this summer has been an amazing journey. Selfish, sure. Self indulgent at times, sure. An awakening of my body, you could call it.

I've never ridden a bike in my life, like I'm riding one this summer. I'm actually riding two. When I'm not tending to all the animals at the Barn, when I'm not typing jibberish into my laptop(crazy eyes) and hoping that someone is actually reading it... when I'm not watching a movie, or a concert DVD, when I'm not walking the dog, I'm pedaling.

A few of you are probably tired of reading about the two-wheeled adventures of Mr. Dingbat Renwick. That's right, Dingbat. I'm taking it back. A few of you may roll your eyes at my passionate proclamation. Scoff at my silly ambition to ride faster and stronger as each week goes by...

A few of you may never read me again. And of course, that is entirely up to you.

For the rest of you, Dear Readers, I give thanks. Thank you for allowing me to express myself. Self expression is something I've always been a little timid about. Singing your heart out is good for you. In fact, it's just what the doctor ordered.

Another thing that is good for me is pedaling hard into a berm and throwing the bike left and through the turn, accelerating into the next obstacle. Attacking the course. Good for me, are the branches whipping past my face and slapping at my helmet. Good for me, is the rock bridge beneath me, teetering on a stone below. Good for me, is the burn in my thighs. Good for me, is the bead of sweat that escapes my headband and drips into my left eye. Good for me, is the way my bike rolls over stones that at one time, on a previous ride, were avoided.

Good for me, is the sound in the underbrush beside the trail. A rustling. A scurrying. It's the sound of PedalPuck, the nasty troll who so often accompanies me. He runs along beside me, especially when Floyd's not there... saying mean things as I churn up the dirt under my knubby tires. PedalPuck no longer annoys me, the way he used to do. His constant cussing just motivates me to pedal harder. Oftentimes he can't keep up.

So, with my eyes drooping, and Floyd passed out on the floor, I listen to some live Pearl Jam, and I tap tap tippity tap at the keyboard.

With two days off during the week, most people run around on one of them, and the other is used for relaxation. No? Sometimes both days are full... sometimes a day goes by sitting on the couch, watching golf, the rain streaking the windows.

Today, this slug managed to get up at 7, walk the dog, go to work for about an hour, do some lifting, and order-writing, come home, walk dog, eat a hearty breakfast, nap, get up, wash dishes, load the aluminum steed onto the roof of the car, make sure to grab my dry pair of gloves, socks...etc, put dog in crate, drive to Timmy's, get Ice Capp, drive to Camp Fortune, rock the trail in record time and show it "you'z fo real", have lunch alone on a patio with a Hoegaarden and some chicken fingers, drive home, put dishes away, refill water bottles, replenish socks & gloves & headband, sit in traffic with dog and a new coffee, sit in traffic for over an hour, sit in goddamn traffic and both of you have to pee.

With each whimper, the Floyd managed to press on my own bladder. Having the bucket of Hoegaarden, and about a million litres of water was not a good thing in bumper to bumper rush hour/construction traffic. But we held it. We held it until it hurt. When I finally parked the car at the intersection of Klondike and 2nd Line(K2 trailhead), we both jumped from the Honda Civic and ran into the woods beside the road. The exQuisiteness... was exquisite.

We rode a very fast paced loop, and met up with at least ten other cyclists. Floyd was ever-curious to meet each and everyone of them. Again, the bike(let's call him Zed), was solid and true, climbing with purpose, and descending with agility and bravado. Me thinks the lovehandles may be shrinking. Zed hates the love handles.

With the slobberhound galloping at my side, our friend PedalPuck was nowhere to be seen.

Back in the car,
Mow the lawn,
Whipper the snip,
Heat the dinner,
Eat the dinner,
Walk the dog,
Write the blog.

All in a day's play

Today I made my calories count

Something to be glad about

Thanks for reading

Thanks for hearing me out

Dodging Toads

2009-08-21T01:27:00.001-04:00

Tonight, before cashing in my chips, I went for a bike ride through a thunderstorm. It was invigorating and fresh, and it felt like more fun than I've had in years. It is a summer memory that will be with me for the rest of my days.

Dizzy and Dim (figs of my image)

2009-08-20T22:01:00.004-04:00

A mammoth bike ride takes me around the Eastern chunk of the city. I pedal. I pense. I procrastinate. Then without warning, I am thrust upon making the acquaintance of two jolly chums... lounging on the dock near the bike path.

When I rolled up on them for a breath-catch and a swig of water, Dizzy and Dim were eating a prickly pear. Using a fork and knife, Mr.Dim was carefully extracting the juicy red flesh of the pear from it's cactus skin. He passed the first offering to his friend Ms.Dizzy.

Dim: is the pear good?

Dizzy: yeah it is well good, thanks.

Dim: yeah! i don't know how to pick the good ones, but i don't think i've ever had a bad one.

Dizzy. i don't think they come in bad.

These two were precious. Two fig shaped figures fidgeting on a dock. Chatting and laughing. Debating and deliberating.

Dizzy: no way jose. how can you put your feet in that water? can you feel any seaweed?

Dim: c'mon. there's no joy like being barefoot in nature.

Dizzy: uh huh.

Dim: seriously. i love running around barefoot. in the sand. on the lawn. it's liberating. if it's summer and it's nice out, i'm wearing sandals. i may be part hobbit.

Dizzy: part pig is more like it.

Dim: definitely part pig, that's for darn sure.

Dizzy: it's nice when we can agree.

On and on they chitter away like two primates picking nits.

And I chuckle as they bid me adieu and I settle back into the saddle and roll toward home.

"We are the D!" they sing as I ride off.

Ninja Chronicles volume 2

2009-08-18T22:19:00.005-04:00

Ninja Numba Won ran up against a new foe last night.

This morning when Floyd and I were going out for the new day's first pee, Charlie met us at the door. He was returning from a night of stalking, and hunting, and no doubt, canoodling with neighbourhood pussy.

Right away, there was something different. Floyd must have noticed it too, because he stopped Charlie and gave his head a sturdy sniff. And then he licked at the Ninja's face. That's when I saw it. Above Charlie's left eye, there was a bald spot. It looked to be about one square inch in size. A tiny scab glowed red in it's centre. Above his right eye, another, smaller hairless patch. Weird.

I pick him up and give him the full body inspection. He's fine. Nothing out of the ordinary, he meows. Wait til you see yourself in the mirror, my Shinobi Prince.

Nobody gets that close to a Ninja and lives.

Was it a drunk and angry woodchuck coming out of the Squirl Club?

Was it a teenager with an electric shaver?

Was it something else?

Charlie has remained tight lipped about his encounter all day. Both dogs have been extra specially curious with the kitty. Smothering him with kisses and nudging at his ears with hopes of a story.

The Great Crate Debate

2009-08-18T19:41:00.003-04:00

If I swallow anything evil

Put your finger down my throat

If I shiver, please give me a blanket

Keep me warm, let me wear your coat

Behind Blue Eyes by The Who

The young boxer dog is known to stay a puppy for quite some time. This week The Floyd turns 19 months. His maturity is improving, but he is quite slow at growing up. The attention span leaves a little to be desired. This weekend Floyd suffered an assault on his stomach like none other. But it has passed and doggy is healthy and happy.

The shit went down when I was in the bathroom on Saturday. Here in U-boat 1320, we are beginning to allow the young boxer dogs a little more freedom. Both dogs are brilliantly crate trained, and are comfortable in their crates. Both dogs are extremely athletic and need daily exercise. Both dogs are full of adolescent play.

Both dogs have a keen sense of needing to know more. Curiosity can lead to danger. We've been leaving them out... in the house, without a humanoid presence. Most times, you come back into the house, or out of the throne room, and everything is in it's messy place. The dog(s) is(are) lying on the couch, chin on paws all big cute brown eyes and droopy cheeks(!)

We're never gone for long, and we always close the basement door before we leave. But evidently, that door does not latch when you close it. Much like the one swinging from its frame into my bedroom.

So I'm toweling off standing in the tub, waiting for the Floyd to poke his head in and say hello. But he doesn't come. I call. No sound. Call again. Nada.

"Floyd!" I holler, "Floyd, puppy!"

That little bastard is up to no good.

I quickly dry off and throw on some shorts. As I get to the top of the stairs, he's already coming up. Dat dawg knows he done wrong. He knows! Head down, Floyd passes me on the stairs... green frothy liquid dripping from his big black lips.

"Floyd Mayweather!" I stammer, "What were you into down there?"

No answer. Nothing. Nothing except puppy dog eyes and a look of mischief turned to guilt.

I wipe up his mouth and give him a bowl of fresh water. Maybe I should have swabbed out his mouth with some paper towel too. Floyd trots off after consuming what seemed like 2 litres of water. He's looking for his squeaker.

I hurry downstairs to see what was the matter, and almost trip over my own foot. Dumb. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. The clutter of couches and golf bags and skis and rackets and tools and hockey gear and drafting desks and laundry is all in its place. And toilets.

Two of them. One is not hooked up. Other one is hooked up, but is never used and needs to be flushed regularly to keep sewer gases at bay. Floyd's gas alone is enough methane to fuel this house. It appears that it's been a while since said toilet has been flushed. The lid is off the tank(for some reason?) and the water inside can no longer be classified as water. It's very dark down here, but I can see something floating in that tank. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark? Or some shit. I flick on the light to see spores(?) of fungus floating in the water and clinging to the sides of the tank. There is no smell. Oh, wait. There it is. KeeeeeeRiest! That is foul. I lean over, careful not to touch the hanging cobwebs, and flush that toilet. Greenish blue and white slime descends the walls of the tank and fushes out the bowl. Maybe we should clean.

Within 45 minutes, Floyd is burping, and his farts smell like burnt salmon. We're outside for a short walk and he pees five times. Big pees, not just little territorial pissings. Then he piddles on the floor in front of BillyGoat Connelly twice more after I leave for Shawn's.

Later that night, when I returned home from eating pizza with les boys, we went out onto the street for one last walk. As soon as we were at the foot of the driveway, Floyd squatted, aimed, and fired. What would you imagine French Vanilla Mint Soft Serve ice cream to look like? Ick. It spewed out of his bumhole like it was a Frosty tap at the local Mac's Milk. Double ick.

Showing no other obvious signs of toxic poisoning, Floyd was content to just pack it in for the night.

The next two hot days are spent under constant supervision, feeding on rice and peanut butter and a little extra bit of kibble.

Puppy's been feeling fine all day today. If anything, tonight Floyd shows signs of boredom. Oh, to be racing through the woods chasing squirrel. To be running. Tell you what buddy, tomorrow after work, I'm gonna bust you outta that crate and we're going to drive to the South March Highlands, and do us some Mountin' Bikin'.

Floyd wags his stub in approval.

Ok bud! Bedtime. Into your crate.

Renwick Versus The Ants - Chapter 10

2009-08-16T22:06:00.001-04:00

Mike's heading out for a sunny afternoon wedding. He's dressed to the nines. Pressed black suit pants, a shimmering grey shirt, and a shiny tie. Dapper Mike. Never to be confused with pajama wearing, scruffy, hung over Hugh Hefner Mike.

He's almost at the door. He's just saying goodbye to Ellah, giving her a tickle behind the ear. Then he stops suddenly. A look of great concern slides onto his face like a cloud casting a massive shadow over the hillside.

"What's wrong?" I ask. Genuinely intrigued by this creature.

"Fuck." he says, fairly calmly.

"What?" I repeat. Even the dogs have taken notice and there's a rare still moment existing at 1320 Ave U. Floyd and Ellah are fixed on Mike.

"Please let it not be what I hope it's not." he reaches down for his foot.

Off comes the black leather shoe, and all I can see is blood. We both know what's happening here. Michael's black sock is soaked with maroon goodness.

"Does it hurt?" I ask.

He shakes his head no.

Neither of us can look away.

Before he could grab onto the cuff of his sock, a single black ant crawled out from inside the sock. The ant made its way up Mike's calf, up around his knee, navigating his ginger leg hair.

"Jesus Christ!" Michael bellows.

"Get to the bath tub. Hurry!" I lead him down the hall and into the throne room.

Mike heaves his leg into the tub and rips the sock off his bloody foot. You can't make out his toes as the entire end of his foot is slick with ants. A mass of crawling, feeling, newborn insects. I catch myself from gagging audibly and look at my roommate with fear in my eyes.

"I don't get it." he says, shaking his head.

"Me neither man, me neither" I manage. Mike's got the water running and he's rinsing the mound of ants from his foot. They're swimming in the stream and they're climbing the walls of the porcelain tub. They start to spill out, jumping to freedom. Ellah's pecking at the floor like a chicken in a bread pan.

"Out!" Mike hollers, "Dogs, out!" Ellah and Floyd turn and make their exit.

I run to the kitchen to fetch the fly swatter, and return in full swing. Smack. Smack. Crack. Boom.

Mike's toweling off his wounded toe and leans in for a closer look. The ants have stopped coming out of the nest. His toenail sits hinged like the flat door of a storm cellar. Blood seeps out with each beat of his heart.

"There's a First Aid kit downstairs beside the table against the wall." Mike instructs me. I turn to go and he repositions himself on the side of the tub.

Downstairs, Floyd and I find said First Aid in the corner of the room. I bend at the waist to pick it up and what happens next almost makes me lose it. Let's just say, Fonzie almost had to leave the building. I bend at the waist, and as I reach out my two hands to grab the red lunch box style kit, it happens. Too late to re-evaluate this one. My face goes right through a massive spider web.

How did I not see it?

Did the red First Aid kit just have my attention all to itself? Gross. My face is covered with clinging silk and I rapidly brush off my face, my head, my arms, my hands.

Seems my violent reaction has dislodged a strand of web from the corner at the ceiling. Right there on my black t-shirt, are four small white spiders. They are slowly making there way up the belly of my shirt towards my neck.

"EEEK" I frantically swat at my midsection, brushing the spiders off and AWAY!

I hate spiders. Not like I used to... but I still get creeped out if I allow it.

I grab the red box and scramble up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Mike is calmly cleaning his foot and drying off. He's OK. I'm OK.

It's at this moment when we both hear it. A tiny snicker from behind the dead bathroom fan on the wall.

It's coming... or maybe it's just breathing hard?

2009-08-14T18:47:00.006-04:00

And it feels right this time
On his crash course with the big time
Pay no mind to the distant thunder
New Day fills his head with wonder, boy

Says it feels right this time
Turned it 'round and found the right line
“Good day to be alive, sir
Good day to be alive,” he says

Everyone in this house knows it's coming. Everyone within earshot. The squishy neighbours can hear the pounding through the walls. The pounding that stirs the Floyd and gets him up for a duel.

Ellah stalks the hallway, looking for something to pick up and play tug with. She's always ready to go. She is, in essence, Floyd's bitch sister. The two slobberHounds wrestle. Drink water. Nap. Drink water. Go outside for a pee. Wrestle. Drink water. Nap. And these are the days of our lives. Beau and Hope just don't ever give it a rest.

Today is a hot day. It is the summer's triumphant return. It's sweet Mother Nature reminding us of her sweltering power. She keeps that stuff in the cupboard next to the big stand-up freezer. Today is hot enough to NOT go mountain biking. It's hot enough to be lazy and just relax. It's hot enough to make sure hot dog diarrhea Floyd is calm and cool. Little prick was licking up some nasties from the cellar of doom we call our basement. With a belly full of a rice/peanut butter afternoon snack, the snoring Floyd is at peace.

Even with the pounding. The dogs sleep seemingly oblivious to the thrashing of the living room. The pounding smells like the double bass drums of one Lars Ulrich.

The pounding that will semi-regularly shake this living room to its foundation. Call it a warm-up if you will. Spider senses are tingling. Must get ready for the next(and last?) time the four horsemen from San Francisco ride through the Bank, wielding fiery axes that shine like a flicker on the horizon? November Turd is coming.

For now, I present to you, humbly, this morsel.

Then it comes to be that the soothing light at the end of your tunnel
Was just a freight train coming your way
Then it comes to be that the soothing light at the end of your tunnel
Was just a freight train coming your way
No Leaf Clover by Metallica

Wicked Song for a Friday Night going out to see old true friends... grinnin' for the weekend

2009-08-07T20:36:00.002-04:00

I've got another confession to make
I'm your fool
Everyone's got their chains to break
Holdin' you

Were you born to resist or be abused?
Is someone getting the best, the best, the best, the best of you?
Is someone getting the best, the best, the best, the best of you?

Are you gone and onto someone new?
I needed somewhere to hang my head
Without your noose
You gave me something that I didn't have
But had no use
I was too weak to give in
Too strong to lose
My heart is under arrest again
But I break loose
My head is giving me life or death
But I can't choose
I swear I'll never give in
I refuse

Is someone getting the best, the best, the best, the best of you?
Is someone getting the best, the best, the best, the best of you?
Has someone taken your faith?
Its real, the pain you feel
You trust, you must
Confess
Is someone getting the best, the best, the best, the best of you?
Oh...

Oh...Oh...Oh...Oh...

Has someone taken your faith?
Its real, the pain you feel
The life, the love you'd die to heal
The hope that starts the broken hearts
You trust, you must
Confess

Is someone getting the best, the best, the best, the best of you?
Is someone getting the best, the best, the best, the best of you?

I've got another confession my friend
I'm no fool
I'm getting tired of starting again
Somewhere new

Were you born to resist or be abused?
I swear I'll never give in
I refuse

Is someone getting the best, the best, the best, the best of you?
Is someone getting the best, the best, the best, the best of you?
Has someone taken your faith?
Its real, the pain you feel
You trust, you must
Confess
Is someone getting the best, the best, the best, the best of you?
Oh...
Best of You by Foo Fighters

This song played live and plugged in to a massive rocking crowd. Screamed.

wow.

Formacidae - Alpha Class - Mission Log 9

2009-08-04T21:35:00.001-04:00

Stardate 4539219713

Kbatypus One has made first contact with a human. It was the dark haired human, and he was sleeping. The Kbat located, and then carefully marked his trachea. The human stirred, and physically removed the Kbat from his neck. It is our belief that the human did not wake fully from his slumber and was in fact unaware of our intrusion.

The nest of new soldiers, the one in the fair haired human's face, was prematurely hatched six Earth days ago. A blunt strike to the cheek, ruptured the hive and young soldier ants spilled out. Forty-six of a hundred hatchlings survived and made their way back to mission camp. The nest in the same human's foot is only a day away from coming to life. Our numbers are growing, and our force is on the steady rise.

We have also managed to lay eggs in one of the canine beasts. Perched high atop the ear flap of the larger, male beast, is an ant nest a centimetre in diameter. This one is two weeks away from birthing fresh troops.

Our team of Scientis Ants is close to discovering a valuable antidote to combat the humans' latest poison. With heavy losses at the front(East facing) side of the house, our poison control experts have been compelled to improve our defenses against the murderous chemicals. The chemicals which the humans use with such ease and ready availability.

Our translator ants have been playing ambassador, and in the last three days have managed to befriend a species called EARWIG. They are smaller than us on average, and they possess vast knowledge on the subjects of infiltration and evasion. The humans are equally ruthless in their dealings with the earwigs and seem to dislike them just as much as they hate the ants.

One species that our translators cannot seem to assimilate is the Albino Arachnids from the underground level of the house. These white spiders are not friendly to our cause. They are not friendly at all. Seventeen of our comrades have fallen prey to their web prisons. We have simply learned to avoid these eight-legged monsters altogether.

I've dispatched Latifah to meet and organize with the Kbats and our new allies the Earwigs. It's time we launch a proper, multi-faceted assault on our unwilling hosts. The canine, the bigger, stubby tailed canine... will be our target.

Admiral Adam, out.

Ketchup

2009-07-30T23:21:00.004-04:00

with a whirling brain and very poor typing skills, sometimes chattering away to the dog is all a man can do.

So much has been happening this last while. summer's like that. you look the other way for just a second, and the basement's flooded. social events, bike races, charity golf tournaments in the name of the father, it can all be very hectic in this dawg-walk-dog world. the ideas for stories race through my mind like stray pieces of formula 1 equipment.

a lot of rubbish.

a bi-weekly race-report of sorts, tracking my slow and painful progress.

more about the ninja.

more about our fight for survival against the alien ants from planet Thorborg.

more on the scrappin' boxers and their Michael Vick football.

more about how i'm jammed about Quentin's next.

more regarding daily life at the Barn, with Nicholas Lombo and his truffle pig Trudy.

more more more.... isn't that what life is all about?

ride on muchachos

Ninja Chronicles volume 1

2009-07-23T21:37:00.002-04:00

Our hero, Ninja Numba Won, feline offspring of Japanese-Chinese parents, is a trained Shinobi assassin. He prowls the street at night, watching. He knows all the popular fence holes, and he's even aware of the favourite rodent hotspot for nightlife. A little place called The Squirl Club.

He stawks he wawks. Bullshit tawks. If he were a Comic Book Creation he would be wearing a long black leather trench coat like Shaft, but with a split up the back for riding a steed of sorts, or for doing cartwheels like Neo in the Matrix. And a black LuLu Lemon sweatband across his little kitty brow. Tough cookie.

This evening's perusing of Facebook is halted by a faint meowing from outside the front door. The Floyd drops his treat dispensing toy and stands at attention. His athletic physique shining red in the light of the lamp. His left ear is turned backward and flipped inside out like they both often are. You know how that happens? By rubbing his slobbery face all over the damn dirty floor.

He stands frozen in a proud statue. Staring toward the door. Stubby wigglin'.

Meeooooeww!

"Coming Charlie. Geez, gimme a minute."

Knees are creaking their dismay. The body feels broken after last night's attempt at racing my mountain bicycle.

Meow!

The cat enters the squat and jumps up onto the half wall. Floyd rushes over, mounts the "dog couch" and gently goes nose to nose with his black brother. He can scent the fresh kill on the Ninja's breath.

Outside, a frightened chipmunk shivers in a hedge, waiting to make sure the hunter has retired before gingerly making his way home.

Claryfication

2009-07-19T18:19:00.002-04:00

There are no more ants in the house. Maybe the odd one. But since the pest control professionals came and treated this broken house, there hasn't been any signs of a mass infestation. Any visible signs. Michael's face is fine. It did not erupt with the birthing of hundreds of crawling insects. That was fiction. Pure and simple. Entertainment for my skittish mind. There are no alien bugs lining the walls of this home. There is no plot for invasion. There is no such thing as a Kbat. I mean, really... hairless, winged spidermonkeys?

A few(3) friends have expressed concern over the well being of my roommate's face. It's all for shiggles.

Butterflies - A Trail Log... or maybe just a log on the trail. Floyd did you poop on the path?!

2009-07-19T17:04:00.004-04:00

Freezin', rests his head on a pillow made of concrete, again
Oh, feelin' maybe he'll see a little better set a days, ooh yeah
Oh, hand out, faces that he sees time again ain't that familiar, ooh yeah
Oh, dark grin, he cant help, when he's happy he looks insane, oh yeah

Even flow, thoughts arrive like butterflies
Oh, he don't know, so he chases them away, yeah...ooh...
Oh, someday yet, he'll begin his life again...life again...life again...
Even Flow, by Pearl Jam

So many butterflies. Seems the caterpillar season of 2009 is almost over. Winged creatures everywhere. Butterflies, moths, dragonflies. On the trail, in the air. The mosquitoes hover in small clouds around your shoulders. Summer is in full bloom. With lots of rain and days of hot sun, the forest is alive and well. As global warming progresses, our weather systems will only continue to be unpredictable.

Have you listened to the weatherman lately?

He doesn't know if he's coming or going. Two sheets to the wind. How do any of these people hold jobs at the weather network? How hard is it to predict the unpredictable? I mean, c'mon. What good is my fancy dangle berry BlackBerry with web browsing capabilities if it can't tell me if that day's ride will be a moist one... or a dry one. Sometimes they become sopping wet in a hurry.

This weekend presented some very slick and muddy conditions. Trying to get a few rides in before the big one. Don't want to show up at the start gate a complete rookie. With wet tires and slippery rock, one must ride on the side of caution. Need to go on a bit of a city training ride tonight. Crank the legs and work the knees. Sometimes walking hurts so much... but when we're pedaling all the aches and pains go away. Rolling over obstacles. Hopping over others. Pushed by the winds of change and greeted with the freshest air. Pain free and loving it.

Until you whack your knee cap into the handlebars, hitting a diagonal root you thought you'd clear. Nothing brings the flow of the ride to a halt like bashing yourself. Or launching your body off the saddle and over the bars. Sometimes it happens in slow motion, and you have time to hurdle the handlebars. Maybe even make a clean landing and skip out of harm's way. And watch out for that bouncing bicycle. Other times, this sudden shift in your centre of gravity happens much more quickly. Sometimes Mother Gravity lends a loving tug. She can be a bitch like that. It's true what they say about Gravity. It sucks.

Just ask Barry Big Hair.

Last Friday, Barry Big Hair rode down a rock he's ridden down often before. This time something slipped, or got caught, and from behind me, there was only a grunt and a shout out. Barry was down. And there was no swearing this time. Just grunting, and some heavy breathing. Gasping? I scurry to him. Big Hair landed on a rock the size of a CFL football with his chest. Big Hair may have cracked a rib, or bruised his sternum. He seems fine structurally, but a week later and the song remains the same... Big Hair needs to get looked at.

Yesterday, even the sure footed Floyd lost his wheels a couple of times. Taking a turn at 40km/h on four paws can turn into quite the power-slide. Poor Floyd's seen a couple crashes this past week. Tuesday, Stoyan and I watched him take a slide off a cliff at Camp Fortune. Still not sure how far down he went but the little guy is all good.

And then today he ran into my front wheel. Missed on the hole-shot so to speak. His right shoulder may have a little spoke burn. Thank God it wasn't his paw. Dumb Floyd. Maybe you've smacked your head into the coffee table a few too many times. Floyd are you suffering from post concussion syndrome? Have you gone all stupid like Eric Lindros on me? Dude, you need to give your head a shake... and focus on one thing at a time, you attention deficit disorderly dog!

Damnit Floyd! There's a blackfly in my helmet. My brain bucket is buzzing. Aaargh! I duck a branch, descend a steep slope, gripping the grips hard. Squeezing the brakes. BBBBuZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. BBuZZZZ! It tickles my scalp. It's going to bite me. Maddening.

Woof woof! Translation: "Maybe you're the one who needs to give his head a shake!"

Woof!

The Undiscovered Trail

2009-07-12T15:41:00.003-04:00

We walked a while and came to a break in the trail. Three huge slabs of rock lay before us right where the path stepped down and continued off into the woods. In this clearing, surrounding the big stones, were poplars, and elms, and spruce.

We stopped here to sit. The weight of the day was setting in. We shared some tender thoughts, and re-hashed a few happy memories. Tears ran down our cheeks as we chatted, hugged, chatted, and hugged some more.

We will both miss the fun times. The laughter. The adventures. The long walks with the dog. The long car rides with no particular agenda or schedule to propel us.

As I held you in my arms, I studied the trail. How could I navigate these large rocks on two wheels? Where would that path into the trees lead us? Where would we end up?

Just as I squashed my curiosity and straightened to look into your big brown eyes, you met my gaze firmly. And then you did something that grabbed me, and for an instant, swelled my hollow-feeling heart.

You smiled.

It was a hint. A tiny grin under sad puffy red eyes. You pursed your lips, and gave me a flicker of a smile. Had I blinked hard right at that instant, I would have missed your Mona Lisa Moment.

We stood up and embraced once more and then you said you wanted a minute to yourself. I started toward the car to leave you with your thoughts but not before looking back and absorbing everything I saw. The wind swayed the long grass still. The honeybee buzzed in the purple strife. The birds chirped, and the sun shone bright. You stood there, long and lean, with your flowing hair blowing gently in the breeze. Your beauty is undeniable. And the beauty of this moment told me that despite the ache, and despite the empty feeling, nature will take its course, and we both will overcome.

I said goodbye to this place with my eyes. Imagining riding from one rock to the next and then hopping the bike down and pedaling along the waiting trail. This trail was not meant for me to ride. Not meant for me. But it will remain seared into my heart for the rest of my days.

And remembered most fondly

Yet?

2009-07-05T21:43:00.004-04:00

Nope.
Today we headed to Camp Fortune for a much needed training ride. Race day is Wednesday. Zed(the bike) held up well, the legs delivered the required torque and we survived a rocky crash. However, the love handles and the lungs leave a little something to be desired. I'm too fat and lazy for these grueling climbs.

A third of the way into lap one, and I was cramping so bad I felt like I was going to barf. How the heck am I going to complete two laps on Wednesday night without finishing dead last? How the heck am I going to finish one lap without wanting to go home to a cold beer and a warm dog? Steroids? Gatorade? Hypnotism?

Barry Big Hair made it back down the hill with no rear brakes. I was glad to see him, having feared that he had eaten a tree for lunch and was lying crumpled on the trail. Kelly tended to my wounded forearm with some iodine swabs and we all loaded back into the car and headed home.

So, am I Race Ready? Definitely not a Yeti, that's for damn sure. But come Wednesday, we'll see.

Rawkin' the Beat

2009-07-03T20:54:00.003-04:00

Hey!

Dogs!

Enough!

No Fencing!

Floyd. You know better. Put your teeth away. Where's your rope?! Good boy. You want to play rough, you go for the rope. Maybe someone will take you on then, you big dummy.

Good girl Ellah, play nice.

And repeat.

Alone with only the dogs to talk to, is how I spend a great deal of my existence. These are the days of our lives that we blare our new Metallica live DVD. Europe festival footage. Kirk Hammet's mastery on Fade to Black into Hetfield's anger as beauty on Master of Puppets. It gives me a taste of what's to come through town in November.

This DVD is poorly edited and not endorsed openly by the band. But it's raw. And it's good. Whiplash baby!

This music has gotten me tapping my toes and now Floyd just wants to play lap dog.

Come here, you big lug. Where's a chew bone?

Sunday, we ride. Rain or shine. We might just be going a little batty up in this mother effer.

They're playing One now. It's perfect. I think I just spoiled myself.

Heavy(but bouncy) d

Renwick Versus The Ants - Chapter 9

2009-07-02T21:07:00.003-04:00

Just in from our little holiday, and The Floyd and I are back in action. The ants have advanced their position. Floyd races to the kitchen and opens up the cupboard under the sink. He picks up the can of Raid in his slobbery mouth and tosses it to me. In seconds I've got the cap off and I'm outside spraying the bricks on the side of the house. Ants scurry and snails shrink away from the horrible stench. There are earwigs now too. Many earwigs.

The walls can only hold what the cracks allow them to. Dishes done. Kitchen cleaned. Bathroom scrubbed. Floors mopped. Car vaaccuummmed. Bike cleaned.
Ants contained, and destroyed. For now.

Mike bursts in from his softball game... "What the fuck is wrong with my face?"

"Huh?" I manage.

"My face!" he's upset, "Merember that bump on my cheek?"

"Uh... yeah." yawn, scratch junk.

"Look." he says, leaning in close.

"Dude that's gross. You're bleeding" I say.

"I know. It hurt all day and it was swollen and hot. It felt like it was pulsing with every throb."

"Yuck!"

"Yeah. Then tonight when I way stretching a double into a triple, I brushed past their shortstop and his shoulder popped the lump. Black shit came out. Bloody, and black. Looked like chewed up bits of garbage bag and black zip ties. One girl said it smelled like molasses."

"Is it still bleeding?"

"No. But it hurts like a cunt."

"Lemme see."

What happened next was truly one of the strangest things I've ever witnessed in my life. Mike's cheek gave birth to a tiny black ant. Then another. And another. Blood and bits of squished dead baby ants dripped from his ruddy face. The live ones stretched their legs and crawled off. Mike swayed on his feet and grabbed for the arm of the couch. Somewhere near a hundred little black ants made their way out from Mike's flesh. Half of which were already dead.

"Dude. Wash that cheek up. Go to the walk-in clinic. That's fucking disgusting."

"I'm on it." he assures me as he straightens and heads off to the shower.

As he limps off, I notice the cyst on his big toe looks bigger than usual.

Tonight as I dream about trading a pedal for a paddle and then back again, I will be grappled to the pillow by an unseen presence. What is in my room? It's got long slender arms and it wraps itself around my neck. I wrestle with my conciousness to open one eye and I see a blur of a small rodent like face, and a flutter of wings. Something has me tight. Like David Carradine's, my windpipe becomes compromised. I struggle out of the things grasp and fling it toward the closet door. I brace myself for the sound of the crash, but no sound comes. I hear a whiffle in the corner, then nothing. The lamplight reveals nothing. Everything is in it's messy place.

Morning will be here soon. How will we face the day? Floyd and I are ready. Sometimes the bumps in the trail are what make us keep the front wheel trued.

The Week the Lights Went Out

2009-06-25T18:48:00.002-04:00

Reaction: shocked.

When I was 8 years old, I had two heroes. Luke Skywalker was one of them. Michael Jackson was the other.

Wacko Jacko. Accused child molester. Pale-skinned social outcast. We all know him. The world over.

Michael Jackson was once a symbol of fun and optimism. A beacon of bright light shining strong in a sea of stars. It was the glove. That thing shone like the sun.
An ambassador of peace and hope, Michael Jackson sang his heart out. And that boy could make his legs go like no other. Who made the moonwalk famous? Looks like the light on the candle has disappeared.

Also this week, the entertainment world lost television icons in Ed McMahon, and Farrah Fawcett. Distant, tired sympathy. Not ever as cutting as the loss of a dear friend or family member, the Earth can still feel it's collective grief. It's death.
Vibes in the soil play with gravity and tug at the bottoms of our hearts. Like a ripe Red Delicious Apple dangling from the branch. Ready to be plucked. Can you see how the bottom end has those hanging smooth bumps under the crisp skin? There are four or five of them. Slice those off, and you've got the sweetest part of the apple. Juicy and full of sugar, thanks to nature's allure.

Our human hearts are the same. At the bottom, is where you find the deepest and purest love. The sweetest thing. You're looking for human compassion? You gotta dig deep. When Earth's citizens deal with death, we feel it as a whole. A world leader. A great doctor. A dedicated teacher. The king of Pop. When someone who once helped define and inspire our existence(our time and place, duh) When a person like that dies... It's always a kick in the nuts.

I sit here alone with two overheated, blasphemous dogs. They juck and jive. Pounce and crouch. Pounce and crouch. Roll over onto each other like two wiry UFC lightweights.
The solo time with Floyd(and often times Ellah) is always a welcome treat. We play. We walk. We Rock. We wrassle. We jab at the keyboard like it's nobody's business.

Stories of Ants and aliens on bicycles race through our thick skulls. Floyd is splayed out beside me. Panting. His long pink tongue getting longer by the second. We're watching Ellah. She's bouncing up and down, shaking the red rubber bone in front of us. Taunting. She's got some runnin' to do. She's in full-on PLAY mode. Growling and furiously shaking the rubber bone into submission.

Floyd glances over at me as if to say "What's the deal with her?"

I shrug back at droopy face inquisitive brown eyes.

A deep exasperated exhale. Floyd rests his head between his webbed paws and gently groans, "Bitches be crazy, Dawg"

My First Time

2009-06-23T22:45:00.000-04:00

Encumbered forever by desire and ambition
There's a hunger still unsatisfied
Our weary eyes still stray to the horizon
Though down this road we've been so many times
High Hopes by Pink Floyd

Tomorrow the gun is being jumped. The scene is set. The Tommy and Lefebvre Sunset Series cross-country mountain bike race is where it's at. 30degree weather, lotsa Gatorade, and a small cheering squad is all a man ever needs. The gorgeous Kelly, and my pretty Japanese friend Yasuko will be providing the encouragement.

The race trail at Camp Fortune is nothing new to me, but I've never ridden it with a fire under my ass. The clock will be ticking, the legs will be burning, and the lungs will be huffing. I'll be sucking in the power of Sevens... and ripping through the trail. May the Force be with me.

Race Ready?

2009-06-17T19:33:00.003-04:00

No.
Capital N.
No.
This gelatinous, creaky kneed couch monster is definitely NOT race ready.
But starting in three weeks, the race will be on.
Every second Wednesday, the good folks at Camp Fortune hold amateur mountain bike races.
My bike skills are almost there... but my fitness is lacking. Bring it.
Want to know another great 'P' word?
Prodding. Prodding with a stick. Please bring that too.

Formacidae - Alpha Class - Mission Log 8

2009-06-16T20:36:00.003-04:00

Stardate 4539219699

The squadron of Kbatypus has landed safely and are adjusting to life on Earth. The food left out for the black feline has provided ample nourishment for the Kbats and the rest of our growing colony.

The Kbats only come out at night. During the day, they sleep nestled between baseball gloves and sneakers in the humans' closet. Once darkness overcomes the house and quiet takes over, the team of Kbats explore. They are able to open doors and silently climb walls, windows and ceilings. Their hairless bodies are without odour. This allows the Kbats to navigate around the snoring canines.

On the odd occasion when a human wakes and rises to eliminate waste, the Kbats are able to quickly retract into a shadowy corner and wait. No advances have been made against the humans, yet. The team is planning their first move. Cautiously plotting and constantly exploring all possible options.

Admiral Adam, out.

Sucking in the Power of Sevens

2009-06-12T21:36:00.002-04:00

Can't look at keyboard for too long. Nearing the end of the second period. Penguins are taking it to the mighty Red Wings. Max Talbot has both goals in a 2-0 Pittsburgh lead. But the Wings are steady and systematic. And everbody is skating his balls off. Looks like Crosby is out with a nasty, career altering knee injury.

Could this game get any more intense? It's fun seeing young and fierce determination like Talbot's, not to mention his sidekicks Staal, Crosby and Malkin. What an exciting team. Detroit has all the talent and hockey knowledge you could ever ask for. But is the big roaring flaming red Pontiac Firebird Trans Am running out of gas? You know. The one with the huge decal on the curves of the hood. Smokey and the Bandit? Yes. But red. Long live Pontiac.

Don Cherry just told Mike and I that Crosby was coming out for the third. There he is. He's been on the bench for the first five minutes. Looks like he's done for a long long time. What a feeling of helplessness will engulf The Kid for the next ten minutes of hockey. I hope with the hope of hopes he gets to celebrate a Stanley Cup with his team.

Harness the raw emotion in that building tonight. The power of a Game Seven. Bottle it up. And use it for good.

Farewell to the Puck for another season. Till we meet again, my love.

Renwick Versus The Ants - Chapter 8

2009-06-11T21:45:00.002-04:00

Brought the ladder home from work. Strapped it to the roof of the licorice baby Civic.
Within 5 minutes, I was home. Into the backyard with the ladder and the Raid can. Ants and Crawling Insect Killer. Raid. Kills bugs dead.

The cable coming into the home from the hydro pole behind us has become a freeway for a constant convoy of ants. These ones seem even bigger than the ants in the house. The size of my thumbnail, with big black pincers on the front of their wedge shaped heads.

I scurried to the rung second from the top of the sturdy ladder. I aimed. I fired. A white frothy shower covered the ants with death. I made sure the cable and any cracks in the wall were soaked with the poison. Ants were wiggling and then falling off the cable, bouncing off my shoulders and arms into the jungle of lawn below. Some of the insects turned tail and ran. You could see them with their speedy black legs, fleeing to safety.

Don't come back now, ya hear?!

That'll teach em'.

Formacidae - Alpha Class - Mission Log 7

2009-06-06T16:48:00.004-04:00

Stardate 4539219697

Queen Latifah and I are back on Earth. The meetings went well. A team of warrior Kbats have been dispatched from Planet Thorborg, and they will be here in 62.06 hours.

Things here on Earth are a sobering sight. Still convinced of our eventual conquer, I am however; alarmed to see a massacre like the one just two days ago. The human, without mercy, doused a logistics regiment of Ants with a poison of immense burning and suffering. Can a living creature really be that ruthless? To target and kill with the squeeze of an index finger? Take aim, and fire. To spray a chemical so fierce it jabs at the lungs like the fists of a boxer? ...before it burns your throat out so you can't make a sound? The lungs eventually give in and are torn to bits by the seething vapour. We have EXTENSIVE reports from many witnesses and survivors of the massacre. The absolute torching of a regiment of 100 ants.

We need the Kbats here sooner than originally forecast. The humans have proven themselves an admiral foe. By that I mean a loathsome enemy. How could any being terminate the lives of a gathering of another being. Without even attempting communication?

Scrap has come to me with an image report from the outer room. Latifah is present in my quarters when Scrap arrives with his findings. The spy camera in the humans' common room has captured video of the dark haired male human sitting in front of what appears to be some primitive computer. His digits peck at the buttons like seagulls in a McDonald's parking lot. Urgent, but still very slow. The screen reveals a communication text and pictures of the canine beasts.

An excerpt follows

" ...today's favourite song is Stack Shot Billy by The Black Keys. What a raw blues depiction of life and murder. Thumping methodical beat. Rollercoaster whoop dee doo guitar riffs. And that's all there is to it. A guitar, a drum kit, and a gravelly whiskey smellin' voice. The song is short and sweet, it's the rhythm of it that grabs you first.

Stack shot Billy in the back
of the head
Stack made sure Billy Lyons
was dead
.45 pistol down in Stack's right hand
sent him away to the promised land

In all honesty, I had absolutely no idea of the lyrics were until right this moment. What a morbid song. Why does it make me tap my foot so hard? Ever hear it? Ever hear it live? Thank you Stoyan and J-Rock for showing me the Black Keys.

A song about one man taking it in his own hands to end another man's life. A human brutality. This week marked the anniversary of a terrible day in our history. And it's one I'll never forget. Human brutality to say the least. The images of the demonstrators standing defiantly in front of tanks. The echo of sadness felt all around the world falling on my chubby 13yr old ears. Being flashed before my eyes on all three TV channels.

Tonight, Floyd and I ripped through the woods like hungry hyenas... "

What is this nonsense? I ask Scrap.

I don't know but there's much more. Heaps of it. He answers.

Would you say he's full of it?

Yes sir. Quite full of it indeed.

Scrap, take a pod of soldiers over to the unoccupied room across the hall. Prepare a landing site for the reinforcements.

The Kbats are coming?! That's excellent news! Scrap exclaims.

Scrap, I would prefer if you referred to our support squad by their proper Latin name. Scrap? Let me hear you say it. Say it for me in our ancestral dialect.

Sorry sir. Kbatypus. I'm just glad they're coming to help. Who knows what we can accomplish once we are able to physically subdue the humans! It's an exciting time, sir. I think this may make history Admiral Adam, sir.

I like your attitude Scrap. Dismissed.

Our mission has hit a bump in the road, but adjustments to our invasion are underway. For now, we will continue to hide in the ceiling and walls, steadily expanding our settlement. We're thick as thieves.

Admiral Adam, out.

Now Latifah, where were we?

Hey turn that thing off!

Renwick Versus The Ants - Chapter 7

2009-06-03T18:23:00.003-04:00

How soft your fields so green,
Can whisper tales of gore,
Of how we calmed the tides of war.
We are your overlords.
On we sweep with threshing oar,
Our only goal will be the western shore.
So now you'd better stop and rebuild all your ruins,
For peace and trust can win the day
Despite of all your losing.
Immigrant Song by Led Zeppelin

A song of war, always ringing in my ears. A song about conquest and victory and brutality. A song playing in my head, often in the morning, and also in the evening underneath the moon. The power of this song is great and unrelenting. It's the urgent pace. Running through the woods, a huge broadsword firmly in your grasp. A war cry. A wail of deezpair. A galloping wallop.

It's the damn ants. Their tiny drums pounding in unison. The itsy bitsy little Jimmy Page guitars. Their tiny thrashing occurs quite frequently. Ringing in my ears. It's almost as if the ants know they're at war. Can they hear me plotting my attack? Do they see me spraying the tiny hole in the bricks at the front of the house? Can they smell my poison and warn the others?

Sunday while weeding the flower bed, I noticed a train of ants making its way along the north fence, up the siding, and into a hole in the grey brick.

I excitedly jogged for the can of Raid. While Floyd watched, the entrance to their tunnel was drenched with frothy white death. The ants would rear up, grab at their throats and then hit the deck for a few agonizing moments of burning and squirming.

Since that dreadful day, I've spotted another main entrance for the neighbourhood ants to penetrate our shoddy fortress. At the back of the house, where all the cables run in, (why so many damn cables?) the ants have discovered a super highway. Down from the hydro pole all the way into 1320 Avenue U. Thing is, that cable is way out of my reach.

Gotta get a ladder. Borrow the one from work? Mum's got a ladder... Maybe I could buy one... Are they expensive? Everyone should have a ladder, right? Would the neighbour lend me one? What if the neighbour's ladder is not safe, it's integrity diminishes to the point of failure, and I fall and break my leg? Who's insurance pays for that kinda shit? Nobody wants to pull a Dave McLean.

Anyway, back to the task at hand. Hunt and kill. Stop the invading ant colony. Relocate? Nah. Obliterate. Down with you six-legged bastards. Your black beady eyes reflect my distaste quite clearly. Quite clearly indeed.

Michael enters rubbing the side of his face.

"What's the deal with this huge itchy lump on my cheek?" He says.

"Not sure man" I don't even look up from pecking at the keyboard, "AIDS?"

"Maybe" he chuckles

Floyd pounces on a black intruder and sucks him up into his saggy lips.

Formacidae - Alpha Class - Mission Log 6

2009-05-28T23:24:00.004-04:00

Stardate 4539219696

Saturn

Adam and Latifah have shuttled from Earth to the outer rings of Saturn to meet with StarCrusier XJ6. On board they will negotiate for permission to formerly request the access to the rare and precious winged spider monkey commonly known as the Kbat.

If all goes as planned, a team of Kbats will be dispatched from the southern pole of Planet Thorborg. Traditionally a squad of Kbat was ten winged spider monkeys. The new generation of Kbat is a team of six. They are highly trained in close combat, hairless, odourless, and mean. Average weight of a killer Kbat is 13lbs. There is only one killer Kbat per pod. The other five Kbats in the space pod are known as utility units, they weigh 9 to 11lbs, and they are each named after launch. Appointed, really.

Once the pod is plummeting to the target planet, the spider monkeys are debriefed for their mission, fed vitamins, and counseled relentlessly on the subtleties of battle.

While Latifah and I are on this request mission, she's been a great help to myself and the process in general. Scrap is in command of the spacecraft back down on Earth until our return. He reports no casualties in today's clash with the humans. The eggs will soon hatch. We're only three days away.

We've been warned of the slightest disturbance to our relationship with the Earthly Albino Basement Spiders. An altercation on the stairs has left somebody's leg hair mussed up.

Optimistic of coming Glory, we soldier on

Admiral Adam Ant, out.

Pedalling - grateful for the rest

2009-05-22T22:33:00.000-04:00

Like any young boxer, Floyd's just trying to stay light on his feet and hone his razor sharp wits. He make look a little stunned, but his mind is clear as glass. And it's racing.

Through the woods we go. Barry Big Hair leads the way. Floyd's cheeks droop inches from Big Hair's back tire.

"Watch your face Dawg." I warn between grunts and growns.(that's d-lingo for groans) The path winds up a steady incline. It's like we're mounting a boulder the size of a dumptruck. There are roots to navigate, and large gaps in the rock to overcome.

Back on level ground, Big Hair and Eye are panting like fat kids, as Floyd Mayweather pulls out to pass the bicycle in front of him. He merges onto the singletrack directly in front of Barry causing Barry to squeeze the brakes and our little convoy comes to a halt.

"Oh!" Barry Big Hair says, "Thanks Floyd!" We pause, grateful for the rest, gulping at our water packs. Floyd rips up ahead and after about twenty feet halts and returns.

Can't stop for too long boys, the skeeters are out.

Smack!

"I got three in one slap!" Big Hair exclaims.

Big Hair's big hair has recently become no more. It looks like the greasy wookie has decided to shed some weight. With the aid of his lovely bride, 3lbs of flowing brown locks were shorn off Barry less than a week ago. He now sports a scruffy brush cut. But he'll always be Big Hair to me.

We exchange vulgarities, bark opinions about the Terminator movies, and woof about tonight's big hockey game. The young BlackHawks need a big win tonight, having grown as a team after the rough start. The Wings are so lethal, you can never count them out.

Floyd is ultra alert. Smelling the smells, and running. He's galloping and leaping, sniffing and splashing.

What's that?Another new bird.That piece of bark smelled great.Where's dad?There's dad.The tall one is there too.What was that?Squirrel?Oh shit,there's that bridge.The water's so cold and refreshing in beside the beaver dam.Up.Back on shore.Yum.Much tastier than that last mud puddle.Mud puddles are fun, but their not very quenching.Make thirst worse.Dad's got a bottle of boring old tap water on his roller.It'll do in a pinch.Man I'm muddy.He'll probably have to bathe me again.I'll tolerate it.I always do.Is that a snake?No,just a stick.

Run, run.

Pedal pedal. Loop back East.

Back at the ranch, our final walk of the night featured some healthy yapping from some very small, yappy yapping yappity neighbours. Shitzhu, chi wa wa. Yap. Yap.

What's he barking at?Me?My floppy ears?Bite me you yappy bastard.Gotta go home.Have a treat.Hide away.Gnaw on a bone.Count sheep.

Watch number 23 dominate on the court, like only a number 23 can. Wow.

Woof!

Neighbourhood Watch Episode 9?

2009-05-21T20:18:00.000-04:00

Like two crusty old cops walking the beat, Floyd and I patrol the Tremblay Road. Deputy Pedalpuck scurries along beside us in the underbrush. All the old favourites are out tonight.

Margit, Lucy, Richard or James with the twins, Stella... and Floyd's new love interest, Belle.

Belle is the one year old German Sheppard dawgie who is often tied up to the garage at a house along the way. Every time we walk by, The Floyd needs to crane his neck and check to see if she's there to watch him prance past the driveway. If she's there, she shoots. Like a straw-haired cannonball. Floyd's collar clangs to grip his thick neck. The dull metal prongs dig in rather than choke the pooch. Much more poke, a lot less choke. The sound of the slip chain brings him to attention. His pull relaxes, he stands there taut and proud. And he slowly, quiveringly, reluctantly, sits.

She's not there, but her handler with her two young sons greet us cheerily. Her name is Belle, and she's a year old, and she has a lot of pent up energy. Familiarities abound, we exchange pleasantries and agree that the next time the dogs are both out, we should let them meet.

Doesn't that sound exciting Prickface? Floyd is grinning again. Further along the trot we meet a slim and fit Santa Claus type neighbour. He compliments the handsome, shiny boxer and we're headed home for a cold glass of milk.

And a romp with Ellah.

And some fantastic playoff puck.

And some peanut butter.

And some crack.

Out for one last pee, and there's a big sticky beetle bzzzing around our skulls.

"Hey there Junebug. You're about a week early." I burp, "It's good to see you though."

Darn global warning.

The SHOCKing truth

2009-05-16T20:36:00.000-04:00

Don't the best of them bleed it out
While the rest of them peter out
Truth or consequence, say it aloud
Use that evidence, race it around
There Goes My Hero by Foo Fighters

Inflicting discipline is rarely fun for most people. The odd few enjoy it. Many get paid to do it. And it's necessary. Whether it's the old "slap on the wrist" or maybe the electric chair... it's all discipline.

Self discipline is something different altogether. Our hero, The Floyd, still lacks a little in the "keep your cool and walk the line" department. From wrassling anyone willing and some who aren't, to chasing after a porcupine in the South March Highlands.

Barry Big Hair and Floyd were racing up ahead as I played post-phone call catch up. Let me tell you, the ketchup was pumping. The heart, the lungs, the legs. It was the first big push of the PEDAL season. The trail was fairly clean. Something quick to ride without dabbing(a foot leaving the pedal and touching earth). And it was becoming memory. Amazing how the mind remembers a small rock in the path. An imminent danger in the form of a fallen tree across the trail. The slippery rock is up ahead because that was just the tree that looked like the statue Lovers.

As my legs pump the cranks, the 4 and a 1/2 inches of front suspension suck up the lips and plunge into the gulleys. Jagged 7' rock to your left, and a poplar tree to your right. Get skinny fast boy, or this is gonna hurt. I suck in my breath and squeak between the two guardians of truth(or whatever those sentinel things were in Never Ending Story when Atreu had to pass through their gate without getting zapped). Whoa horsey. So I'm ripping through the woods, "pushing the envelope", bareley managing to keep the bike upright through a fast, loose turn. I'm in heaven. My body feels alive.

I can hear Barry Big Hair's voice up ahead.

"What?!" I holler "I'm coming!"

"Your dog has something in his face!"

"What?" I gasp. "His face?" I'm panting.

"It looks like he's got toothpicks in his face!"

"No?!" grunt "Toothpicks?! What the fuck?!"

"Yeah. Two of them."

"Porcupine?"

"Maybe yeah."

"Fuck."

And there he is. Tongue hanging out and ears flapping joyfully. Floyd doesn't even seem to care that he's been punctured by the quills of a porcupine. Slobbery beast is panting along much quicker than the pace of my own heaving chest. But except for the two white darning needles protruding from his face, Floyd was happier than swine in feces.

If only there was a way... A way to keep Floyd within thirty feet of me. A way to convince him not to jump onto a house guest. A way to keep him calm, cool, and collected. Like FonZie. Maybe there iz a way. Maybe there iszz zaP!

I'm looking to the sky to save me
Looking for a sign of life
Looking for something help me burn out bright
Learn to Fly by Foo Fighters