From A to B

On a trip to Prague with some of my dearest pals, we wound up in a bar called The Beer Factory. The concept of said Factory was this: each table had draught taps and a glass rinser; the taps were outfitted with a meter that counted the volume consumed; the volume was then published like horse race results on teevees around the bar so you could see how you ranked versus other tables. We immediately resolved to eliminate the competition–the 6 of us are professional drinkers after all.

One hour, and more than 25 litres later, the table of stubborn Germans finally succumbed to our relentless assault on their livers, and came across No Man’s Land, we assumed, to issue their own Treaty of Beersailles.

Defeated German- “Are you Scottish or Canadian?”

Chalk one up for the legendary Canucks, whose ferocity on the field of battle precedes them!

B- “Canadian! Why do you ask?”

Defeated German- “Because you are all wearing plaid.”

So we were. So much for legend.

Spilling forth from The Beer Factory, we were inundated with invites to see dancing girls, the prospect of which appealed to the beer in us all. With so many choices before us we used cold hard logic to decide which ballet to attend: the one that offered us two free beers. What better way to follow up 25 litres of beer than with more beer?

Following our shady little chaperone down a dark alleyway in the Old Town of Prague felt like the beginning of some foreboding Grimm tale. Stopping at a nondescript door with a bare red bulb over it, something should have tweaked; some instinctual self-preservation mode should have kicked in. But no–we entered after being asked whether we were Police without a moment’s hesitation.

Once inside, clutching our Pilsner Urquell (even the dodgiest Czech places serve great beer by default) we were led to the room with the stage. If this was a peeler bar, it was the quietest one I had ever been in. One tiny stage, with a girl quietly shifting her weight from foot to foot, with Guns’n'Roses played at a responsible volume level, were sending up flares in my beer-addled mind.

B- “It’s a brothel! I’ll bet my gold teeth!”

As we shuffled into a banquette table, I made sure that I was in the middle seat. There before me was my confirmation: a menu of services, printed out with clinically precise items like: one girl, penis in vagina; two girls, penis in vagina; one girl bubble bath with handjob; one girl bubble bath with handjob and finger in ass; and so forth. It’s nice to know what you’re buying.

We were getting considerable pressure to make a purchase, so I picked the item on the menu that seemed the most harmless: Les Bein Show. What I assumed was a friendly misprint, translated into the wrong language on the English menu, would–i hoped–avoid any of us requiring penicillin before the trip was done. I ordered, and requested the show be for “all my friends”, which seemed to rub them the wrong way–but I suspect they knew it was the only money they were getting out of a bunch of drunk hosers. After a considerable search for a partner (because a lesbian on her own is more of a passive lifestyle choice, and brothels are meant to be dominated by verbs) the eight of us piled onto a tiny elevator and pushed the up button. Little did we know, it was to be the only rise we were to enjoy that evening.

Escorted to a grand room, decked out with a seedy looking mattress on the floor–but a magnificent hot tub on a dais–we were informed by one of the entertainers that there were no CDs and that we’d be listening to the radio.

The girls climbed onto the mattress, but they looked less like lovers and more like two middle-aged men trying to hug each other at a funeral; we were not impressed, and started to fidget.

In a vain effort to spice up the most luke-warm “les bien” show the world has ever seen, they pulled young Jimmy onto the bed with them. His shirt was torn open to a collective cheer from the audience. . . then his pants and bloomers were pulled down. A hushed horror overwhelmed the fraternal squeals of glee–a scream caught in my throat.

Then, with one of the ballerinas perched on Jim’s chest, her unfettered baloney sandwich pressed against his throat to hold him still, the other began pulling on his free-range wang like it was the chain on a clogged olde tyme toilet. Jim stirred, but a pungent quiff from the baloney sandwich sentry inches from his nose knocked him back. Soon the “playful” pulling on his schlong took on a decidedly work-like quality. As sweat began to bead on both Jim and the dancer’s forehead she rated her weight on one elbow (which dug into what must have been his liver) and began pulling his cock like it was the cord on a flooded push mower. Finally–mercifully–the snake charmer in charge of his manhood, disappointed with the result of her enthusiastic tugging, elected to take things in a darkly masochistic direction; astride his waist, she grabbed hold of his belt buckle and drew it from his crumbled trousers like Arthur snatching Excalibur from the stone. The belt, like Jim, hung in a somewhat un-Excalibur-like fashion. . . but not for long. With absolutely no consideration for workplace safety, she began treating Jim’s purple-headed gladiator like the Roman masters of Judah Ben Hur, lashing it repeatedly; unlike Judah Ben-Hur, who bravely stood up to the Romans, Jim’s tiny chariot racer decided that his fate was now out of God’s hands, and solely at the mercy of an illegal immigrant.

To muster the blood flow required for a satisfying boner now would simply make the target for assault bigger, and judging by the physiologic response going on in my own trousers–where my penis was trying to do as turtles do–it was a safe bet that the show would never really get going. . . at least, i hoped not, if Jim was going to avoid any more head trauma.

The dancer with the belt, enraged with the lack of results, decided that if she couldn’t have an erection, then no one would, and coiled the belt around Jim’s little Michael Hutchence and, with two hands, began to choke it out. Thankfully, it was not long after the corporal punishment began that a commercial popped up on the radio and we were informed that the show was over.

Thank God it wasn’t satellite radio; we could have been carrying a eunuch out of that brothel.

My father was–or rather, still is–a self-appointed neighbourhood watch. He has more than 3 emergency services scanners (yes, the kind that you can snoop on the police bands with–no, they are not illegal. . . unless you use them in the commission of a crime, like Ben Affleck), a pair of binoculars, Google Maps bookmarked, and has been blessed, after 50 years of practice, with being a light sleeper to accommodate those middle-of-the-night emergency calls that are too juicy to be missed. He also has cameras–both still and video–which have captured images that were later entered into evidence in court (and soon to be, on television). So while he may be a busy-body, at least he’s pulling his weight and doing a civic duty.

I have inherited his zeal for staying apprised of the comings and goings of my neighbours and local ne’er-do-wells. . . but my tendencies have, to date, failed to contribute anything society (or a court of law) would deem useful. I have entertained and enlightened some of my chums with “Scanner Wisdom”–but the wisdom I have endowed society with can be encapsulated in a few basic philosophies:

1) Don’t tempt police officers to engage you physically;

2) If you smoke in bed it will inevitably catch on fire;

3) Don’t put your body fluids where they aren’t welcomed or invited.

4) If you’re using my dumpster illegally, I will yell at you in my underwear. I don’t care.

So what fresh fruit has my nosy nature produced recently? Melons. Allow me to explain.

Recently Babs–who has been on maternity retirement for 8 months–drove to Black Sturgeon Lake for some rest and respite. . . Or whatever the three minutes of silence your 8 month old gives you around 9pm is called in polite company. In our house it’s called “three gulps of red wine”. I digress.

She was gone, and I was left to pine and count the days until their return. . . or what we call in our house “cook beef organs on the smoker and play video games”. But while I did it, I was as lonesome as a veal cow. On one particular evening, while I sat in the dark (it’s Earth Hour every night when I’m in charge), the light in the apartment across the brown field from our balcony came on. Now, for MONTHS I had been badgering Babs about the location of my binoculars. It was, to a certain degree, so that I could more effectively keep an eye on the neighbourhood; but more specifically, I had suspected that the person milling around in the lit room across the way was a woman, and that she often milled around in the buff. Finally I had the opportunity to dispel my curiosity without looking like the dirty love child of Jimmy Stewart and Ron Jeremy, and I was still without my binoculars. I tried bunching my fist up and holding it to my eye, a trick I’d seen my mother use to read menus in restaurants (I know–embarrassing! She’s for the Home soon). Nothing. All I could see was finger rolls and my cat Pepe looking in from the other side of my fist. Which was when I witnessed something I had never noticed in the window across the way: it looked like she was holding a book in one hand, and exploring with the other!. . . . .? . . . . . . !

I had to find those damn binoculars, and I had to find them quick. I sat cross-legged on the floor, closed my eyes, and began to try to astral project myself to where the binoculars where hiding. After months of tearing the house apart, all it took was 8 seconds of projecting myself to the binoculars and I felt I knew where they were. I stood, marched down the hall, opened the closet, picked up a box I felt as though I’d looked through a dozen times, and there they were. Kreskin, you can’t beat me know that I’m touched with the gift!

I ran to the darkened living room, lifted the binoculars up, and what to my wondering eyes did I see? My cross-the-way neighbour, in the buff, holding a copy of 50 Shades of Grey, and using herself like a finger puppet.
Actually, more like a hand puppet.
Clearly she loved to read.

An admission. After months of speculation, the actual nudity was, I’m sad to report, disappointing. Had she come to my door naked–which would have merited a free look in any wife’s books–I actually would have taken a pass. The spectacle with popular literature, however, was nearly more than my poor small mind could handle. Once her knees became too weak to sustain leaning against the wall, she collapsed into a heap on the bed, put her feet in some invisible stirrups, and began to rub her lady parts like a washboard player from the Hee Haw House band. My only frame of reference for an action as vigorous as the one presently befalling this poor gal’s Miss Puss was from the schoolyard of my youth, greedily scratching Scratch’n'Sniff stickers. I recall, if done too vigorously, for too long, the sticker would be ruined. I may have got my binoculars just in time to watch a girl destroy her vagina, literally at the hands of salacious reading.

The perspective, I should add, was quite clinical; I felt more like a farsighted gynaecologist than a peeping voyeur. I let the binoculars drop from my eyes, too appalled to carrying on monitoring the neighbourhood.

The moral of the story is this: be careful what you wish for, because you might just catch her treating herself like a ten pin bowling ball.

I’m riding across Canada at the moment aboard VIA’s Canadian. It’s something that I’ve always wanted to do, and when I ruptured blood vessels in my ear and got grounded from flying, it seemed like the perfect time to “live the dream”. PS-for the love of Pete, don’t fly with a head cold.

There are folks from all walks of life; and folks riding the rails for all sorts of reasons. Some are afraid to fly, some are on a type of journey of self discovery–most are old and married to train nerds who want to ride the train. Having spent a couple of days with the same folks in my section, I’ve come to know a few quite well, and I’ve quietly begun to rank them from Most Eccentric to Least. Te award for Most goes to an old Russian woman, whom I’ve got to know better not by design, but because she surrenders details of her life–and her needs–while he rest of us are trying to do a win tasting or play Travel Bingo.

During Canadian Headline Trivia two days ago, after a question pertaining to the names of Celine Dion’s twins, she announced, apropos of nothing, that ulcers were most certainly not “bleeding wounds in your stomach” but rather a virus. While not entirely true–I still believe it’s an irritation on the wall of the stomach ( and elsewhere)–I have heard some dirty little bastard of a bacteria could be the root cause of the discomfort. She continued,

MR

In Russia, when you go to the hospital,they treat you with vodka.

Some people laughed at this, because it sounds like the punch line to a Benny Hill skit based in a Russian hospital; others were upset that the trivia was being interrupted; I was still trying to make a connection between Celine Dion’s twins and ulcers.

MR

It kills the virus. And you poop it out.

Ah.

Our poor French Canadian bartender, who was now desperate to return to his Headline Trivia (partly because it made him look smart–there were some ridiculously hard questions–what is Putin’s dog’s name? Fuck off) wrestled the spotlight away from her and returned to firing questions at us.

Then, this morning I woke up feeling that I wanted to start the day right with some exposure to Mother Russia, so I dumped myself into a chair in the bar car where she was listening intently to a couple talk about a bus tour they had just had around Winnipeg.

OL

…..We saw some buffalo!

OM

Bison, Mary. We saw bison.

OL

What’s the difference?

OM

Bison are the steers. They’re hairier.

I had to hold my tongue. The dime store Jack Hanna didn’t need some young punk with fancy book learning (read:watched Planet Earth on BluRay) steal his thunder. No sooner had I made the decision to keep my trap shut, and Mother Russia piped up,

MR

Oh! The milk is so good!

OL

Really? I didn’t know you could drink bison milk.

MR

Oh yes! It’s thick and creamy, and very very healthy for you.

OL

Had I known that, I would have had them stop the bus and I would have gone and milked the bison.

MR

OH! I wish that you had. I need it. I need it so bad right now.

OL

Now I’m sorry that I didn’t!

MR

I wish you had milked the bison. I really need it. Right now. It’s the best.

And thank God they called Lunch over the PA system, because none of us knew exactly how to pick the conservation back up after her quite passionate plea for bison milk. My sole contribution was: “My luck, I would have hoped off the bus and tried to milk a boy bison, and he’d try to follow me back to my cabin”. Always elevating the level of conversation, eh? It got laughs, and likely a black widow’s curse from Mother Russia.

This morning I slunk out of my Sleeper Cabin at 7am wondering if it was 7am Eastern or Central, since we crossed over while I slept, and an old fella stopped me dead in the narrow corridor. I try to turn myself out in a decent and presentable fashion–particularly during this Trans-Canada rail journey since rail really is the last civilized way to travel–and so with my vest, fedora, and pocket watch I was looking reasonably dapper. For that time of day, dressing while standing on my toilet, I should have actually been nominated for some fashion award, if you want my honest opinion.

The old fella looked me over and said,

OF-

You look like you’re all ready for a dance!

To which I responded,

B-

If you can find me a dance where I don’t look out of place, I’ll tip the band and find us dates!

OF-

Son, you’ve got a deal!

B-

I’ll warn you now: if I track down triplets, and the odd one out has a wooden leg, you’re buying her drinks. Otherwise, we’ll flip a nickel to see which one of us has the pleasure of punching two dance cards.

OF-

There’s a time I would have flipped you for all or nothing; but, at my age, I think you’ve offered a square deal.

We parted ways after a bit more back-and-forth banter, but it left me thinking: he looked as if he still had a bit of rogue in him. I bet with the right dose in his nitro pills, he could still win the all or nothing toss and make sure–by the time the rooster roused for breakfast–that all three triplets had a smile on their faces. Even Peg-leg Meg.

I hope at his age I’m still willing and able to get off the bench for Guy Lombardo.

(Below is me, this morning as I contemplate departing my cabin aboard VIA 1-The Canadian)

While down in St. Lucia we rode in our fair share of taxis–especially for an island that is a mere 50 kilometres long.  Those countless hours we’ll never get back to lie on a beach and sip rum-based drinks weren’t a total write off; we did meet a hackie with a curious appetite.

A gentleman driver, who is easiest to describe by sticking to his most striking features–he sported but three teeth and a greasy combover–collected us from a deserted aeroport to transport us to our second port of call on the island: the remarkable Jade Mountain (I know–ain’t no flies on us).  The 30 kilometre trek clocked in at over an hour, so we had some time to get to know him.  His knowledge of the island was broad, if not entirely accurate, and delivered with such a curious accent that I would have been charmed by any claims he might have made regarding the flatness of the Earth; however, when talk turned to musical preferences, he was quick to volunteer his favourite style: Country and Western–or as he called it, “C&W”.  He let me know that “C&W” held such great influence over him, that it acted as a meal replacement.

To be honest, I don’t know why I clarified with “New, new country music” because–sorry Faith Hill and Tim McGraw–I don’t even listen to just plain “new country”.

If “C&W” is all one needs for their daily vitamins and nutrients, then why is Garth Brooks such a fatty?

The answer is simple: he ain’t real Country & Western!  Someone dig up Montana Slim, the nation’s chubbies need him!

Dear Fashion File,

I thought you might get a kick out of an experience I just had passing through airport security in Toronto. As luck would have it, I was rocking out the FFWD Hammer & Sickle shirt when my security screener asked, in a thick Soviet accent:
“What’s this mean?” (referring to my shirt)
I told her it was just a shirt advertising a weekly newspaper from back home.
She then wanted to know why the hammer and sickle were there. I told her it was because the political leanings of the weekly were seen as “socialist” or “leftist” in the town I was from, and so it was kind of a joke. My screener began to tear up and, with a shakey voice, replied that only someone too young to have lived through “the hammer and sickle” would make fun of it. That it was awful-that the regime did awful things-and that therefore both me and my shirt were awful!
I apologised, but her tears of sorrow had already become tears of rage, and she said I was too ignorant to understand.
. . . so I shouldn’t have been surprised when I was “randomly selected” for a thorough search, where my bags were pulled apart, dare I say, in a manner not unlike the old KGB.

I think I’ll think twice before wearing this tee in the future; particularly if I think my day’s activities will lead me to contact with any Russians, Poles, Ukies, or McCarthyists.

(*the photo below sports the offending shirt, as well as a flag that was made for me by a 12 year old boy I had the pleasure of meeting during one of my stints working at summer camps in America. He made the anti-Commie flag, and when I probed him as to why, his only response was: “Because I hate Communists”. . . I think someone’s grandpa drinks. He gave me the flag at the end of summer because he figured I was the one who “got” him the most, and he knew I loved it. I did, and I do)

I recently overheard a lady reveal to her companion the following bombshell:

I thought that I would join a barber shop quartet for a year–just to see–and I haven’t found the music all that inspiring.  For me, that is. . . but boy do we sound good!

Which I found surprising, because straw caps and candy-striped vests have generally been the uniform of “game changers” in the world, right?

Who wouldn’t find an endless stream of songs discussing strolling with your “sweet baby” or negotiating love deals with “Mr. Sandman” inspiring?

Maybe her Quartet was just singing the wrong songs.

Ewok Celebration Song

I have known some gentlemen in my life with filthy habits.  Habits that would truly gag a maggot, as my father would say.  As an example, I provide this recollection:

I once held a conversation with a particular gentleman who became so full of an insatiable curiosity about the state of his armpits, and whether they were sufficiently odourized, that mid-conversation he placed his fingertips beneath his pits, dug them around, withdrew them and filled his bronzed chest with their savoury scent.  I know this sounds not unlike a Saturday Night Live character’s eccentric behaviour; but what this gent did, which trumps Mary Katherine Gallagher, was to recognize that his hands were now somewhat soiled with sweat.  His solution was to then spit on his fingertips, rub it around, and then dry them on his socks.  All without missing a beat in the conversation.  To say that I had a focus issue during our discourse would be an understatement.

If that is a pig’s trick for personal hygiene, then what I witnessed at the gymnasium recently takes the whole goddamned cake.  A small elderly Asian man a few lockers down from me–naked as the day he was born–decided, on what seemed to be a whim, to check whether it was time to do laundry.  How he appraised the cleanliness of his wardrobe was to snatch his underpanties to his face, finger them until he lined up the posterior region, and bring them close enough to his face that had they been a stamp, he could have easily licked them.  He took two very deep breaths–which is something I avoid around my own ass, or any of my own ass’ various unpleasant products–then scrolled his drawers so that he could give the crotch the benefit of all his olfactory senses as well.  If I had have dropped dead at that very moment, the funeral director would insist to my parents that they opt for a closed casket; the look of disgust on my face would be so etched that even death could not erase it.

Some may be wondering what the final verdict was on the underwear, and to that I wish I had a conclusive answer, but I don’t.  He simply tossed them into his locker and slammed it closed.  If I were a betting man, I’d say that meant that they were good enough for a few more days wear and tear.

But really. . . if you’re going on smell alone, how large must be the margin for acceptance?

The gymnasium’s locker room–when it is taken outside the warm Vaselined lens of a Porky’s film–isn’t very glamourous or exciting atall.

In fact, I spend a great deal of my time trying not to let my bare feet touch the floor.  When not obsessing about athletes foot, I have a fighter pilot’s focus on my own gear–both the gear I carried in, and the gear I was born with–with the idea that my great focus will mean a swift turnaround time.  I’m certainly not like some gentlemen–generally men who have greening Marine tattoos and bellies that prohibit any clear and unobstructed view of their own genitals–who could while away an entire day sitting on a bench that, in time, will stick to their sweaty scrotum like a cheese slice wrapper (as it has done to countless other scrotums in the past with, one doubts, anything like a thorough clean between exposures), their feet bathing in the stagnant fungal water of body runoff pooling on the tiled floor.  Just the thought makes my feet itch, and my dinner rise a few inches in my esophagus.

BESIDES all the unsavoury characteristics I’ve mentioned, my particular gym is rife with fathers who think its hunky dory to trot their pre-pubecent daughters into this morass of soggy dongs and drip-dried chodas–a practise that, pardon if I sound too much like Adam in the Garden of Eve, will have a profound affect on these young girls psyches.  Not profound, as is implied in the sentence:

Doctors Banting and Best did not yet realise the profound affect their discovery would have on the daily lives of millions the world over, and for many generations to come.

Profound, as is implied in the sentence:

A profound sense of grief overtook Tom, as he realised the designs those two girls had for that lowly cup–a cup that no amount of bleach would ever clean.  A cup so profoundly dirty that it would have to be dropped in a Goodwill box if it was ever to get a fresh start employed in someone’s pantry as a cup.

In short–a men’s locker room is no place to raise your daughters.  I didn’t think this would have to be stated explicitly–but apparently to those living in the Marda Loop/Killarney region it does.  So to them I say:

Soon enough your daughters will have plenty of opportunity to get boys’ tiny pink wind socks dangled in their faces; leave at least some mysteries for their teenaged years.

This evening I was relaxing, sipping some scotch, and listening to Cyndi Lauper–as is my want occasionally–when one particular song popped on.  A song I hadn’t heard since. . . well. . . since a day in the shower at the gym. . .

There I was. . . in a piping hot shower, letting the water cascade over my rippling muscles as they ached slightly from countless repetitions of the free weights.  My body covered in a thick lather. . . the gentle hiss of  running water. . . I was nearly ready to forget about the misery of communal showers until I heard singing. . . . singing that was coming from someone very nearby.  I opened my eyes, and lo and behold, there was a naked man standing right next to me.  Only just a moment ago I had been the sole occupant of the showers–but now, with our feet nearly touching, I was no longer alone.  Of the 6 remaining showerheads–mine being the seventh and left most–this gent had decided there was strength showering in numbers, and so installed himself to my immediate right. Not only that, but the gentle hiss of running water was barely audible beneath what was. . . singing.

I’m a bit shy (something those who have seen me in one of my unitards will appreciate, thanks to the relatively unflattering snugness of spandex as it clings to curves both large and. . . not as large) so my immediate response was to cheat my shame more towards the wall.  I had to do it slowly, like a snake charmer trying to avoid an adder’s bite, so as to not appear too prudish.  His singing, I must admit, really filled the room–tiled as it was; and I’m not accustomed to such overt musical interludes in a public shower.  I do enjoy a bit of merry caterwauling in the shower, as did this particular gent if his gusto was any indication of an emotional buy-in to shower sing-a-longs; but it was one of three other things–things outside of the act of singing–that I had the most difficulty adjusting to.  The first being his song choice–”True Colours”, by Cyndi Lauper.  Slow dancing songs I used to softly sway to in high school are not the stuff of showers amidst fellow your fellow man, in my opinion.  The second was how thoroughly he was cleaning his schlong.  And when I say “schlong”, I mean “an item he was massaging lathered soap into between his legs that looked like a pork tenderloin fresh from the butcher’s block”.  The last slightly awkward detail of  the trio was his eye contact with me.

For those who have not yet had the singular experience of showering ‘au naturale’ with strangers, let this serve as a lesson in shower protocol: do not make eye contact with others.  And most certainly do not make said contact with tenderness in your eyes and sing:

“so don’t be afraid to let them show
your true colors
true colors are beautiful
like a rainbow”

Because unless your message is something along the lines of “this pork tenderloin–this massive schlong here–can be yours–all yours–right now–and I won’t laugh if you cry” then it most certainly will be misinterpreted as such, and you need to be aware of this.

My response to being serenaded was to smile–politely–and reach for my towel.

It isn’t that I’m opposed to shower sex, or men with large wangs, or Cyndi Lauper; I’m just not too keen on all three at once.

I’m not particularly keen on any two together, truth be told.

In fact, when a man with a cricket bat for a cock is part of the equation, even just one of those items can be quite overwhelming.

I think I’ll start showering at home.  In my clothing.