Racoons in the Attick, tick... tick...

Damn! There are raccoons in the attic yet again.

I don’t know, but I have sprinkled my urine in the corners that is supposed to warn them off that the territory is already claimed, but these creatures pay no attention to the signal. This means that either they can’t smell (i.e., handicapped) or they had not bothered to read their own DNA-manual (mentally retarded)..

Now where had I put the live trap? I’m sure it’s in the barn someplace. I’m reminded that I don’t have a perfect record using this implement (certified 100% humane). I have repeatedly caught my cat, and the last time, a fully functioning skunk who let it be known it wasn’t amused. I had some difficulty letting the creature go without getting contaminated for a tomato juice bath. In the end I had to use a large plastic sheet, cover the entire cage and deftly employing a long stick spring the mechanism that is hard to manhandle in the best of circumstances. After considerable trial and error, I did manage, before the creature could sign the lease. For a month, the memento of that encounter lingered on the front yard.
But this is a new batch of raccoons. Strange, they usually come before winter and move out during the late spring. But this time, they chose a transitional period, not quite this but not quite that either.

2 years ago, I drove 6 raccoons (one at a time) to release into a forest about 15 k’s north. My friend warned me, to make sure to have a river between my location and the release site, so they won’t find their way back. No river, so had to settle for four lanes of the 400, as it is well known that raccoons are notoriously bad at crossing highways. If one makes it, then it deserves to make it.

But what am I worried about, this clutch(?) of raccoons are mentally challenged or handicapped, they can’t smell their way home, or use the GPS that the street wise urban raccoons can. In any case, I’ll let you know how I made out.

Call to Celebrate

After a gruelling 12 months through an accelerated paramedic program, my oldest graduated first in his class.

Here he is, giving the valedictorian address.



And again, more relaxed with his lovely girlfriend.


Behind the camera are two very proud parents.

Of course, now we no longer have medical opinions to speak of...

The Spider and the Fly.

Naively I thought it would be so easy. Build a website from scratch, just the way I want, how I want.

Although, I’m not of the "text-now" generation, I know a few things. Hell, I still remember programming in machine language (1000110010100001...) so I thought, well how hard can it be?

So I started. OK, I can learn HTML. At the end of which, I found out that I had to also learn CSS, and after that XHTML (Extensible what??!), followed by JavaScript. To a smaller and larger degree, I did all that. But was is Joomla?

And I did put together a website that worked on my computer. So then, I rented myself space, loaded it, and there I was--on my own WEB.

"Come in. Come in," said the spider to the fly, who was just surfing by, "Look at my attractive web. Careful, you don’t want to get stuck. But look around at all my treasures, my guilty pleasures..."

And there I’m, day in, day out, hoping someone will drop in.

Trouble Parking

I wheeled a hard right into paid-parking serving the bus depot. I had to take the bus to Waterloo, and I was in big trouble. I had plenty of time, the schedule had said not till 8:45, so that wasn’t the problem. What was though, was that I had to go in the worst way, and had just three seconds to reach a bathroom before my bladder would explode. I pulled up to the kiosk to get my time-stamp, but the attendant was busy on the exit side, where an outbound patron was paying for his stay. They made a social time of it, chitchatting, while I was in the last stages of pain.

I had to do something... NOW! I jumped out of the car, just leaving it in the entrance lane, strode across to the bus depot, took a tight turn toward the washrooms in the back. I was within reach when I ... when I woke up, out of a dream, home in bed.

But the urgency was real, very real.

I scrambled out of bed, and staggered into the bathroom. Having reached the refuge of the bowl, about to be relieved, I nonetheless hesitated. The mind did tricky things when it did not want to wake up when nature called, and "dreamed up" a bathroom for convenience, not caring about the repercussions. In agony I did a quick reality test to find that I was indeed in my bathroom and it was safe to proceed--which then I did. I can hardly describe the relief and rush of well-being that followed.

My business done, I stumbled back into the bed room, eased down on my bed, and in two winks of the eye was back in my dream. So then, I walked out of the depot into the parking lot, noticing for the first time what a beautiful sunny day it was. I crossed over to the kiosk, only to find my van gone. During the three minutes I had been away, my car had been towed. The attendant was still busy with a new customer, so I pushed into the adjoining office to inquire about my car. A man with a bushy hair looked up from his desk, the very picture of an owner of such an enterprise.

"Yeah?" he demanded gruffly, directing all his attention on me.

"Excuse me, but my car has been moved..."

He frowned hard, and set to berate me for blocking his business access, costing him tons of money.

"I had no choice... my bladder was going to explode... had only couple of seconds..." I stumbled through my excuse.

The owner turned to his partner and said in a smug voice, "See, just like I told you, Jake. There is always a story someplace. Even in a straight forward business like ours." He looked back at me with a sharp look, calculating. He had me: he could legally charge me a hundred bucks for a tow and in his mind he was already spending the fine he was set to extort from me. But I had him dead to rights too; we both knew we were in a dream, and I could just say screw it and walk away scot free. In the end we settled for $6.00, the regular charge for half-day parking.

With a sense of triumph I walked into the bus depot, bought my ticket and climbed on the Waterloo bus. The glow was still with me as I eased into the seat. Now, if I only knew why I was going to Waterloo, everything would be fine. But between the start and the end of the dream I had forgotten, but I was going anyway. Perhaps on the way I would remember...

The Flame

With the goal still half a continent away, the torch passed through my small town over a month ago with a windy cold, driving snow into our faces. We lined the road like penguins, huddled together for warmth and shelter, four, five deep on either side. The street was blocked, police cruisers patroling up and down trying to keep the road open.

On the side feeder streets buses were disgorging more school kids, coming from 50 miles away; mothers were pushing strollers through the crowd, trying to get a glimpse of the route. Stores emptied; businesses closed shop; people wrapped in their warmest, were waiting, stomping feelings into their feet. Everywhere you looked, people were still coming. Then it got so crowded, you couldn't see anything.

Lights flashing, a procession of fire trucks rumbled by, giving us a burst of horns. It was cold and our breath smoked. Beside me shivering, were grade niners, holding onto each other. Some had flags to wave, so they waved them. Others had cell phones out, taking pictures of each other, red noses and all.

The runner was late, way behind schedule, and we had been standing there for an hour, jostling each other. The line was solid to the east and solid to the west as far as thr eye could see. More cars passed; the sponsoring Coke truck blaring music moved by' more police and emergency vehicles, lights ablaze, flashing, tried to keep the road open. The anticipation was there but where was the runner?

By now I could see nothing beyond the press of people. Eventually a shivers passed through the crowd, full sirens approached, and a phalanx of police cars squeezed through the constricted road. The cops inside, for once, were smiling and waving to the throng. I was up front, holding hands, forming a chain, to keep the tide of people back. We had overflowed curbside, and half-choked off the way. I recognized the police chief in his SUV, so the runner had to be near. Hold tight, I warned the adjoining links, and we held as the crowd surged again and pushed us onto the road some more.

Then the crowd roared and applauded, and in a flash, a young girl, with a bright smile, proudly holding the flame, bounded by. Who was she? What had she done to deserve the honour? In 12 seconds she was gone, swallowed by the crowd. Someone hit me on the head with the flag he was waving so enthusiastically.

What had just happened? That was it. The fruit of all the waiting? No more? In minutes the crowd cleared, rushing for warmth. It took longer to clear the choked-up parking that grew around the passing of the flame. A line of yellow school buses tried to weave through the congestion.

On a cold, blustery winter day, the sun had shone for 12 seconds, warmed the air with enthusiasm, then passed on. Hundreds of elementary graders, no doubt, had to write about the chain of runners who brought the flame all the way from Greece, onto our shore, heading for Vancouver.

So, last night, I saw the flame arrive. Then the lighting of the rings. In spite of my innate cynicism over such a tribal ritual, I was touched, remembering that for 12 seconds I was also a part of it.

Hell no! I won't...

Every morning when I can fit it in, I exercise for 30-40 minutes, dancing to RAM-Killing In The Name: "Do what they tell you," pounds into my brain. My body responds, revving up. The heavy beat of the music drives me to dance, to gyrate and to shadow box. I resists: I lash back. I move, I vibrate, topping up my own rage: "No, I will not DO what THEY tell ME ..."

By the time I hit the weights, 72lbs in each hand, I’m sweating, but have full rage on. I snap off the count, on a good day to 30 reps, gritting my teeth, straight up, then down, sideways, alternate laterals. You would think that I would burn up the fury--but No, the base conspires with the drums to drive me higher still. The lyrics delivered in staccato rhythm of a machine gun bursts, come screaming at me, bouncing off me. My muscles are tight, burning. My face a mask of clenched fury as I ricochet and feed off the pulse of the anger of the song.

When finished, I’m not tired at all. I’m ready to slam through doors, burst through the walls. I’m fuelled by an overcharge of emotions, burning with an accelerant like gasoline. My ODD (Oppositional Defiant Disorder) won’t let me go. "Hell NO! I won’t do as They tell me..."

Often, I have to, in this state, face the day. Watch out world, I’m coming through.

On the weekends I have time to switch to Tristania and decompress, let the fires burn out, cool down. I sometimes tell myself I have to chose a more pro-social song to exercise to, but I need the anger to face the repetition and mindless effort. Either that or take steroids... Hell no! I won’t...

My poor blog. I have neglected you of late. Cobwebs have gathered in the corners, opportunistic weeds have sprung up between the paragraphs. The proud capitals, the flagship of my sentences, have been overgrown by fungi. Decay has set in. I despairs--but there is so much else to do.

I’m struggling to get my first book (self) published, which puts all the onus on me. I have been toiling, designing covers, rereading the proof (just one more time), learning HTML, CSS, Java Script, just so I can build a supportive website.

I have also been fending off offers from promoters and book packagers, who are promising to boost the visibility of my book, all for a little or for a lot of cash. Success is just a check away, they promise.

No! Look for me on some street corner, selling from the curbside, while I offer to wash your windshield (as a bonus). You’ll not find me on Amazon, Indigo or Chapters. More likely I’ll be trolling Main Street with a sandwichboard, proclaiming the rarest books in print in all of Canada, perhaps the world.
Every book comes with a warranty: should you not understand something, I’ll be right over to your home to explain it personally.

But oh my poor blog! You have paid the price for my quest for glory and suffered the neglect. My garden of words in decline, forgetfulness eroding content.

It is a good thing no one is reading you.