When the knife entered his chest, nestling uncomfortably between his third and fourth rib next to what he imagined was a rather important area of his heart, he frowned in consternation. It seemed to him that it was slightly unfair for his life to end so abruptly over what now seemed such a ridiculous issue. He appealed to the higher power whose existence he had previously been sceptical of, but received no response. As he lay in the asphalt, gurgling and clutching his chest in wide-eyed agony he thought of several other responses he could have given those punks. Responses that, most likely, would not have resulted in him having his chest cavity introduced to the long stainless steel blade with the serrated edge. Was it a steak knife? His inner voice laughed sardonically at the idea of gangsters wielding their mother’s steak knives in lieu of more martial blades. The response he had chosen had been pretty clever and he usually did not think of such witty comebacks until at least fifteen minutes after the fact. Of course, his reply was not the sort of wit that was worth risking a mortal wound for the brief joy of its utterance. There were probably few one-liners that were worth that risk, even if one suffered from a poverty of such ingenuity.
He had not thought about death too often in his life. To him, it had seemed a distant destination on a journey with far more interesting things to consider. The girl at the far wall of the club, for instance. He was sure that she had been eying him. He wished he had possessed the courage to approach her and rattle off a clever line so that she would twirl her dark brown hair around her finger, tilt her head, lower her eyes, and smile sweetly. Then she would dance with him and perhaps they could have spent the next day walking her dog in the park — assuming, of course, that she had a dog. He assumed she did. Probably a Pekinese.
What happened now? He wondered how long he had been a stabbing victim. He reckoned that it was anywhere from two minutes to an hour. When he looked up, though, he could still see the retreating backs of his assailants. They had been very generic looking, he observed retroactively. Average height, average build, averagely dressed plain-faced white youths with steak knives slipped into the elastics of their plain grey boxers. One, of course, no longer had his steak knife, which lay precariously in all of the glory of its Chinese manufacturing on the lip of the eaves-trough somewhere above his head. One youth turned his average-looking profile to glance back at him, a look hovering between braggadocio and regret. He felt a sudden rush of anger at having his life stolen by such generic looking white-bread gangsters. If he had been stabbed by some harder looking criminals he would have had a small piece of comfort. These suburban gangsters, who would have had all of their pockets emptied within five minutes of arriving at a real ghetto, were an almost unbearable death. Unbearable death? He decided that any death would have been unbearable at this point. He was too young.
Wow, he had never felt pain like this. He had broken a finger before, but that pain seemed the peep of a small bird compared to this constant roar of pain. He found it immensely difficult to breathe and he was amazed at the amount of blood his wound was able to generate. His head was growing light, a sign of his incoming death, he decided. Perhaps there was an afterlife. His mind was fuzzy, his vision blurry, and he seemed unable to recall the basic lessons of his catechism. TULIP. Total depravity, unconditional something, limited something, irresistible something, and Puh, puh, puh. “The devil with it . . .” he muttered through dry bloodied lips. He found it difficult to continue a sentence he had set out to begin somewhere in his mind. His shoulders were convulsing involuntarily and his legs twitched. A Gordon Lightfoot song was playing in his mind, but without words and just the twang of nonsense words to the sound of discordant guitar. The brain is an incredible organ, he observed numbly.
An incredible organ.

April 2nd, 2005.*

Paul Martin is Prime Minister of Canada.
Pope John Paul II has died.
G-mail celebrates its first Birthday.

And in a small unassuming unit of a townhouse complex on the West Mountain of Hamilton, university students prepare for a meal. Spaghetti boils on the stove, and several hungry men mill about. Their concentration is broken only by a loud squawk. From whence this squawk?

The source is quickly found.

Perched high on the refrigerator is Bill Bopper**, his stance that of a majestic vulture. As astonished as his friends were, the question remained: what had transformed this young man from a mild-mannered student into a fierce scavenger?

As intelligent as these university students were, they were asking the wrong question. A better question would have been the following: Who exactly is this Bill Bopper?

William Bopper was born September 19th, 1981 to Mr. and Mrs. Robert and Alicia Bopper. As a boy, his parents noticed a strange habit: Bill would circle his food several time before finally eating it. And even when he ate his food, he ate like a bird.***

The peculiar behaviour continued. Once, his mother noted with alarm, a four year old Bill squawking loudly at a brother who had stolen his donut. If only his mother had known the origins of his bizarre behaviour.

July 13, 1984: The Bopper family is camping in a rather idyllic provincial park snuggled next to Lake Ontario. Older brother Shawn has persuaded his sister that a poison ivy plant is, in fact, a salve. While both parents struggle to comfort their weeping daughter and punish their wayward son, young Bill has wandered off down a nearby trail.

Poor Bill is oblivious to the fact that his heavy footfalls have disturbed the peace of a creature that would forever change the direction of his life, a creature whose fate was so closely tied to his own.****

On that fateful July day, Bill disturbs a powerful creature. This creature is . . . *****

Bill Bopper has displayed strange behaviour for quite some time. On July 13th, 1984, Bill Bopper wanders off and disturbs a powerful creature. A gigantic vulture******

On any other day with any other vulture this would have been fine. This vulture, however, was a cantankerous brute who, exiled from his venue*******, had flown wildly off on his own. Once on its own, the bird had madly pursued the notion that there were vast amounts of carrion lodged in the Pickering nuclear facility. The bird, ravaged by hunger, had pecked its way through several feet of cement only to expose itself to deadly levels of radioactivity********. Rather than die of the various cancers that should have infected its body, the vulture became a super beast. Kind of like Spiderman, but a vulture.

Returning to that fateful July day, when Phil disturbs this radioactive vulture. Bill is pecked sharply, drawing blood and indelibly altering Bill's DNA.

When a screeching Bill returns to camp flapping his arms his parents assume it is because he has fallen and cut himself on a rock. If only his parents had known:

Their son was a vulture man.

*This story is meant to be read with a serious deep voice, like that of Peter Mansbridge. If it is read otherwise, its true strength will not be felt.
** Some names have been changed to protect the identities of those involved.
*** The word bird is meant to be read ominously. Hence, the italics.
**** Now would be a good time to take a break, like a commercial break. It's more dramatic that way. Go get a drink or something.
***** This is sort of like a teaser in between commercials. Take another break. Maybe get a cookie to go with that drink.
****** Remember what was said earlier about italics? It still applies.
******* A group of vultures is called a venue. Unless they're circling, then they're referred to as a kettle.
******** The reporter had trouble with this part of the story, and was forced to manufacture a gap in the story. The vulture pecking through cement made the most sense and was therefore inserted into an otherwise entirely accurate story.

Deconstruction

"Rhyming is vulgar," the poet said,
"it shackles your rhythm to the absurd
when poems should be naturally bled
in a hemorrhage of the beautiful word."
"My soul cannot be chained by structure,
metaphors flow in violent rivers,
form is a dam which my words rupture
form is the cold, rhyme gives me shivers
damn the form! rupture my words!
a cacaphony of clasping crawling jaws
a cold arctic crab, a conditional clause
a moon on the sun man to walk
red
first seven, now six, now is poem dead."

70 Uses for a Cinder Block

1) Set it on the ground, close your eyes, and wish for other blocks so that you can build a wall.

2) Use it as a paper weight when faced with strong winds.

3) See how far you can throw it.

4) Sit on it.

5) Grind it to dust and throw the dust in the air to test wind patterns.

6) Hold a door open.

7) Break a window.

8) Crush small rodents.

9) Crush big rodents.

10) Set it down vertically and balance on it on one foot like the Karate Kid.

11) Use it as a penitential pillow.

12) Anthropomorphize it, give it a name, and then talk to it after being stranded on a deserted island. If it falls off of your raft while you're trying to escape, that's it though. It's not floating away dramatically, that thing is going to sink.

13) Tie it to your wrist as a reminder of that thing you got to do when you get home.

14) Relieve your itch with its coarse texture.

15) Flatten a pop can.

16) Paint it a pretty colour and then put it on your lawn.

17) Mangle your lawnmower blades on it.

18) Use it as ballast.

19) Ford a creek that happens to be both shallow and narrow.

20) Use it to reach the top shelf.

21) Yes, it can hold up the endtable.

22) Affix it firmly to your copy of any season of a show involving Paris Hilton and throw it into the deepest darkest depths of the ocean.

23) Drop it like it's hot.

24) Use it as a creative muse.

25) Dent your car.

26) Dent someone else's car.

27) Light a match on it.

28) Imagine how it would sound if it were rubbed against a blackboard.

29) Use it to keep your place in a book.

30) Put soil in it and grow flowers out of it.

31) Lift it repeatedly to gain muscle strength.

32) Create an obstacle for would-be thieves.

33) Rest your drink on it.

34) Store your collection of shiny objects inside of it.

35) Pulverize anthills.

36) Use it as a soapbox. As in a stage for a speech, not a box for your soap.

37) You can also store your soap in it if your want to.

38) Throw it in a bog and then imagine an archaeologist getting excited about it in 2,000 years.

39) Use it as a goalpost for your pickup soccer game.

40) Crack open walnuts.

41) Use it as a bookend.

42) Dangle it from your rearview mirror.

43) Write your thesis on the influence it has had on postwar suburban American architectural angst.

44) Put in a cardboard box.

45) Put your car in drive and place it on your gas pedal.

46) Play catch with it.

47) Use it to break a hole in the ice so you can fish or swim or whatever.

48) Karate chop it in twane.

49) Submit it to the National Art Gallery of Canada.

50) Take blurry photographs of it and submit it to the National Art Gallery of Canada.

51) Launch it from a catapult to, uh, knock down a wall or something.

52) Knock down a wall with it.

53) Grow your MiracleGro grass on it like on the infomercial.

54) Wrap it up and give it to your unsuspecting cousins for Christmas.

55) Donate it to your neighbour.

56) See how far you can slide it across the ice.

57) Use it as a keychain.

58) Grind your coffee beans.

59) Use it as a writing surface.

60) Tenderize your steak.

61) Leave at least one corner of your wheel-less car on blocks.

62) Use it to mash your bananas. You can mash your potatoes with it as well.

63) Create a large splash.

64) Use it as a starting point for questioning reality.

65) Compare it to the brain of the person you are debating.

66) Use it as a highly ineffectual hiding place.

67) Use it lieu of a front step.

68) Use it as an object lesson.

69) Think of it as your life, heavy and burdensome but highly useful in certain situations.

70) Use it as an inspiration for meaningless metaphors.

"How are you?"

"Oh, I'm fine. If fine means horrible."

"Your pleasure depends on one word's definition?"

"No, it depends on you being silent."

"So, if I talk you're fine?"

"No, vice versa."

"You're fine if I talk? I don't see the difference."

"No, I'm fine if you button it."

"Button what? My jacket?"

"No, zip it."

"My jacket doesn't have a zipper."

"Shut it."

"It is shut. It has buttons for that very purpose."

"I said don't talk."

"I don't remember you saying that."

"Can it."

". . . can it what?"

"Be quiet."

"Why, yes, a jacket with buttons can be a lot quieter than one with a zipper."

". . ."

"So, how are you?"

"Horrible."

"Oh really? Why?"

"I'm talking to you."

"I know, but why do you feel horrible?"

Fast Food: A True Story

As I was waiting in line at a local fast-food restaurant yesterday, a portly gentleman came and stood behind me. He eyed the line with a look of grave distaste and shook his head.

"Is this the line to order?" he gestured at the line of people waiting to order their food.

I looked at the line of six or seven people who were obviously waiting to order their food.

"No, this is the line for the washroom," is what I would have said if I had wanted to start a fight. Instead, I said, "Yes, it is."

His hands fluttered into the air in disgust, "Screw this," he huffed and then stormed out of the restaurant.

"If you lack the patience to wait in line for a hamburger for five minutes, then you have to ask yourself if you really are hungry after all!" I would have shouted after him if I had wanted to pass along some unsolicited advice. Instead, I kept my place in the queue while I counted the tiles on the floor.

Update

~ I'm back this time, I really am.

~ No, really, I'm back. For real.

~ Remember when I didn't post anything? Well, now I'm posting things again.

~ This is coming rather late in the game, but my mother has published a book and also has her own blog: here. The book is called Blooming and is about a Christian woman's spiritual journey. One of the main characters in her book is named Paul, a likable chap who seems both witty and highly employable. If I have one criticism for the book it is that this character has very few lines despite his obvious genius.

~ Don't you hate it when people use clichés like "late in the game"?

~ Don't you hate it when someone tries to get you to agree to a statement by prefacing it with the phrase "don't you hate it when?"

~ I just learned that the reason honey is so easy to digest is that it has already been digested by bees. Makes sense.

~ Laurianne says hi.

~ Actually, she doesn't. She's not here right now, but I would imagine that she would say hi if I asked her to.

~ If any of my readers remember, I used to refer to my horribly disfigured fingernails a lot. Good news, the doctor claims that they should be growing normally by July. Then you never have to hear about them anymore.

~ Unless you want me to. I could write a story about my horribly disfigured fingernails every week if you wanted me to. I really could.

~ Linda and Rachel visited us about four weeks ago. We had a wonderful visit and Linda seemed a lot more like her old self. We went to Don Cherry's for Breakfast and I was amazed at how much Linda could eat. Apparently her nickname around her house is the "garburator." This was given not because she eats garbage, but because she eats a lot of leftovers . . . I think.

~ I have another sister who is famous around my former home for eating some butter that had been discarded into the garbage can. If life were fair, she would be the one called the garburator.

~ Blogger is insisting that I have spelled garburator incorrectly, but after using an online dictionary I believe this is just another case of my vocabulary being more extensive than Blogger's.

~ Here's a quotation that made me think: "Government is an institution that prevents injustice other than such as it commits itself" - Ibn Khaldun.

~ I missed this.

~ This, as in posting things on my blog.

~ A special shout-out to all Peter Tosh fans out there.

~ Quoting from Ibn Khaldun almost made it sound like I was poring over his works and came across that quotation and simply had to write it down. If you want to think that, it's fine with me.

~ Am I the only one who thinks the fact that Beyoncé has an alter-ego named Sasha Fierce is pretty funny? I mean, she presumably sat down, thought up the name Sasha Fierce, and then proceeded to think it was an awesome name to give her alter-ego.

~ My alter-ego's name is Patrick Smith. He's just a regular guy.

~ I doubt many of this blog's readers are fans of Beyoncé. If you are, please comment and I will give a name along with a description of your alter-ego.

~ If you are not a fan of Beyoncé you can still comment, and you can have a cookie. Look in your cupboard, they're probably there.

~ Song of the Moment: Ron Sexsmith - All in Good Time