Ever notice how it's the little things in life that amuse us so much? More to the point, ever notice how it's the silly little idiocies in life that amuse us more than anything else? Well, this is not as much ''the little blog that could'' as it is ''the blog that enjoys going up the down escalator in your local mall.'' Will it have anything of real importance? No, probably not. But enjoy the ride never the less!

 
"Would You Come To My House And Lick My Table?"

The temptation to utter those words in stammering, adoring fashion to one of my favourite, illustrious and rather jovial authors, Neil Gaiman, was overwhelming yesterday. Not to actually have the honour of him actually licking any of my tables, but just to see the look on Neil Gaiman’s face. I enjoy making everybody’s day more surreal.

And he really has nothing to worry anyways; I don’t own any tables.

But yesterday was thoroughly enjoyable as I loitered around a Chapters bookstore for a few hours amidst throngs of other Gaiman fans, eager for the chance to walk up to the distinguished writer, try to sound cool and coherent, and in the end only manage to drool and make Wookiesque noises. Fortunately, I did not require a bib.

There’s nothing like a line of fans to inspire outlandish silliness. Especially when one shows up two hours before the signing just to get a good spot in the growing line, and you wind up getting stuck in the section filled with nothing but computer programming manuals. I can only read so much about C++ and Java before throwing caution to the wind (or in this case, the HVAC systems) and conjuring up strange ideas.

Initially, there were two of us setting off on the quest for Neil Gaiman’s book signing. My friend Kevin decided to surprise everyone by showing up in Toronto all of a sudden. I learned this when I buzzed in at the front lobby of my uncle’s apartment, and instead of his voice, I have Kevin saying, "Ah, wonderful! The crossdresser’s arrived!"

Naturally, this loud question being broadcasted through the intercom speakers garnered some funny looks in my direction. I think we almost gave that poor elderly lady a heart attack. Don’t understand why she seemed so upset, though. I mean, I only crossdress on Thursdays!

So the next day, Kevin and I meandered into the line-up. Being there two hours early earned us a place where only 30 people were ahead of us. Beforehand, we had decided to try and be witty by finding a banana daiquiri for Neil. Apparently this is more difficult a task than you’d think: the local liquor stores had no such thing. All they had were strawberry daiquiris and banana mudslides. We really should have bought a banana mudslide for Neil.

After all, if the scientific rumours are true, bananas might be extinct in a decade or so, and he should really enjoy them while he has the chance.

During our wait, we were given a coupon for a free Spinach & Artichoke Dip that could be used at the restaurant across the street from Chapters. Upon retrospection, I really should have given this coupon to Neil too. That way be could have had a dip and a mudslide!

But alas, I was unable to demonstrate such Canadian hospitality and thoughtfulness.

There was also a quest amidst all this. It was a great and epic and holy quest. I quested throughout the downtown core of Toronto to seek out a copy of Good Omens, written by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. Like the banana daiquiri, this adventure turned out to be more arduous than initially expected.

"How hard is it to find a popular paperback in downtown Toronto?" you may ask.

Pretty damned hard, as a matter of fact.

The Chapters where the signing was taking place did not have any copies. The equally enormous Indigo Books store in the not-so-large-as-very-long-and somewhat-deep Eaton’s Centre mall did not have any such book. But perchance would the World’s Biggest Bookstore have one? Nope.

In the end, a small Coles bookstore tucked away in the lower dungeony depths of the Eaton’s Centre had Good Omens. A lot of them. You’d think they had stolen all the books from their competitors and were hording them on their own shelves. So Good Omens was purchased. And it killed an hour of waiting for me so that was an added bonus. Sure, Kevin languished in the bookstore as he kept our place, but if you can’t exploit your friends then who can you?

And then Neil Gaiman graced us with his presence. I was half-expecting there to be a procession of nubile, faerie maidens prancing down the book aisles casting petals of flowers before Neil as he sauntered to his signing table, but I guess in the end there wasn’t enough in the budget for that. At the very least they were able to afford a Depeche Mode CD which they played during the first hour of his signing.

I wonder if that was at Gaiman’s request?

Anyhoo, soon enough it was time for Kevin and I to stand before his Gaimanness, and place our offerings of books for him to sign. With Good Omens atop my stack, I gazed wistfully at him and gushed (though I might be paraphrasing), "I am such a big fan of yours, Sir! It’s such an honour to meet...hey, wait a minute! You’re not Terry Pratchett!"

Whereupon Neil laughed and said, "No, no I’m not."

Whereupon I turned to Kevin and said, "You told me we were meeting the author of Good Omens!"

Whereupon Kevin said, "He IS one of the authors of Good Omens. There’s two of them! See, his name is right after Terry Pratchett’s!"

Whereupon I said, "Oh. Carry on then."

After my books were signed and lovingly caressed (though the Chapters employee attending to Gaiman’s every need and whim expressly forbid me from putting any of his freshly signed books down my pants in Neil Gaiman’s presence), I asked if I could take my photograph with him. And Neil cheerfully agreed.

Go Neil.

I scooted around the table and stood next to him, and he lifted his head for the typical pose stance. But then I asked, "Should I assume some sort of pose or something here?" Neil immediately went back to signing Kevin’s books (Kevin was taking the picture at the time) and told me to, "Leer menacingly."

Well, who was I to argue?

So there’s a picture on my camera waiting to be developed with Neil Gaiman signing a book, and me leaning over his shoulder with this evil, "Oh yes, you want to sign this book or else I shall force-feed you that horrible screenplay for The Sandman!"

Now this picture was taken without the flash, and I really didn’t know if the picture would turn out properly since the lighting was questionable. (I still won’t know until the pictures are developed.) So another picture was taken.

Neil added, "Leer not so menacingly this time."

So ideally the second picture will be of Neil Gaiman signing a book, with me peering over his shoulder as if I’m not sure if he’s really signing it and just faking the pen motions, or else because I’m still not sure if he’s really Terry Pratchett.

After the signing, I flitted off like some drunken hummingbird, happily clutching at my signed books and singing Scarecrow’s "If I Only Had A Brain" to myself. Overall, if I had to describe the experience, my single-word response would be: inspiring. Being an aspiring writer and novelist myself, it was a wonderful experience to simply be around a fun and imaginative author.

I’ve managed to get back into writing more in the last few days--an impressive feat considering I’m balancing it alongside a fiancée, a wedding, a job, and an apartment hunt. One day I hope to be there signing books at a table next to Neil Gaiman. One day I hope to write a book with Neil Gaiman...well, actually he could do most of the writing and I’d just share in the glory.

One day....

In the meantime, it suddenly occurs to me that I still need to mention my newest book idea to Neil and see if he thinks it might work. Personally, I think Neverwhere’s Waldo? would be a surefire best-seller.

Today’s Lesson: Neil Gaiman is not Terry Pratchett.


posted by Phillip at 5:50 PM

 
Melange

Well, it's been quite some time since the last bit of nowhere was to be seen or heard, and in the meantime the world has undergone not-exactly-staggering-but-still-worth-mentioning changes, and not-so-epic-but-certainly-anecdotal discoveries. Here they are!


Sex Appeal

A few days ago, I was goosed by an elevator. There I was, sitting near the doorway, when the elevator doors made a none too subtle groping of my butt as they passed me by. By the time I could turn around with an indignant look on my face, the elevator doors had already moved on by and I could do nothing. It seems peculiar to know that I have some latent sex appeal that brings out the frisky passions and libitos of inanimate objects. I'm not entirely sure if this is an ego-inflating concept (after all, how many of you out there can say you've aroused a couch or an elevator door?), or a frightening one.


"Quick, Put Toto In The Picnic Basket!"

The mall I work at has a security bunker in case some wild twister decides to get up to some Level-5 shenanigans. It also doubles as a fire escape. And a bomb shelter. In truth it's nothing more than a very large, very long and overly-glorified cement tunnel that runs the course underneath the mall. So if my kiosk decides to spontaneously combust, I know where to flee to.


Moo?

Sears is in possession of a toilet that, when flushed, sounds like a cow is being stuffed into it. Why anyone would try to get a toilet to emulate the sound of a hapless bovine being given a swirlie is beyond me, but apparently someone felt that it should work this way. To this, I give a helpless shrug.


And I Wasn't Told Of This Earlier, Because?

Perhaps the greatest discovery and earth-shattering revelation of all the last few days has been learning that the colour periwinkle is not, in fact, a shade of yellow. Periwinkle is of a blueish or violet tint. For years I was led to believe that when anything was said to be Periwinkle in colour, it was yellowish. I have been living a lie for all these years....


Today's Lesson: Neil Gaiman is a seriously cool author who I admire and want to imitate, though not in a single-white-female kind of way. Oh, and it's pronounced Gay-man, not Guy-man.



posted by Phillip at 5:53 PM

 
The Hills Are Alive With The Sound of Chirping

Well, actually it's not the hills so much as it's the basement. And that chirping noise is not necessarily a good one either. I think I'd taken it for granted just how bloody loud a cricket can be. At first the peculiar chirping noises appeared to be a metal pipe that was vibrating or rattling oddly. Then after it started and stopped three more times, it was apparent that a cricket had invaded the basement.

This was by no means an aggressive, Viking-like "raped the horses, rode off on the women, and pruned the hedges of many small villages" invasion. Yet I think I almost would have welcomed a burly Olgar the Dreaded storming down the stairs and demanding I submit. My response would be, "certainly, but you must shower first."

For a moment we would be at an impasse. The Olgar in all likelihood would cave my head in. There's a reason his last name is "the Dreaded" after all.

But back to the cricket: I'm as fond of nature as the next person. I let butterflies dance around the backyard, and kill the unruly mosquitos who dare think they're good enough to suck my O-negative. I read National Geographic and watch the Discovery Channel. Yet when a cricket is chirping at 11pm with all the surround sound capacity of a Dolby 5.1 speaker set, I am not amused.

Worst of all, the little green bugger had managed to get himself on one of the ceiling pipes. I outwitted the small greenish insect by devising a cunning plan that involved a ladder, a flashlight and happy, happy thoughts. Then the cricket outwitted me by jumping onto the floor. At least I had first presumed it was the floor. Then I felt something climbing up the side of my arm.

Yes, it appeared that the cricket had miscalculated his landing and was now perched on me like some erstaz parrot. So I cupped a hand over him to prevent him from escaping, saunted up to the front porch and let him sing his mating call outside where I couldn't hear him.

I'm sure there's some sort of poignant "live and let live" message here, or perhaps a wonderful sermon about "striking a balance between the coexistance between human civilization (such as it is) and nature". But it's late at night and I'd rather not spend so much time sounding sanctimonious. So good night!

Today's Lesson: the bottom-most button on a tuxedo jacket is always left undone. Why? Well...I'm sure there's a good reason for it, tradition and all, but damned if I know the reasoning. And if you only have one button on your tuxedo jacket, it stays buttoned.




posted by Phillip at 7:01 PM

 
Not A Good Kind Of Hurt

It came to my attention at around 3:34pm this afternoon (give or take a few seconds) that I have a surprisingly large bundle of nerve endings and pain receptors located at the tip of my right hip.

This discovery was achieved through a complete lack of co-ordination and depth perception on my part, where I swung around the cash till at Bentley and managed to quite impressively whack the tip of my right hip against the edge of the counter. What followed was a complete and total numbness that overtook most of my right thigh and almost made me lose bladder control. (And believe me, in retail work nothing is perhaps more important than maintaining proper bladder control in front of the customers.)

This numbess was quickly followed by a horrific prickling in my skin, as if hundreds of small maggots were writhing about. And that was followed my many colourful words hissed through my clenched jaws that really shouldn't be repeated in front of small children. It required another minute or two before I could stand upright and feel no pain.

It has often been thought, and is probably rather accurate, that most of the greatest scientific discoveries in history were done so by sheer accident or dumb luck. I'm torn between which of these two to blame for nearly losing bladder control during my work shift. Whether or not this same surprisingly large bundle of nerve endings and pain receptors also resides on my left hip I do not know currently, nor do I want to test to find out.

Today's Lesson: there is a fine line between pleasure and pain. Cracking your hip bone against the edge of a wooden counter clearly flings itself across that line into "Painful" territory.


posted by Phillip at 5:27 PM

 
The Urge?

This morning, whilst visiting my one set of grandparents in Oshawa, I found myself in dire need of shampoo for my morning shower. This is a frequent occurence; I often don't bother bringing shampoo with me when I travel. Mainly because my bottle of shampoo is an enormous green 1-litre bottle. And why bother lugging your own shampoo when you can pillage the shampoo bottles of those you're visiting?

Today's shampoo-for-the-pillaging happened to be of the Herbal Essence brand. I stepped into the shower. I used the shampoo. No trio of large, buffed, cute guys in black shirts & pants appeared to give me a scalp massage. Right now I'm feeling both overwhelmingly relieved and strangely disappointed. All those Herbal Essence commercials have always made me think that I can summon a trio of guys to do my bidding by simply popping open a cap of shampoo, and their inherent lack of appearance leads me to think that somehow those commercials were misleading.

On the other hand, there's no way all four of us could have fit into that cramped shower stall. Plus, they'd all see me naked. If anyone other than Mel's going to see me naked, they had better pay up. To paraphrase Shinobu Tezuka: "Even a ghost (or in this case, three guys created for a shampoo ad) shouldn't get a free show from me."

Today's Lesson: it is a bad idea to let a Shih-tzu near the television set when a dog show is being shown. Unless, of course, you like not being able to hear anything over the incessant, frenzied barking.



posted by Phillip at 7:03 AM

 
Not-So-Shameless Product Plug

For those of you who don't know (and shame on you for being oblivious!), I am getting married in the nearer-than-it-felt-a-month-ago future. Subsequently many a plans are being hatched to ensure a short ceremony, an enjoyable reception, and fairly soundproof walls for the Royal York hotel room Mel and I are planning to spend our honeymoon in. There are of course many small and at times irking details that must be sorted out in the meantime.

It seems quite fitting that the first time I do any sort of international importing (and use my new credit card for my first ever online purchase) would be for the wedding. My love of Anime and manga aside, I've never been one to run around trying to grab something simply because it's exotic and hard to find on this continent. I am quite content with the selections I find around me, thank you very much.

However, there's been one notable exception, and that revolves around the wedding ring. I am very pleased to have my wedding band in my possession now. It took only two weeks of waiting from the initial order to holding it in my hot little hands. It's a beautiful sterling silver band with the Hebraic script of the famous lovers' lines from the Song of Solomon: I Am My Beloved's And She Is Mine. On the interior of the band Mel's and my name, and the date of the wedding has been inscribed.

And all I had to do was custom order it from Jerusalem, Israel.

I admit a great deal of nervousness was had during the ordering process. Without any idea of knowing how it would look until I received it, there was a lot of profuse sweating and extra showers. Well...it was either over the wait, or else all the humidity. Yet when the ring arrived yesterday, I couldn't have been grinning any bigger. The wedding ring looks even more fantastic than I was hoping for. The quality and the courtesy that the craftsmen of "Porat Jewellery" in Israel showed me has been amazing, hence the reason I am so intent on plugging their webpage.

So here it is: http://www.porat-jewelry.com/

It is well worth your time to see what they have to offer, especially those of you who may be interested in jewellery with Hebraic inscriptions. You will not be disappointed. Oh, and for those curious, my wedding ring is respectively the G-55 model found on the 'wedding rings' page.

In other news, it suddenly occurred to me that the link I have in my last bit of nowhere should have been given a post all to itself and been entitled, "Dingos Ate Your Webpage!" Which would have been quite accurate...so long as you replace the dingos with monsters.

Today's Lesson: just because the building you happen to be in while visiting Toronto for an hour or so has a sign that says: Notice, filming for the movie Resident Evil: Apocalypse is being done on this site doesn't automatically mean you'll stumble across some zombies waiting in the wings.


posted by Phillip at 5:22 PM

 
Rhymes with "Bubonic"

After having spent the last few nights biking home after completing the evening shifts at work, I have observed one of the many quirks that driver seem to acquire. Namely living in deathly terror of pedal-bikers. Now I understand that those of us on bikes have much to worry about cars. After all, if it came to a jousting match, would you be placing your money on the guy with 16 gears and a small fibre-glass helmet, or the large metal behemoth that may mistake running you down for a speedbump?

Yet for as much as bikers should (and I say should, since I have seen how kamikaze Toronto's bike couriers are) remain wary of the large motor vehicles flying past them, it is still amusing to see the great lengths drivers will take to avoid a bike as they pass it. The road I bike down has no special bike line, so for the most part, I bike either on the outer white line, or as close to the sidewalk curb as I can without scratching my pedals on the cement.

The cars, on the other hand, will frantically veer aside from me. Even when they're in the middle of the laneway, there's a safe half-car-length between me and their side mirror. Yet the drivers seem terrified that this distance is too close for comfort, and so they hug the yellow line as close as possible. There I am, biking along, and cars that were travelling in straight line curve wildly around me like their car and my bike were two strong magnets of like polarities.

Admittedly, this makes me feel a little rejected and lonely. Don't they like me? Don't the drivers of those cars feel that they can share the road with me? It's somewhat alienating to have all the traffic on the road try to squeeze as far across the road as possible from you. I half wonder if I've somehow contracted the Black Plague, but it comes and goes only when I'm on my bike, and everyone else but me knows this.

Perhaps it's my body odour. Perhaps not, since I'm revelling in the "Axe effect"...though so far that has only managed to get me into precarious situations involving me, an elevator, and a herd of kids who, as it turned out, were all horribly allergic to my Axe deoderant spray.


Today's Discovery: http://silverhammer.sorayume.net/error.htm


posted by Phillip at 7:40 PM

 
Poignant Points to Ponder

Such as: if you chase your co-workers around the store with a roaring vaccum cleaner, does that make you mentally unbalanced?


posted by Phillip at 3:55 PM

 
Think Like Luggage, Massage Like Turkey-Handler

Despite probably every employee's wild hopes, the mall remained open today and did not close early due to any possible "Kill Power Now" moments. The city's been turning off various city grids for 2-3 hours at a time to help relieve the stress of power consumption as the province gets its energy supply back in working order. Scuttlebutt had it that at around 3pm, the mall's grid would go down, and thusly the mall would close early. However, the mall had other ideas. In discussing it with the city officials, the mall officials managed to ensure the mall's electrical grid would stay up and running until 6m. So everything closed only an hour earlier than usual. Yet this goes to show how much political power a mall has in a city these days.

And here we all thought commercialism was losing its clout!

Ah, I had all but forgotten what it's like to have your ankles scream, "Damn you! If I were your mouth, I'd spit upon you for the hideous torment you're putting me through!" But when you're standing or walking very short distances for roughly 8 hours on end, your feet tend to get rather abusive. On a silver lining note, it becomes almost euphoric when you at last sit down in a recliner chair for an hour or so and let your legs rest.

Most of the day was spent getting the store kiosk I will be working at operational. Our kiosk appeared almost magically overnight (and to an extent, it did), which had a few mall-trotters pausing for a moment and blinking their eyes as if they also expected to see the Scarecrow skipping down the promenade humming "If I only had a brain..."

One person asked me how we had managed to get our kiosk up and nearly-operational without any consumers noticing. It was at this point I informed him that we had in fact gone to such lengths to ensure privacy for the kiosk's construction, and surprise everyone too. Days beforehand, we had secretly killed all the power to southern Ontario, taking out part of the US' power supply too, which forced the mall to shut down and get everyone else to leave. So in essence the power blackouts were our doing; we really wanted to surprise the people!

That guy did seem rather surprised. Though not overly impressed. I don't know why....

All this aside, it's a rather amusing adventure to open up a kiosk full of schoolbags and backpacks, and have a cash till that lacks not only the debit/credit card reader, but any sort of float either. For about half an hour, we could only accept cash--and exact cash, at that. Nobody bought from us during this time. I felt dejected and abandoned. But then we got a lot of fun cash for out till, so suddenly it was "Sorry, Cash Only." And the customers flocked to us...occasionally.

The rest of the day was spent idling around, learning a cash system not so different from previous jobs, and stuffing backpacks with paper. Yes, you read that right. To showcase just how full our packs can get (read: how much abuse they can take in terms of overloading), we need to stuff 1 of every floor model to the brim with large amounts of semi-crumpled newsprint paper.

"Yet how much paper could possibly be needed to fill a schoolbag?" you may ask.

Surprisingly, a ridiculously large amount. This paper needs to be crammed wall-to-wall, so to speak, in the bag, so if you hit it, the bag loses very little of its inflated form. The short is we needed to have our display schoolbags double as punching bags. So I spent countless hours today (and 5 hours last night, to boot) grabbing freshly-crumpled newsprint, and ramming it into the hitherto undiscovered depths of countless bookbags.

I did not have any sort of gentle touch in doing this, which makes me fearful of every being asked to stuff a Thanksgiving or Christmas turkey one day. Knowing my luck, these old "ram the hell out of the schoolbag" techniques will come back to me like a bad habit, and I'll take that handful of breaded stuffing, and shove it so far up the ass-end of turkey that my still-clenched fist will suddenly explode from the neck stump, resembling some horrific 6 year-old's imitation of an Alien chestburster.

Come to think of it, this might suddenly be the easiest way out of having to do any kitchen work at holiday gatherings ever again....

Today's Lesson: it takes a surprising & respective 5 minutes to stuff the average backpack full of crumpled wads of newsprint. If it's a larger almost hiking-sized pack, 7-10 minutes on average.


posted by Phillip at 7:20 PM

 
"Screw the sales, let's have a seance instead with all these candles!"

Yesterday (Thursday) was my first day working at Bentley, a store with a veritable cornucopia of carry-ons, loads of luggage, and scads of schoolbags and a bountiful booty of bookbags. I would add something with knapsacks, but I'm at a lack of quantitative, alliterative words starting with the letter "K". I'm lazy that way. Friday (today) was supposed to be my first day at Bentley, but they called me in and asked if I could work a 6-hour afternoon shift to help them with the new inventory stock they'd been shipped. Not one to pass up on money--er, work experience, I strolled over to the mall.

My first day did leave me in the dark, though. Literally.

As some of you reading this entry with candlelight, emergency laptop powerpacks, or else a computer harddrive being powered by a car battery or a generator hooked up to some poor sot on an exercise bike already know, there was a sudden lack of electricity. At first my manager and I were curious about the flickering lights in the store. Then it appeared that all the lights in the store decided to form a union and go on strike, since they all vanished. Bentley was plunged into darkness!!

Well...semi-darkness, actually, since right outside the store was a large skylight.

However, the rest of the mall went lights-out as well, which led customers and store employees to wander into the corridors with bewildered looks on their faces and asking themselves if April Fool's Day had come a little late this year. Sears wasted no time closing their security doors and locking hapless customers in with their merchandise and sales mannequins.

Eventually every store followed in suit, since it's rather useless to have customers browse your stock when your cash register and debit/credit machine are about as usefull as a "Let's Learn Mandarin!" book in central Africa. So those of us working at Bentley at the time idled around, waiting to see what had happened, and placing bets as to when the lights would come back on.

Sometime during this stint, one of the girls who had disappeared down the hidden bowels--er, windowless corridors of the mall to toss some cardboard boxes into the recycling bin reappeared. In a sense of perfectly macabre timing, she had been in the middle of the corridor when the lights went out, plunging her into pitch black with no real sense of direction, and she had spent the subsequent 10 minutes after fumbling & feeling her way in the darkess back to one of the exit doors.

Some people have all the fun.

And so began my first day at Bentley. I always like answering questions of 'how was it?' with colourfully evasive answers like: "Eventful." This was one of the first times I could truly say it was eventful, and not at all what I was expecting. At this rate, I'm half expecting to go into work tomorrow, and discover that a horde of crazed, rabid mongooses have been let loose into the airducts, and could crash into the store at any given moment. I don't really think I'd worry; I'd just lock them into the nearest carry-on.

But what about the 2 1/2 hours I actually spent working? Surely some of you are desperately seeking a means of getting so bored you can fall asleep and turn the tables on that pesky bout of insomnia you're suffering! Well, all in all, I was having deja vu flashes all over. Everything I was doing had been done at previous jobs beforehand. Stock work and inventory was my primary job working at Party City (now some patio warehouse...the times they are a'changing), and all my retail experience from working at Sunglass Hut filled in the rest of the blanks. I was quite pleased with myself for not floundering about and looking like a complete idiot. Many conversations were like this:

Manager: "Okay, we need to do inventory. Do you know how to read a SKU list?"

Me: ^-^ "Why, yes, I do!"

Manager: "Great. Now then, you have be careful opening all these boxes since we don't want to slice the luggage. Do you know how to slash cardboard boxes open with a matknife?"

Me: ^-^ "Do I?!"

Manager: "Great! Now then, some of the prices need to be changed. Do you know how to use this funny-looking pricing gun?"

Me: ^-^ (cradling the pricing gun) "Oh yes...poppa missed you...."

Manager: "Great! Now then, since we accidentally hired one too many of you new employees, we're going to have to let someone go. And we figured that the best and funnest way of doing that would be playing Russian Roulette, and the first person to die gets let go. You do know how to play that, right?"

Me: o.O "Um...."

Manager: ^-^ "Just kidding!"


Today's Lesson: the policy at Fairview Park Mall in Kitchener is that after 1 hour without any power to the mall, all the stores are declared officially closed, and the employees can go home early.



posted by Phillip at 6:56 AM

 
"Luggage? This entire thing was about luggage?"

I was horrified today. As many of you may recall, I have spent countless bits of nowhere waxing ecstatic about the wonders of having so much damned spare time on my hands. I've always adored having more time than I knew what to do with, and especially loved slipping into a lethargic coma-like state due to all those hours. Yet today, that has all come to a crashing end.

Because starting Friday, I get to sell luggage.

Well...not luggage, per say. The store in question is a retailer by the name of "Bentley", and I get to join the ranks of the few, the proud, the people with paychecks. So instead of my usual passtime of sitting around in sheer boredom, I now get to dance down the mall with backpacks and schoolbags, lift high the might name of the carry-on, and lovingly fondle leather briefcases when no one's looking.

I have no more expansive leisure time. I have no opportunity to be driven into a spiralling madness by boredom. And I couldn't be happier. Why am I so willing to give up all this luxurious freedom? Because when you strip it all away, it comes down to the money. And my need thereof it.

In other news, I have searched the Internet high and low, as well as a number of book store cooking sections, and so far I can say that I have found nothing that would imply there is such a thing as gnu pâté. Perhaps any aspiring chefs out there would like to revolutionize the cooking world be creating this new and innovative hors d'eouvre...and then sell it at exorbantly high prices.

Today's Lesson: sometimes it takes a little patience and a little luck before things start to happen, and sometimes it takes a lot of patience and a little luck. Other times all it takes is a rubber chicken and a suit of armour.





posted by Phillip at 1:30 PM

 
Don't Hold Your Breath (Actually, You Might Want To....)

There’s an old saying that states: home is where the heart is. Happily this is only a figure of speech, otherwise I’d be either dead or a delicious little brainteaser for physicians the world over. The last few days have seen me visit Toronto, which remains my favourite place be. If there ever was a city I loved being a part of, Toronto was and still is it.

Whenever I return to Kitchener on the Greyhound bus, I always look like a lost puppy as I whimper and paw at the window as the downtown buildings and towers pass me by. It’s garnered me some strange looks on my return trips, but hey, it’s their fault for sitting next to me when there was perfectly good and vacant seat in the row in front of me.

It was a last-minute, spur-of-the-moment trip, born of whimsical fancy and the fact that I really didn’t have anything else better to do for a weekend. Friends of mine were going, invited me along, I said sure, why not. Ideally I would have been a surprise at a gathering of friends in Toronto…but we had not counted on everyone else being busy.

So surprise! I was in Toronto this weekend!

(On a related note, I’m currently wearing a black, short-sleeved shirt with a pocket on the left sleeve, and a pair of blue jeans that desperately need to be washed tomorrow. In case any of my friends who didn’t even know I was in Toronto decide to inflict gratuitous bodily harm upon me for this, you can use that list of what I’m wearing when you need to ID me at the morgue.)

But much fun was had in Toronto. Food was eaten. Anime was watched. Soap was purchased. Hours were spent on the phone with Mel, and my friends & I took random turns at getting her to blush profusely. There was also the unexpected boon of Toronto hosting it’s “A Taste of the Danforth” celebration, which in essence is a very long street party (leisurely touring it may take 3 to 4+ hours from one end to the other) with live entertainment and a lot of food, mainly Greek.

Yet in the end I had a Shih-tzu to return to, and a room to reventilate since it was a rather muggy weekend and my room had both its door and window shut closed the entire time. It’s always nice to come back to 3 hyperactive puppies who are so excited to see you that they can’t decide if they want to lick your face or pee all over you.

What I didn’t like returning to, however, was a most horrifically repugnant aroma. It was supposed to be lasagna. I emphasise the words “supposed to be.” This was like the lasagna of the living dead. It didn’t taste too bad when I sample it, but the repulsive scent it’s left behind has the same sort of effects you see after feeding someone pureed Brussel Sprouts and then forcing them onto a roller coaster. (Or showing them the Batman & Robin movie.)

It’s almost like having my own personal Bog Of Eternal Stench that I never wanted!

My stomach is making noises that weren’t meant for this earth. The scent itself is offensive to all the laws of nature. I half expect to see neighbours dropping dead where they stand if they stand downwind of the patio doors in their backyards. So as I write this little bit of nowhere, I’m holed up in my room with the fan blowing in my face, praying that the horrific burned-to-a-crisp stench does not manage to slip in beneath the crack of my door and further nauseate me.

My heart still is in Toronto. And after the putrid smell that greeted me when I returned to Kitchener, I think perhaps I should have my olfactory senses in Toronto instead.

Today’s Lesson: horribly burned & mangled lasagna smells quite different from a horribly burned & mangled kettle.


posted by Phillip at 5:56 PM

 
Today his pants, tomorrow the world!

My shorts nearly bested me today. It vexes me to think that a pair of shorts almost outsmarted me. I had just stepped out from the shower, and since the house in which I currently reside is filled with people who would rather not see me skip around with my waist girded by a fluffy blue towel, I threw on a set o' shorts to cross from the bathroom into my bedroom. However, when the time came for me to cast aside the shorts in favour of the pants I wanted to wear...technical difficulties arose.

To properly understand the struggle that ensued between me and the shorts, you must take into consideration that these shorts are, for lack of a better term, drawstring. In order for them to stay around my waist, two ends of cord must be tied together in a bow. Like a pair of shoelaces. Tying them into a bow was easy. Apparently, however, it requires much more dexterity and intelligence to undo the bow.

I suppose the shorts felt that they deserved some time out with me; I usually wear shorts indoors, and prefer full-length pants whenever I am outdoors. (That saves people from being blinded by my well-toned and very pale legs) Perhaps the shorts grew jealous or vindictive. Perhaps they went stir-crazy. Whatever the cause might have been, a simple bow turned into an ugly knot, the likes of which required me a good minute or two to carefully undo.

In the end, I prevailed and proved why human beings are higher on the rungs of the evolutionary ladder than pants. Yet I am still concerned at how easily they were able to outsmart me, even if it was only temporary. This could be the prelude to a vicious war between humanity and pants, where the pants will attack their owners in a bid to rule the world.

Think about it: since pants are wrapped around our legs, they can force us to walk where they want us to walk. If pants are able to suddenly move without anyone inside of them (as demonstrated with terrifying description by Dr. Seuss in his book The Snitches & Other Stories), they could pounce on unsuspecting humans, wrap their jean-skinned legs around our arms and chests, and like a puppeteer force us to do scary things. What those scary things might be, I don't know, for I'm too terrified to consider such things, though I'm sure they would be scary if I dared to try!

And heaven help us all if pants suddenly decide that they're carnivorous!

Today my shorts declared war on me. After a brief but exhausting struggle, I claimed the victory. Yet not without suffering a price. Now whenever I turn off the lights in my room as I go to sleep, I shall have to keep one eye open on the seemingly harmless blue jeans laid out over the back of my chair.....

Today's Lesson: It may not be paranoia if your pants are actually after you. (Though whether or not it's just stupidity on your part remains to be seen.)


posted by Phillip at 2:17 PM

 
Snobgoblins

Today I dined like royalty...if royalty ever dined in a Williams coffee pub. Daring to try new things, I sampled a bottle of "Pirate Root Beer". Some of you are perhaps thinking I've seen Johnny Depp as Captain Jack "But where's the rum?" Sparrow one too many times, but I beg to disagree. For you see, between the words "pirate" and "root" was the crucial advertizing ploy, namely the word "gourmet".

So today, I drank gourmet root beer. This has given my already bloated ego an added surge of superiority. I feel elitist. I feel snobbish. I feel like a member of Stephen Leacock's idle rich.

I suddenly have this urge to walk around with a Pekinese dog named Precious, whose haircut resembles what you'd get if you took a six year-old, blindfolded him and spun him around a dozen times, and then let him have a go at the pooch with a weed-whacker. I suddenly have this urge to play croquet and make remarks like, "A well-played move, Muffy! Now let's summon Bruce with our Perrier and imported Scottish scones." I suddenly have thus urge to dress like I'm going to a polo match and walk around in the middle of the mall, smacking random people in the butt with my rider's crop as I shout, "Good show, old man!" I have this sudden urge to create an enormous library full of impressive-sounding books that I have no intention of ever reading. I have this sudden urge to capriciously shun fashion trends simply because the designer isn't an European whose name I can't pronounce.

I suddenly have this urge to not eat anything unless it's "gourmet". Gourmet coffee. Gourmet mashed potatoes. Gourmet beef. Gourmet Frosted Lucky Lucky Charms cereal! Gourmet gummy worms! Gourmet gnu pâté!


[We interrupt this little bit of nowhere, as we appear to be experiencing technical difficulties with the Ego. The humble Conscience would like to apologise to everyone reading this, and would also like to reassure you all that the Ego should be subdued in time for the next post, once the tazers are primed.]


Today's Lesson: sometimes absolute nonsense, in some twisted "has the world gone completely mad?!" fashion, makes sense.


posted by Phillip at 6:58 PM

 
Deep Thinkers, Inc.

Has there ever been an hors d'oeuvre like: Gnu Pâté?


posted by Phillip at 5:16 PM

 
Keeping Up With The Smiths

Last night, my fiancee informed me that she was going from obscurity to popularity. At least in terms of last names. I'd never really put much thought of it myself; Smith has always been an incredibly popular last name. I've lived with it my entire life.

I'd like to think that at one point in history, there was an Empire of the Smiths, where we ruled as a powerful, wise and adored utopia. Those of you realists who can't help but rain on any sort of parade will be quick to point out that such a society of Smiths has never existed. My answer to you is one, simple word: WAIT.

Truth be told, the etymology of the name 'Smith' dates back to the decline of the Feudal era, where the buy-and-trade bartering system of merchantism began to rise in popularity. 'Smith' became a shortened form for specialised craftsmen (i.e.: blacksmiths), and stuck as a last name for those in the trade. Now consider for a moment how many were the smithing trade way back when; ever wonder why there are so many of us?

But I digress.

Getting back to my gorgeous, sexy and intelligent fiancee (who is no doubt blushing furiously as she reads this, and ruefully shakes her fist at the computer screen while threatening gratuitous bodily harm to her groom-to-be, namely me), she mentioned that she was going from having the 1,284th common last name to having the #1 common last name. She will soon be joining the ranks of the few, the proud, the Smiths. Okay, so obviously we're not 'the few', but two out of three's not bad at all.

Now Melissa can become unique & special, just like all the rest of us Smiths!

In similar news, I have discovered that my first name is the 87th most-common name for boys, and apparently a very rare name for girls. Though I'm not entirely sure that any girl should, as the website advocates, be proud of having as unique a name as "Phillip."

Today's Lesson: What's in a name? Find out. http://www.namestatistics.com/


posted by Phillip at 5:45 PM

 
Well…nothing is technically something when you consider it, right?

Somewhere long ago, someone coined the phrase “idle hands are the Devil’s plaything.” Truth be told, I think the Devil would be more inclined to use bulldozers or Michael Flatley as his playthings, since both can inflict more widespread damage. Yet unpleasant things can and often do happen when you’re idle.

It disturbs me to look back on the last few days, and marvel at how incredibly, brilliantly and assuredly useless I have been. This is not a good marveling, to be sure. With the exception of a few writing side-projects (one of which, should it get finished in the next few months, will mean interesting times ahead), I don’t have a lot to show for the last 72 hours.

Well…if we tried to break the last three down to its basic components, roughly 24 hours were spent sleeping. 2 hours saw me doing some puppetry for a group of people at Sunbeam, a group home for the developmentally challenged. Probably 3-4 hours were spent preparing meals, gorging myself on said meals (but in a very polite napkin-dabbing-on-the-cheek sort of way) and then cleaning up afterwards. And in a little slice of “Too Much Information” the odds are about 2 hours were spent in the bathroom doing bathroomy things. Mainly showering.

This leaves us with 40 hours of respective free time.

I probably could have solved some sort of horrid University-level Calculus equation by now. Well…faked having solved some sort of horrid University-level Calculus equation. Or else copied the answer from a friend of mine also taking the course, then gone out and got completely pissed drunk with the realization that I’d never pass that University-level Calculus course. Those courses are the Devil’s plaything too, come to think of it.

Yet even that would have made for an interesting water-cooler story.

Of course, that would require me going out to find a water-cooler to stand beside and regale my story to other passers-by. That could have probably helped me do something productive with my time.

This general malaise seems to be plaguing me more often than not. Certainly it’s because I have way too much spare time on my hands, and too many household distractions to ease the unpleasant slip into lethargy. But I’m always for weeding out a scapegoat and blaming it instead of taking form of personal responsibility.

I blame the afternoon.

You see, the afternoons are my most unproductive hours ever. From roughly 1pm to sunset, I am about as useful as a nacho cheese-flavoured Timbit. I don’t know why that is. Unless I’m out doing something of pressing importance, I lapse into apathy. I lose all focus for doing almost anything. The Internet bores me. TV bores me. Writing is near impossible to do. Reading is almost as vexing a task. For some inexplicable reason, the afternoon hours are horrid black holes sucking away at my will to live like a temporal parasite.

So long as I can get started on something in the mornings, I’m grand. After the sun goes down? Watch me be productive, or at least feel good about whatever it was I’d managed to get accomplished before falling asleep! But afternoons…bah.

I could do something productive and sleep through afternoons, but I enjoy just having one large sleeping session. If I try otherwise, my internal clock starts refusing to tick right. And the afternoon has rudely sandwiched itself between two sets of productive hours for me. If the afternoon and the morning switched places, I’d be all set. I could just stay awake all morning and for most of the night, and then sleep all afternoon.

All humour aside, I am looking for things to busy my ample spare time with. Like a job. Or write non-stop. Or learn how to play ping-pong. Or memorize Neil Gaiman’s book “American Gods” backwards.


Today’s Lesson: it’s never my fault. It’s the afternoon that’s to blame. That, and the squirrels.


posted by Phillip at 6:31 PM