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!

 
If You Spit Off The Edge Of The World, Would There Be A Ripple In Space?

And this incredibly, existentially pointless question has been brought to you by a long day capping off a long week which has in turn capped off a long month which has in turn capped off a long year. That's a lot of capping, come to think of it. I wonder if I'm over a legal limit of some kind.

Oh well.

Today brings with it a brilliant yet useless observation. It's about music. Everyone has peculiar songs they like. Eveyone has loathsome songs they dislike. On any given day, some of Column A and some of Column B will pop into their head, and more often than not, they can't get rid of it.

As my uncle can attest, the Evangelion Fly Me To The Moon (Asuka's Bossa Techno version) falls under the "Damn you! Damn you for playing that before I went to work!" category.

For me there's been a combination of good and bad songs. And then there's one very unique song that holds a special place in my heart...er, head. It may sound strange. It may sound silly. And for most of you who know me well enough, it seems oddly appropriate. But fact is I cannot consider it a good day unless I have Scarecrow's song If I Only Had A Brain from the "Wizard of Oz" movie spontaneously popping into my head.

I will be sitting around or walking or working, and then suddenly I'll be humming the chorus. Then I find myself singing the line, "If I only had a brain!" Usually the song stops there. Probably because I know very little else of the actual lyrics. Yet this song surfaces in my daily goings-on almost without fail every day. I've grown rather fond of it.

So if one day I suddenly blurt aloud, "If I only had a brain!", you know why. You'll probably also agree that it would be nice if I only had a brain. But that's another self-depreciating moment we'll reserve for later.

In other news, this little bit of nowhere may very well fall off the edge of the world (though a cosmic wrinkle or ripple resulting has yet to be determined) over the next few days. The short of it is this: my fiancee is arriving tomorrow. To stay. Much rejoicing.

And somewhere out there, one of you reading this has started up with some acapella porno music...

Regardless, it's been about 2 months since we've been able to be together. And this will make it a 3-week time before the wedding. Half the items in my bedroom (notably the bed that makes it a 'bedroom') are gone, and sitting happily in their new apartment. The rest will ideally follow tomorrow. So will Mel. Tomorrow will be the first night we can spend together in a long time, and it will be done in our own, our first apartment.

So if you can't get a hold of us or find us, it's probably because we're celebrating. Or we're dead asleep since the last while has proven rather exhausting for both of us.

Hmm...upon rereading this, I see I was trying to sound quirky yet endearing, and I don't think I pulled either of them off very well. Oh well, you'll just have to make do with it. After all, it's been a very long week....

Today's Recant: sleep is good. (formerly was 'Sleep is for the weak!')


posted by Phillip at 7:54 PM

 
Karma?

And now, a definition of Ironic Timing:

You and your fiancee both receive promotions at your respective jobs...while you both live in different countries...and you're going to be married in 3 weeks...and she's about to move up to where you live in 3 days....

Riiiiiiiiiiiight.

Today's Lesson: life will never cease to be interesting. As such, it's highly recommended one carries a spare barfbag for those occasions when life starts to spin around rather fast.




posted by Phillip at 7:56 PM

 
A Bachelor's Built For 2

It could be said that certain doom smells a lot like burnt cookies. Alternately, almost-certain-doom smells a lot like gasoline. Or barring that, turpentine. Such smells do not tend to garner any sort of status on my "Good Things" list. Especially when such gasoline-enriched smells are coming from a basement where there is no gasoline supply of any sort.

Suffice to say, the next-door neighbours tend to treat their house garage like an actual mechanic's garage. They did some heavy engine work on a car of theirs a few days ago, and then just sealed shut the garage. Those of you who've taken WHMIS courses on proper ventilation of noxious and dangerous fumes are all cringing right now, I'm sure.

Since this place happens to be a duplex of sorts, we learned very quickly that their garage needed to air out. Two days of gasoline fumes building and building in their garage seeped into our basement. If none of what I'm writing makes sense, it's probably because I'm still a bit high on the fumes. At the very least, they were informed and have opened their garage door to let all the toxic odours escape into the wild.

I am, though, rather impressed that their garage didn't spontaneously combust. Anyone lighting a match near that place would have probably been killed by the flying, flaming lawnmower if the initial blast didn't do it first.

Neighbours like this worry me. I really don't care all that much if they decide to be reckless idiots and nearly blow themselves to bits. It's their perogative to at least try, if they feel so inclined. It's that whole I-live-next-to-you-and-would-probably-be-blown-up-too part I'm not fond of. That part I do care about.

Happily, this won't be a worry in the near future.

Why? Well, I am soon to be joining the ranks of the few, the free, the rent-paying public. Yes indeed, an apartment has been found for Mel, myself and Shady the Shih-tzu to settle down in as the wedding comes and goes. It's not the grandest of places by any stretch. It's a far cry from luxury, and it's not near my place of work (though it is next to a major bus route).

But it's going to be ours.

It's probably been 2 years since I've been able to call any place I've stayed at a home. A house, certainly. Someone else's house, definitely. But for all that they've been, the good and the bad, there were not a home. More to the point, they were not my home. Perhaps it's a territorial thing (though many of you will no doubt be happy to know I don't mark the doors or doorways of whatever room I happen to live in), but I like having something decisively all mine. When you live in someone else's place, it's hard to bring yourself to call it a home. It's nothing more than a domicile, a fixed location.

I may be there, but my heart is not.

Looking around the empty 1-bedroom apartment a few days ago, right after the lease and last month's deposit had been signed, brought with it an unexpected smile to my face. I stood there in an empty, tiled living room with white walls and large balcony windows, and realized this was where I was going to live. Not just myself, but my fiancee and my dog as well. This was where something I could call a family would begin. It was something I would be supporting. It was something I had fought for, in more ways than one.

It had lost the feel of just another building, of just another apartment. It had life. It had warmth. It had potential. It was someplace I suddenly knew I could call a home. More than that, it would be our home.

If you happen across me on the street in the next few days, and ask my why I've got such a quiet, enigmatic smile on my face, I may tell you, "Because there's a home waiting for me when I leave here."

Today's Lesson: great things start with small beginnings. And, always air out your garage on a regular basis, just in case it suddenly decides to try and spontaneously combust on you.



posted by Phillip at 6:36 PM

 
Blarg....

The past few days have been nothing short of frenetic. I think that word has something to do with frenzy, and if it does, then it's an apt description of what I've seen, endured and almost amazingly survived. If it does not, those of you haughtily waggling thesauruses at me will be shot first. Those haughtily waggling dictionaries will also be shot first. (What can I say, I like imaginary weapons with large kill zone spreads.)

The details and dizziness can all come about in a later bit of nowhere. Right now this last week has finally caught up to me, and it's late enough in the evening for me to want to sleep. Suffice it to say, a lot of things can be said, not so many things will be said, and a few things will be left unsaid.

In the meantime, I shall leave you with this...

Anecdote of the Day: the scent of a pizza box being accidentally baked in the oven smells a lot like a computer harddrive about to burst into flames. I can now personally attest to this. And since I know at least 1 person will ask: no, I wasn't the one who cooked the pizza box.


posted by Phillip at 5:50 PM

 
Shinju

As I was working at the kiosk, talking on the phone with the store manager, a most peculiar thing happened. Two bags perched on the top shelf of the kiosk suddenly leapt right off the kiosk together. This wasn't one tipping into the other like dominoes. If I didn't know any better, I could swear that both bags jumped together of their own volition.

It's not like they were the same type of bags either. Pardon the technical this-guy-knows-way-too-much-about-it jargon, but one was a green Roots-brand schoolbag with a single over-the-shoulder strap. The other was a red Point Zero-brand postman bag. They seemingly shared nothing in common.

So why would they both attempt to leap to their deaths (or escape) from atop the kiosk counter?

One could go for the old Shakespearean Romeo & Juliet angle, and that the two bags had fallen in love despite the rival name brands they wore. Forced to admit that their vastly opposing corporate logo-families would never approve, the two bags decided to commit shinju: a lover's double-suicide.

Like a pair of ill-fated young lovers leaping from a cliff into a low tide and a cove filled with scads of painfully sharp rocks, the Roots one-shoulder and the Point Zero postman felt that it would be better to acknowledge their life of live by tragically ending it.

Not that it really amounted to much in the end, since I just tossed them back onto the kiosk counter. And there's also the fact that they're inanimate objects too.

Today's Lesson: when you are asking for a glimmer of hope or a sign of confidence from someone, don't overlook what they're already presenting before you.


posted by Phillip at 8:51 PM

 
"And Brace Yourself, Because This Is Really Going To Hurt..." (Take 2)

When there’s a lull in your work shift when barely anyone stops in to peruse you merchandise, it can be a welcomed change from the usual madcap rush of a retail store. When there’s a longer than usual lull in your work shift, it can be a wonderful chance for you to tackle a number of tasks that could otherwise never get finished since you’d be always interrupted by customers. And when that lull reaches out to encompass, oh, most of the whole day, you quickly discover how easily your brain can be entertained.

Entertaining brains even in a shallow fashion is preferred over having your brain get so bored that it decides to vacate your cranium and take a tour of the wolf just to get some stimulation. So with that said, prepare for an extraordinary exhibition of the silly and sad antics of those we call: the bored-bored-bored-bored kiosk employee!

The horrible ailment know as “Boredomus Non-Compus Stimulus” (which in all likelihood can be found in the textbook, “False Medical Conditions and Diseases”) first began to set in the later hours of my shift. And by that I mean 11am...which is rather sad considering how the 8-hour shift began at 9:30am. As the boredom set in, it caused me to contemplate giving a discarded Bob The Builder keychain doll a frontal lobotomy. It was a discarded keychain doll to begin with, so I probably could have gotten away with it too.

This subsequently led me to consider a brain transplant between Bob and a Winnie-the-Pooh knapsack doll. After all, it is widely known that Pooh has fuzz for brains, and I was wiling to bet that Bob would make for a compatible donor despite his apparent skills in construction.

For such precision surgery, I decided the best course of action as using one of the company’s matknives in lieu of a scalpel. In the end, though, I decided against this radical if not brilliant experimental surgery. First off, I had no anesthetic. Second, I had no malpractice insurance. And after that admittedly misguided attempt involving a grafting of Mr. Potato Head’s facial features onto Barbie’s head, better safe than sorry.

This is not by any means an indication that it ended there.

Hours passed by with all the speed of a bonsai tree. Desperation swelled like an overripe goiter. Pathetic analogies were constructed with all the respect and class of the Batman & Robin movie.

But then I was rescued by something most unexpected: a change of places. Yes indeed, I was switched over to the kiosk. Surely a change of scenery would do me good! And it did. However, the complete lack of anyone stopping to check out the kiosk’s merchandise, was not so good. Yet once again I was rescued by something even more unexpected: cardboard!

Yes indeed, cardboard. A number of smallish cardboard boxes had been collapsed and were sitting in a pile in the kiosk, just waiting to be sent to the recycling bin. But I had other plans for them in the meantime, oh yes...

At first I set two of the small, collapsed boxes down on the shiny mall floor, and used them as skis. I happily glided about inside that narrow walking strip in my kiosk, thinking that if it was winter outside, I could pretend I was out skiing. Though knowing my luck, I’d manage to clock myself into an imaginary tree and have the paramedics take me to the hospital for a strange concussion.

Then when the ski trip was over and I could no longer hole up in the chalet drinking hot chocolate, I took these same collapsed boxes and randomly set them down on the floor of the kiosk’s little walkway. For the next hour, I only stepped on the collapsed boxes, going so far as to delude suddenly-six-year-old myself into thinking that the mall floor within the kiosk might be some terrible, horrible, no-good-very-bad stream of oatmeal. Evil oatmeal. Evil undead oatmeal.

Today’s Disclaimer: not all oatmeal is evil or undead, and the views expressed in this particular bit of nowhere are by no means derisive or definitive. Oatmeal advocates and lovers need not start protesting this Little Bit of Nowhere.


posted by Phillip at 7:21 PM

 
"And Brace Yourself, Because This Is Really Going To Hurt...."

When there’s a lull in your work shift when barely anyone stops in to peruse you merchandise, it can be a welcomed change from the usual madcap rush of a retail store. When there’s a longer than usual lull in your work shift, it can be a wonderful chance for you to tackle a number of tasks that could otherwise never get finished since you’d be always interrupted by customers. And when that lull reaches out to encompass, oh, most of the whole day, you quickly discover how easily your brain can be entertained.

Entertaining brains even in a shallow fashion is preferred over having your brain get so bored that it decides to vacate your cranium and take a tour of the wolf just to get some stimulation. So with that said, prepare for an extraordinary exhibition of the silly and sad antics of those we call: the bored-bored-bored-bored kiosk employee!

The horrible ailment know as "Boredomus Non-Compus Stimulus" (which in all likelihood can be found in the textbook, "False Medical Conditions and Diseases") first began to set in the later hours of my shift. And by that I mean 11am...which is rather sad considering how the 8-hour shift began at 9:30am. As the boredom set in, it caused me to contemplate giving a discarded Bob The Builder keychain doll a frontal lobotomy. It was a discarded keychain doll to begin with, so I probably could have gotten away with it too.

This subsequently led me to consider a brain transplant between Bob and a Winnie-the-Pooh knapsack doll. After all, it is widely known that Pooh has fuzz for brains, and I was wiling to bet that Bob would make for a compatible donor despite his apparent skills in construction.

For such precision surgery, I decided the best course of action as using one of the company’s matknives in lieu of a scalpel. In the end, though, I decided against this radical if not brilliant experimental surgery. First off, I had no anesthetic. Second, I had no malpractice insurance. And after that admittedly misguided attempt involving a grafting of Mr. Potato Head’s facial features onto Barbie’s head, better safe than sorry.

This is not by any means an indication that it ended there.

Hours passed by with all the speed of a bonsai tree. Desperation swelled like an overripe goiter. Pathetic analogies were constructed with all the respect and class of the Batman & Robin movie.

But then I was rescued by something most unexpected: a change of places. Yes indeed, I was switched over to the kiosk. Surely a change of scenery would do me good! And it did. However, the complete lack of anyone stopping to check out the kiosk’s merchandise, was not so good. Yet once again I was rescued by something even more unexpected: cardboard!

Yes indeed, cardboard. A number of smallish cardboard boxes had been collapsed and were sitting in a pile in the kiosk, just waiting to be sent to the recycling bin. But I had other plans for them in the meantime, oh yes...

At first I set two of the small, collapsed boxes down on the shiny mall floor, and used them as skis. I happily glided about inside that narrow walking strip in my kiosk, thinking that if it was winter outside, I could pretend I was out skiing. Though knowing my luck, I’d manage to clock myself into an imaginary tree and have the paramedics take me to the hospital for a strange concussion.

Then when the ski trip was over and I could no longer hole up in the chalet drinking hot chocolate, I took these same collapsed boxes and randomly set them down on the floor of the kiosk’s little walkway. For the next hour, I only stepped on the collapsed boxes, going so far as to delude suddenly-six-year-old myself into thinking that the mall floor within the kiosk might be some terrible, horrible, no-good-very-bad stream of oatmeal. Evil oatmeal. Evil undead oatmeal.

Today’s Disclaimer: not all oatmeal is evil or undead, and the views expressed in this particular bit of nowhere are by no means derisive or definitive. Oatmeal advocates and lovers need not start protesting this Little Bit of Nowhere.


posted by Phillip at 7:54 AM

 
A Lemony Snickett State-Of-Mind

What’s this? Suddenly this little of nowhere has an occupant again? Doest your eyes deceive you? Well, they’re only deceiving you if you somehow see the image of a giant commando carrot somewhere on this page. But other than that, yes indeed, there is life yet in this little bit of nowhere.

So where have I been, you ask? And furthermore, you still ask, where’s Waldo? While I cannot answer the latter question, I can say that a series of unpleasant if not unfortunate events has been dogging me the last few days, and where my philosophy is concerned it’s good to stay silent when you’d as soon not talk to people.

Certainly the last few days have by no means been wonderful, but I’m not about to dwell on them and rant and whine and complain. That will really accomplish nothing, and besides, I have already set my resolve to move past them. Winston Churchill was indeed right when he once said, "When you’re marching through hell, keep marching."

And besides, that’s not to say that nothing of the peculiarly ridiculous has crossed my paths in the last few days either. Why, just the other day I discovered that my sex appeal extends to more than mere elevator doors: I was goosed by a laptop carrier bag. I had placed it atop the cash counter and was filling it with the usual crumpled paper so as to let customers see how much the bag can hold. Well, I turned my back on it for but a brief second to grab another handful of stuffing…and the next thing I know, my ass had been smacked.

Some of you may argue that the bag was just sitting off-balance, and just happened to smack my ass by sheer accident when it toppled over. But I’m pretty sure this whole incident was pre-meditated on the laptop carrier’s part. I’m suddenly concerned to turn my back on the large 29' luggage carriers we have in the store….

I should also add that nothing is so amusing in the morning as coming into the mall and seeing a kindly old lady with a flyswatter, racing madly across the foodcourt in an ultimately futile attempt to swat an offending fly. She almost managed a kill over the course of five different swats on five different foodcourt tables before giving up.

In other news, I note that Fox Kids is adding a new TV Anime series to their Saturday morning line-up: Shaman King. For those unawares, the series is about a bunch of people (most of then in high school) who are shamans and can communicate with the spirits of the dead. In fact, these shamans are so good that they can use these spirits in actual combat, and the one destined to be the ultimate Shaman (or, the Shaman King, for those of you not paying attention to the title of the series) has to contend with a lot of very nasty shamans who want that mantle and power for themselves.

Oddly enough, when I first learned about this being picked up for, of all things, a Saturday morning slot, my first thought was not to cringe and say, "I hope they don’t botch up the series when they dub it." Nor did I think, "Well, one more series to help Anime become more accepted as not-just-for-kids."

Knowing full well the shamanic nature of the series, my first thought was this: the betting pool is open as to how fast overreactive parents and religious groups panic about the series and start protesting.

Today’s Lesson: even if life hands you lemons, you still need sugar and an outdoor stand before cashing in on any sort of lemonade.


posted by Phillip at 8:25 AM

 
"Bad Coke, No Biscuit!"

And the calvalcade of catastrophes continues! That colourful bit of alliteration aside, yesterday saw more incidents involving inanimate objects trying to usurp my authority on this planet. Now I'm not overly paranoid or anything; I don't live in fear of being subjected to an alien rectal probe, nor do I believe that the second shooter on the grassy knoll was in fact a squirrel trained by the CIA as a sniper. However, yesterday's events give me reason to be suspicious that my bike is nursing some lingering homicidal tendencies.

There I am, biking to work, when I cross over a bridge. It's right about then that the chain on my bike decides it no longer wants to be dragged back and forth along all those gears. It tries to break free, and discovers that, like chickens, it can't fly away to freedom. This proved rather troublesome for me, since the chain is somewhat needed to keep both forward momentum and balance. I'm sure that amidst all the panicked "I-think-I-just-wet-myself!" expressions on my face in those few seconds, I looked very unimpressed.

More than likely, that sort of look occurred when I realized I had to choose between two options as my bike careened wildly in its Jenny-Craig-thin bike lane. I could crash into the curb of the sidewalk, which is higher than most other curbs since it's on a newly-renovated bridge. Or I could crash into the cars driving along next to me. For as tempted as I was to snag that lovely little BMW hood ornament as my hapless body bounced over the bumper, I chose the sidewalk.

The bike manages to do some sort of potentially physics-defying move by sliding sideways with the front and back tires parallel to each other, and both of the bike tires hit the curb at the same time. This is followed by the rest of the bike hitting the sidewalk. That, of course, is followed by the rest of me hitting the sidewalk. Happily, all my gymnastics skills saved my face from going all Phantom of the Opera-ish, and I was able to put my hands out and stop my head from cracking against the concrete with a few inches to spare.

And yes, I am well aware that could have also given way to a substancial hairline fracture of the wrists.

In the end, the chain was scolded severely and rethreaded onto the teeth of the gear, and I managed to make it to work on time, albeit with a slight limp. It's nothing to worry and go, "Oh, does it hurt?", because quite frankly, yes it hurts. It's not a horrible pain, but when you manage to connect the top of your kneecap with the edge of the curb, then hurt will come of it. It's more of an annoyance than anything, and most of that is directed at the bike for letting the chain get so uppity.

Later on that evening, as John & I sat around outside drinking our respective caffeine-enriched draughts, we tried to teach a Coke can to sit/stay. It only listened half the time, but it really seemed to know how to "roll over...and over and over", which does make me optimistic about teaching the Coke can to fetch my a newspaper and slippers in the mornings.

Life-Affirming Link of the Day: http://www.8legged.com/


posted by Phillip at 4:02 PM

 
Chaos Vs. Window....Gravity Wins!!

There are people in this world who have a strange connection, a bond if you will, between the most unlikely of things. You have your horse whisperers and pet psychiatrists; your automechanics who can simply listen to a car and know what the problem is; and your web-surfers who have an uncanny, William Gibsonesque knack for intuitively finding exactly what they want on the Net, no matter how obscure and nigh impossible to find, within 2 minutes.

And then there is me. I have a peculiar link with inanimate objects. Whatever this nexus is, it involves a lot of petty-bickering and what could best be described as childish sibling rivalry. I have had to battle a pair of shorts in an attempt to escape them. I have killed kettles. And I've been involved in a lot of other silly, embarrassing incidents/melees that I'd rather not go into right now.

The latest escapade involved the screen in my bedroom window. At first I thought it was a screen held in with a latch and a really horrid set of hinges that needed replacing. Today I discovered that my window screen is in fact held in place with only a latch. I had opened the screen about an inch or so, which was as much as it seemed to allow, and then tried closing it. The screen, it seems, had other ideas. And so the battle of wills and wits ensued. And in the end, I think we both came out losers.

I fought to bring in the persnickety screen and latch it shut. Then with a great heave I brought the latch into the frame...and the screen demonstrated that Newton knew his stuff. Out pops the screen, and down it plummets onto a hapless and unsuspecting plastic deckchair below. I, however, am standing there with my head now sticking outside of the house, drumming my fingertips upon the windowframe and thankful that the only witnesses around to see that were the birds.

A quick trip downstairs and onto the back patio, and the screen was retrieved. I guess the landing took out most of the screen's proverbial wind, since there was very little of a fight as I now put the entire screen back into place in my window. The battle has ended, but I fear the relationship between the windowscreen and myself will ever be the same again...

In other news, I have recently been entertaining the notion of starting up my own webpage: www.dingosateyourbaby.com If anything should come of it, I'm betting it's a lawsuit.

Today's Lesson: the window screen in my bedroom takes approximately 2.3 seconds (or the time it takes for one to casually remark, "Well, shit.") to fall from its window frame on the second floor and have its landing be softened by one of the plastic patio chairs.


posted by Phillip at 4:54 PM

 
And Now Here's The Buckinghams With "Kind Of A Drag"...

The short of it is: closing paperwork for retail stores really deserves to die a horrible, horrible death and spend the rest of forever writhing in anguish and damnation in the 9th level of Dante's Inferno, where it is constantly being chewed by one of the mouths of Lucifer's three faces.

The not-so-short of it is: my second time closing the kiosk ever found a single "oops" involving an early printing of a cash balance list that proved damned near impossible to rectify. Sure, I learned what the problem was (don't print it until closing) and will never repeat it again so long as I live, but try to fix it, and...gyaaaaaa. I was supposed to depart 9:15ish at the latest. I left the mall at 9:50.

I am...displeased.

Today's Lesson: for the love of God, never EVER print out the Z-reading for the store until you are closing.


posted by Phillip at 7:10 PM

 
Paranoia Groove

For reasons that escape me, there are three Bentley-related stores in the mall. Two of them are kiosks called "Unic", usually pronounced You-nick. I do have a problem with that pronounciation since it bears a striking resemblance to the word eunuch. It's unnerving being the only guy working at a store that seems to proudly tote its male employees as being castrated man-servants.

Equally unnverving is the location of one of the Unic kiosks, which happens to be in the mall corridor right in front of a Silk & Satin lingerie store. I was covering another employee's lunch break at that kiosk, and the entire time I could feel the eyes of those scantily-clad models on their cardboard backing giving me these sultry looks when I wasn't looking. It's really does make one twitchy, regardless of the push-up bras they are showcasing.

In other news, necessity is indeed the mother of invention. This portion of today's Little Bit of Nowhere can be aptly titled, Don't Worry, I Saw This In A Macguyver Episode. My family volunteers making dinner Tuesday nights at a soup kitchenesque establishment. One that has an inherent lack of manual can openers, and a really fancy-looking automated can opener that really only opens air; if you try to give it a can to open, it gets all snobbish and refuses to cut into the lid for you. Well, when forced without any working can opener at all, my Dad managed to pry open a large metal tin of coffee using a knife sharpener (the metal baton-shaped kind) and a dulled meat cleaver. Go Dad.

Today's Lesson: there is such a thing as a "wrong side of the bed" and waking up on it. Subsequently there is also such a thing as a "right side of the shower" and counteracting the wrong side of the bed by standing there. It's somewhere around the stream of nice warm water....




posted by Phillip at 6:24 PM

 
Magical Blog +1

Rarely do I ever like to think of my Little Bit of Nowhere as a blog or an online diary/journal. It is, by definition, a little bit of nowhere. Quite frankly, I get easily bored and annoyed with myself when I openly whine and vent about the silly things in my life that occur. And you should too. Why listen to me vent when you can hear me rant in glorious Dolby 5.1 surround?

Okay, so you can't actually hear anything in a textual medium, but just gloss over that.

Today's rant is about why I'm avoiding the main floor of the house like the plague. Namely because it smells like the plague. A horrid, cheap, nauseous, anti-bacterial-smelling plague, to be precise. Someone decided it would be an idea to air out the house with some sort of sprintime fresh scent, so they plugged in a no-name air freshener. The debate currently rages on about whether or not this idea was good. I think the intended pleasant odour died somewhere in the freshener, and all I'm smelling right now is the initial decomposing stage.

You know the soap dispensors you find in those clubs or public bathrooms that no one in their right mind ever goes to, the bathrooms whose names even the street gangs whisper in frightened, cautionary voices? Do you remember how sickening that pinkish goo the label tried to reassure you was soap smelled? Well, the closest sort of description to this odour is skin-crawling pinkish soap-goo. Every time I catch a trace of that unnatural smell, that's the first thing I think of.

This is one of those scents not found in nature. I offer this up as proof that human beings sometimes go too far. Play God by creating new (and not necessarily pleasant) smells? While we're at it, let's open up a children's petting zoo featuring Velociraptors.

So here I sit before my Little Bit of Nowhere, safe in the depths of the dungeony basement where the corrosive smells of the "air freshener" cannot reach me. Sadly, I cannot remain in my Little Bit of Nowhere forever. Sooner or later I must venture out from its protective walls, and brave the dreaded stench upstairs. But until that happens, I revel in being able to write this without my face turning the colour of mint toothpaste from the smell.

Today's Lesson: fear not death. Fear the smell of it.


posted by Phillip at 2:24 PM