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!

 
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

 
"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