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!

 
Yes, But Can You Use It In A Sentence?

The company I pimp luggage for (and when you think about it, that is the very definition of retail consummerism at its heart) prides itself on being a family-oriented store. They have things for kids, things for parents, things for kids and parents, and probably even a few small, cheap things they can buy for those "black sheep" members of the family.

So it comes with no small amount of amusement that I reflect on last night's topic of discussion with one of my coworkers. The trigger was brought on by some twelve-something girls who came in wearing see-through, way-too-tight clothes that left virtually nothing to the imagination. I find it rather disturbing to realise that bodypaint would cover them better.

For the record I will say that there is nothing wrong with the human body, male or female, and that it is a wonderful thing to embrace(pardon the phrasing; this is the metaphysical way of embracing). If you want to proudly display it, then so be it.

However, when the clothing you wear seems geared to someone who is either physically smaller than you, or about five or seven years older than you, I see problems. Asthetics aside, when you dress like Halloween, expect ghouls to show up.

Added to this was the amazing vapidness of her conversation with her friends. I'm not as good an amateur astronomer as I'd like to be, but I will say that it's impressive to see a black hole of ignorance this close-up.

And so I turned to Crystal and asked almost rhetorically, "Just what do guys see in a woman like that?"

Crystal immediately flashed me what can only be described as an evil, maniacal smile, and answered, "Two words: Blow job."

Whereupon I said, "'Blowjob' isn't two words!"

"Okay, technically," Crystal conceded, "but it's hyphenated, so it can count as two words."

"The word 'blowjob' does not have a hyphen in it," I argued. "It's all one word. There's no spaces or dashes whatsoever in it. Take a look at any Harlequin romance novel or a Letters To Penthouse book, and you'll see I'm right!"

I think it was right around here we both dissolved into fits of laughter. I suppose it's just as well that no other customers were in the store; had they been present, I would have been robbed a most amusing and twisted conversation about spelling.

Ah, family-oriented fun indeed!

Today's Lesson: do not kill today someone whose body you cannot hide or bury until tomorrow.


posted by Phillip at 5:46 AM

 
Red In Tooth

Shih-tzu's were introduced into the Chinese Imperial court centuries ago, and came to be bred as palace dogs. Only the most docile, patient and cheerful of dogs were allowed. For all their energy, they are incredibly refined and can easily have a regal way of going about life.

Today was a stark reminder that 1,000 years of palace breeding can't overturn thousands of years of instinct. For as small as she is, for as seemingly harmless as she is, Shady is a breed of dog descended from the genus of wolves. And old habits die hard.

Mel & I took Shady out for an afternoon walk. Behind our apartment building is a large grassy area and the parking lot for another complex. Given the number of trees and bushes, it's a place frequented by birds. One of the things Shady adores is chasing them. I never did think much about her actually catching one.

She raced after one straggling bird and disappeared behind a car. When she came trotting back, she had the bird dangling from her jaws. For all intents and purposes, Shady didn't know she had done anything morally wrong. In fact she looked absolutely proud that she had caught the bird.

I, however, was left to carefully extract the bird from her jaws and cradle it in my hands. The bird couldn't fly. Couldn't move. It could barely open its eyes and feebly chirp. The only real movements it made were painful, spastic convulsions. Mel & I could see what had happened without going to a veterinarian: in catching the bird, Shady had snapped its neck.

A minute later, the bird closed its eyes, laid down its head and died in my hands. I've seen death three times in the last respective year, and all in different incarnations: my grandmother dying of disease and Alzheimers; having to put Shady's puppy down; and now this.

One common bond ties all three moments--the sense of complete helplessness. Unable to do anything, unable to simply stand by and watch.

Yet the bird was different from the others. It's the first time I've seen life end before my eyes. It's the first time I was there to witness what it looks like to fall into an eternal sleep. At least the bird died quickly, though I wish it had been instantly and without the pain I watched it suffer through in its final moments.

I do not hold Shady responsible for it. I feel I can hardly scold her for something as inherent as instinct. In fact I'm not disconcerted by the idea that Shady could do this; I'm disconcerted by having seen death one more time, and could do nothing to stop it, do nothing to ease the bird's pain.

Mel & I finished Shady's walk, and at the far end of a park, in the midst of tall grass and brush, we dug a small grave for the bird. There was no fancy ceremony. But the epitath that came to me still remains in my mind.

May you forever fly in the heavens. May you always have a home to return to. May from this day forth, your wings never falter or be clipped.

Death is a constant in life. It's the shadow that looms behind some of us, leers over others, and engulfs those unfortunate to cross its path. I saw the fleeting shadow of death today as I beheld that little bird in my hands. But I also saw something else:

Hope.

In that epitath, there remains hope. Hope for the bird. Hope for me. Death can break many things. But hope can never truly or fully be broken.


posted by Phillip at 6:30 PM

 
Nostalgia in the Key of G

Work was very boring today. I found myself very bored by the end of my shift in the store. Bored, bored, bored. There was no one coming into the store, nothing to clean, and nothing else to do. In short, I was bored. Bored, bored, bored. Ask Mel how bored I was. She'll probably groan and tell you about the message I left her on the answering machine.

Poor Mel.

Mel would like to add: "You know, that's the first time you've actually said that in your blog. We've been married seven months...hey! Quit [typing what I'm saying]! I hate you..."

Anyhoo, the deepening of Mel's psychosis aside, I found myself incredibly, totally and without a doubt bored. As I wandered aimlessly around the store, lost in the thralls of death by boredom, a sudden song sprang into my mind.

What's impressive about this little ditty (I never thought I would ever use such a word in my little bit of nowhere. Oh well, a first for everything, like saying "Poor Mel".) is that I haven't sung this for almost fifteen years.

Rewind to one day earlier, or else a decade or so ago, when I was still living in southern Alberta. For those of you unfamiliar with the prairie region, let me summarize: there's a lot of flat land. Insert farmer's fields and trans-Canada highway at your leisure and you have the prairies.

As the joke goes, it's one of those places where you can see your dog running away for three days: "Well, it's day four, and I don't think he's coming back."

Now I lived in the city of Lethbridge, which has a very unique geographical feature: the Coulies. It's essentially a long, narrow gorge, filled with lots of wild grass, trees and rivers. In fact, the Coulies were carved by an old river over the centiures.

When I was a child, the local YMCA used to host a children's day camp during the summer, called appropriately enough Coulie Cougars. We did the sports, the crafts and whatnot, and towards the middle of the afternoon we would hike out of the coulies to the YMCA, where our day ended with a swim in the pool.

The daily hike up from the coulies was something I'll always love. It not only left me really trim and with a great tan every summer, but it gave me a wonderful appreciation for nature. That, and an appreciation for repeatedly belting out various cadences at the top of my lungs with my friends.

So imagine me, for a moment, dressed up and in my Bentley store filled with luggage and purses, wandering around and singing not-so-quietly the following lyrics:

I had a little turtle
His name was Tiny Tim
I put him in the bathtub
To see if he could swim

He drank up all the water
He ate up all the soap
He tried to eat the bathtub
But it wouldn't go down his throat

He floated down the river
He floated down the lake
And now my little turtle
Has got a belly-ache

I went and called the doctor
I went and called the nurse
I went and called the lady
With the alligator purse

"Measles," said the doctor
"Mumps," said the nurse
"A virus," said the lady
With the alligator purse

First she gave me peaches
Then she gave me pears
Then she gave me fifty cents
And kicked me down the stairs--OW!!



Yeah, most of that makes absolutely no sense, and the lady with the alligator purse is quite violent. And yet I adored regaling Mel with this entire song, one I had not sung in easily ten years. She has since forbidden me to sing it to any of the children she will one day teach, or to the children we will one day have.

Ah, youth.

Today's Lesson: only those who have seen the first episode of Samurai Shampoo will understand the comedic nuance of the "rewind" reference. That's...what? Two of you?

Don't you feel special now?


posted by Phillip at 8:35 PM

 
And Now, Your Moment of Zen...

It's amazing what sort of things creative minds can conjure up when given time, boredom, imagination and just a healthy little dose of crack.

This is a prime example:

www.newsandentertainment.com/zfmegahappy.html

Although this does bolster Mike's theory that no matter when along the timeline we are, zombies and Nazis will forever remain the two groups that will always be politically correct to mock.

Today's Thought: "Whatever else history says about me when I'm gone, I hope it will record that I appealed to your best hopes, not your worst fears." --Ronald Regan, 1992.


posted by Phillip at 7:26 AM