Home

Becoming A Better Hooker…

Leave a comment

Humour’s a funny thing, don’t you think?

Does today’s blog title make you smile, or think, WHAT? … who knows, maybe it annoys you because it sounds sexist.

It doesn’t really matter to me because it drew you in by its provocative, sexual overtone… I’m sorry if you feel manipulated. Stay with me for a minute here and see if I can make you smile.

I was reading another blogger’s post the other day when I spotted this visual about Panty Prose and PadVertising. I couldn’t help but chortle.

PADvertisement

We all know that funny stuff is very individual and subjective, but who can’t see the teehee in a photo that takes our Mad Men advertising world to a whole new level? Between the legs humour…

Sometimes it takes such a small thing to bring a smile, a grin, a twinkle, inward or outward. My smiles don’t always show on the outside, but they’re lurking in the cheek muscles.

I’ve always loved The Sound of Music… and the quaint, lyrical essence within the ditty My Favourite Things.

So today, I give you… a tasty few of my Favourite Funny-Smiley Things:

  • DAILY: I stopped regularly reading the comics’ section of the paper years ago when I left behind my Hamilton Spectator newspaper delivery route. Yet today, most mornings I have a tiny chuckle as I take my first glance at the back of the local Penticton Herald newspaper and catch the BIZARRO cartoon of the day.

Bizarro.jpg

………………………

  • ONGOING: Monty Python – a childish, absurdist, but occultly intelligent humour that strikes a huge funny bone or… misses totally. I’ve met people that either align themselves in the LOVE or the HATE camp… I place myself firmly in the “Pro-Python” LOVE group.

monty python.jpg

………………………

  • MOVIEAirplane (or Monty Python and the Holy Grail). Once again, as absurd and juvenile as a silly walk but I can’t help but titter over inanity like:

Rumack: Can you fly this plane, and land it? 

Ted Striker: Surely you can’t be serious. 

Rumack:  I am serious… and don’t call me Shirley.

Airplane movie

………………………

  • SONG: Carrot Juice is Murder by Canada’s Arrogant Worms (even the group’s name is silly!). I love it when mainstream conventional thought goes topsy-turvy – the notion that vegetables have sense and feeling is simultaneously cute AND terrifying. Dystopia! Where will ill-fated vegans go when consciousness is discovered in the celery-set?

carrot hug .jpg

………………………

  • STAND-UP COMEDY: I wiggle with the laughter that comes with talking about “nothing” the way Jerry Seinfeld can do it. I snicker at my fellow-Hamiltonian Martin Short’s character Jiminy Glick. And one of my all-time favs has got to be Rita Rudner… the low-key Sweetheart who soft-peddles a clean and gentle that tickles my giggle gene.

………………………

  • SEASONAL: The sun warmed his elfin fuzzy nose as he stretched into a yoga Cobra pose- it was a friendly little gesture to the sky and the water of the lake behind. I search the shoreline for him each day that I drive into Penticton.

I know if it’s cloudy, there will be no sighting. But if the sun switch is turned on, so is my petite rodent friend. The marmot is my morning sun-smile.

Marmot on rock.jpg

………………………

  • WORK-LIFE: In my professional prime, when I worked in the lab, I saw and touched and smelled a lot of stool… feces… waste matter…  dung… ah hell, let’s call it what it is… SHIT!

I took the work of diagnosing problems in your shit seriously, so I hope it won’t disturb you that I always tried to brighten my moments by finding something funny in your droppings… corn kernels and other vegetative anomalies that resembled rorschach inkblots in the clouds.

SHIT

It’s all a part of the way we cope with life’s shit, you know.

In your day-to-day life, you encounter similar muck and filth. I know you do.

Life is filled with real and metaphoric shit.

So I hope you manage to unearth a small hoot or belly laugh in unexpected ways.

Yes Virginia, we need humour in the world: the amusement, the irony, the absurdity, the gosh-darn plain fun to pull and push us forward in our daily lives.

And maybe… maybe next time you slip your drawers down, cast a glance southwards and think of an advertisement that would fit the “smile” bill for you…. “The Quicker Picker Upper”… or….“Tastes So Good, Cats Ask for It by Name”… or… “Imagination at Work”.

Advertisements

The Art of Focus… Never a Better Time… Pay The Price Now…

Leave a comment

Focus Art

The unthinkable is TRUE… it’s happening…

OMG… you can learn and excel at anything… ANYTHING… you’ve ever dreamed of and not have to leave your home.

You can get the best, most expert, most expensive instruction on:

  • screenwriting
  • acting
  • golfing
  • piano playing
  • knitting and sewing
  • furniture making
  • philosophy
  • bird identification
  • cake decorating
  • Romanian language 
  • basketball layups
  • doing an artfully erotic striptease…

banana-striptease

ANYTHING… it’s all there just waiting for you and me to dive in…

The internet has given me alone tutorials on songwriting, french language skills, grammar and the Oxford comma, concrete finishing, ancient history, beef roast cooking, SQL computer coding, chicken raising, growing better tomatoes, running a faster half marathon (fat chance!), and on and on.

I’ve had James Taylor in my home office patiently instructing me, coaching me on how to do everything from tuning a guitar well to proper picking form in Fire and Rain .

Tiger Woods and Rory McIlroy will happily come into your home, you don’t even have to offer them a cup of tea, and give you driving instructions.

……………….

To be deeply philosophical about it, or more likely just to fool you into believing that I’m smart or something… all of the atoms in the universe have been cycled and recycled, combined and recombined over millions and billions of years, and somehow, by fate or whatever, you and I were fabricated from a mere dusting of these fragments and particles.

It’s a miracle really; a miracle that justifies something great and noteworthy, don’t you think?

But dear friend… it’s the best of times and… it’s the worst of times.

Because there are so many distractions, maybe fewer of us than ever are actually doing these amazing, diverse things… or at least doing them well. Good morning, this is your wake-up call...

I’ve struggled mightily all my life with mediocrity – boo hoo, poor entitled lad – you know… Jack of All Trades, Master of None.  

For the most part I’ve actually happily embraced being so-so at almost everything I do, rationalizing that because I do a bucketload of varied things with my time, that I can ditch the worry about doing anything really well.

CHANGE.

My thinking has and is changing … let’s see, my fellow Canadian JT (Justin Trudeau) has changed his thinking on electoral reform, and even Donald Trump has changed his thinking on China as a currency manipulator.

So maybe, just maybe, it’s OK for Larry Green to change his thinking on mediocrity in every area of his life (hmmmm, talking about yourself in the third person is a sign of encroaching narcissism, I’d better look up some remedial therapy courses online).

To be good or great, you have to hone the skills, spend the 1,000 hours… the 10,000 hours to become “special”.

shooting star.jpg

I’ve talked about this before, and I hate to be a nag, but in a world that makes learning so easy, and concentrated focus so challenging, it bears repeating.

When I – drooling over sexy music porn – watch Tommy Emmanuelle or Keith Urban play their guitar, the first thought that passes through my brain like a crawler at the bottom of the news channel screen, is, “I could never do that“.

WRONG… they became that good by… practice… practice… and more practice.

Your wise old Mom was right when she told you to sit at the piano bench, practicing your lessons for a half hour every day.

I, and similarly, you, have the ability if we’re willing to pay the price.

If I’m willing to commit hours, months, and years, I can do it.

It’s about committing to something you enjoy tremendously and making the effort, the hard, concentrated effort, to learn and progress and accept the difficulties and failures that come with slow, uneven progress.

It’s about The Art of Focus.

It’s about a willingness to say NO more often, no to the distractions and outside influences, and sitting yourself down to do the hard, often lonely, but ultimately pleasurable work of making something magical within yourself.

It’s about the inner feeling of goodness and creative spark that comes with a pat-yourself-on-the-back sense of mastery.

This beautiful blue planet we inhabit for such a painfully short time has evolved over millions of years to the point where, today, most of us rarely fear for our mortal lives or tremble about starvation, where crippling diseases are at a lesser tide than any time in history, where work days usually conclude after 8 or 10 hours, and weekends are for our own pleasure.

We’ve come to bat at the sweet spot in time and circumstance. HOME RUN territory.

I’ll cock my head, glance up into the bright sunshine, scratch some fine dirt beneath my cleats and rub my crotch for good luck.

The once almost unthinkable moment has arrived and you and I can decide for ourselves if these moments we’re allotted are meant for watching the world happen to us, or we happen to the world.

The internet gives us the gift of choice where we can be sucked into an intoxicating whirlpool of dullness, and a diet of artificial Twinkies, or… a tsunami of wonder and a dramatic reaching for the elegant twinkling of the stars.

Grammatically, an incomplete sentence is one where either a subject (YOU) or a verb (YOU doing something) is missing.

Every complete sentence has a subject (YOU) and a verb (YOU doing something).

YOU doing something is a complete sentence in a life fully lived.

You guessed it. I learned that from a grammar lesson I took online…

keith urban brad pasisley guitar

 

A Night at Medici’s With Paper Rose

Leave a comment

medicis 2.jpg

We climb the eight concrete stairs, exiting the darkness and the cool evening air – a light shhwwwhhsshhh of breezes running through the nearby pines, car tires in the distance.

Then, pushing through the solid wooden door, it’s as if breathing can begin once again, as if the suspended animation of motionlessness has restarted and life resumes its tireless orbital path.

A harmonious mixture of warm light and music and laughter and conversation – glasses on tables, shoes on hardwood floors, scents of coffee and Firehall Backdraft Blonde beer –  cheerfully mingles with the friendly waves of David and Marcel and a few others who show signs of recognition.

The stage is lit and the song unfolds.

medicis night

My first set ever at Medici’s

Welcome to a night at Medici’s.

Open Mic. Every 2nd Friday. Bring a guitar, a ukulele or mandolin, your voice, even a clarinet.

So, who will it be tonight? Billy Joel, Bruce Cockburn, Miranda Lambert, Ed Sheeran, Zac Brown?

Of course not.

Medici’s – a renovated former Catholic church – is a place for small musicians and music aficionados – those who enjoy an evening of homemade entertainment, made by real people, genuine everyday sorts with big smiles and some with big dreams, dreams of their future, and others… like me… with greyish hair, sailing on dreams distilled in days long past.

Like a night out at bingo, you never know which musical ball will rise to the surface with each entertainer. G-54… Folk!  B-19… country!  N-28… rock!  I-47… jazz! BINGO!

Marcel, the jovial young emcee always starts the evening out strumming and singing a song or two mixed with his infectious humour and irreverent teasing of Medici’s owner David. Occasionally he lightheartedly chides one of the regular pre-show nervous musicians sipping her wine innocently at a nearby table.

Marcel then cedes the spotlight to the others. Each musician or group steps up and plays their 3 allotted songs, some original, most covers of recognizable hits by others.

The crowd, generally filled with musicians and their friends, is warmly supportive, knowing the jitters that accompany the amateur performances.

Later, when I walk up the 3 wooden steps to the stage, I don’t see the people in the crowd in their underwear to calm my nerves, but I do envision myself in Nashville’s famed Bluebird Cafe. When I pick out the final few notes of a song on my guitar, I feel the addictive draw of the applause and the eyes of an audience focused on me. Ego.

In my Walter Mitty mind, I’m an up-and-coming ingenue waiting for the record company executive to approach me after my set, and smiling aglow, tell me he’d like to sign me to a contract promising a huge future. It’s a teenage dream… for a guitarist/ singer/ songwriter it approaches a wet-dream in its excitement and unexpected intensity.

From Medici’s to the Bluebird Cafe or the Ryman Auditorium or Grand Ole Opry or Massey Hall, the opium takes hold.

bluebird cafe.jpg……………..

Each time we drive south to the hamlet of Oliver and Medici’s, there are some new faces on stage, young high school kids with tender melodic voices or old cowboy-types with rugged grey stubble and rugged raspy tunes.

When a fresh new Okanagan fruit picking season descends in the heat of late summer and early autumn, songs imported from the far eastern side of Canada waft in with the French-Canadian working kids who come like Woodstock refugees – les Habitants – dreadlocks flowing,  and their incredible musical talents on guitar and banjo and voice.

And always, there are the regulars like Richard and Rolly, Tom, and “Paper Rose”…. ah yes, sweet Paper Rose.

Paper Rose is my favourite.

Rose, whose real name is Evelyn, is a wonderful 80’ish crooner that dresses in Minnie Pearl fashion, flower hat (minus price tag) and all.

Minnie PEarl

Paper Rose stands unpretentiously at the microphone with her guitar and begins with a chatty story, a story about her health, a story about the challenges of living with diabetes, her voice mellow and earnest, her smile bright.

After her lengthy tale, filled with little asides, she launches into her songs, most of them originating from the 1950’s and ’60’s era, usually involving birds or flowers… Yellow Bird, There’s a Bluebird on Your Windowsill… or… Paper Roses. 

Rose definitely isn’t the best guitar player, sometimes she’ll even stop mid-song because she’s forgotten the chords.

But, possessed with a pleasant singing voice, she always sings her songs right on key.

By the time she arrives at the chorus, her guitar gone silent, the whole venue, all the audience, is hooked and singing along. Everyone is rapt, everyone is smiling, and we all sail with her into the chorus hook…

Paper roses, paper roses,
Oh how real those roses seem to me
But they’re only imitation
Like your imitation love for me.

An explosion of raucous, enthusiastic applause erupts.

Rose’s cheeks flush like a spring robin’s breast as she sweetly calls out her thank you’s.

A bit rough around the edges, sure.

If you look hard, you can almost see little girl Rose in the hazy mist – blue ribbons in her hair – gaily skipping rope on the playground, catching her toes often in the fast moving rope, yet not caring a whit.

The joy of the game is all that matters.

Then she begins her next story…

 

 

 

Yes, Women WILL Dominate In The Years To Come…

2 Comments

What did God say after he created man?

“I can do better.”

God created women

I have a meandering mind, so today, I’ll wander around and about and hopefully you can trace my convoluted trail … or trial!

I’ve been writing this MAN ON THE FRINGE blog for almost 5 years now.

I’ve posted close to … well, let’s have a look… exactly 258 entries. That’s the equivalent of about 3 average-sized fiction books.

And because I’m a stock market and numbers guru/geek I usually look at my return on investment – how much am I being paid for the time invested.

In this case, I’ve calculated that return as …. drum roll…. $0.

And I just don’t care. Writing blog posts makes me happy, which is a pretty good ROI in my books.

I read and look at a lot of blogs.

There are millions out there, many of them birthed by mere ordinary people like me who have this urge, an inner compulsion to write and share.

When you write a blog, it’s important to read quality books and blogs to know what others write about and how they write to keep an audience interested.

When a friend or relative says they like a post I’ve written on any particular week, I’m always happy. Like a toddler, I love it when mommy says I’ve done good. There’s still a piece of me that craves validation. Everyone wants to be the hero of their own story. I know I do.

And when a stranger writes and says they like my post then I’m really happy because it’s truly about the quality of writing or something in the message that was meaningful for them.

Writing these missives each week is a narcissistic indulgence I look forward to because I’m never sure what little morsel in the news that passes my way, or in my memory hard drive, or in the sex-addled recesses of my mind, will insist on being expounded upon.

Blog writing is a continual discovery of the things that are meaningful for me… so usually it’s about sex, music, religion, food, investing, travel… or… interesting people I encounter. The folks I’m surrounded by intrigue me and teach me.

Blogging is a white cane that helps me uncover the hidden messages that surround me.

blog writing.jpg

After these 5 years of weekly posts, the most viewed article I’ve written is called Your Castration Awaits – 8 Reasons Women Will Dominate Men In The 21st Century

It was written in the summer of 2014 and boiled down to these bullet points:

  1. Women don’t waste time playing video games and watching porn. Girls just grow up and get on with life…well, and obsess over shoes but that’s a minor pastime on the way to the corner office.
  2. Women excel at communication and conciliation, whereas mens’ authoritarian style of coercion is outdated. Women are attuned to social dynamics and know the benefits of collaboration vs. competition.
  3. Women are getting educated and at higher levels. In just about every field, women are either in the lead or are charging hard to take the lead. It’s like China vs the U.S.. Get lazy, and complacent and watch the competition overtake you.
  4. Women know how to balance career and family. Both career and social worlds can thrive simultaneously. Men can’t pull off multi-tasking unless beer and a TV remote are involved.
  5. Men persist in thinking they can rise through manual labour. The world has changed and many men refuse to believe or acknowledge it. If men don’t excel and women do, don’t blame women. Wake up and smell that coffee boys!
  6. Womens’ self-definition is changing. Women don’t feel the need to acquiesce to men to sooth their egos. If a job needs doing, women will just jump in and do it. Damsels in distress are so yesterday.
  7. Allowing women to vote, fight wars, run businesses, and play sports levels the field. Women may never be able to build the physical strength of a man, but can equal or better him in every other facet of life if they choose to.
  8. Men want to get rich quick but don’t want to work or wait for it. Men are too impatient and unwilling to take the longer, slower route to a better solution. Too many impetuous mistakes are made by wanting everything now.

 

It’s still true today.

I can see the writing on the wall. And the black/whiteboards.

When I tutor at the local college, I wander past classrooms filled with far more girls than guys. Even the science and math classes.

College class.jpg

TV newsrooms and political halls are swelling in serious female presence with each year that floats by.

Even I can see that I’m a relic of a previous age.

I tell myself that I’m enlightened but underneath the progressive exterior I present, I remain a man raised in a male-dominant society…. a man with just a smidgen-holding of the sick Trump notion that I have the power to grab a woman by the pussy whenever I want.

Our planet is in a tsunami flux with metamorphosis coming our way from every direction.

The one direction I’m most tuned into? Slowly but inevitably… the Women’s March on Dominance… a feminine evolution/revolution.

Now I don’t want to totally dump on my own gender.

Men are a fair group as these things go, but after some millennia, we’ve had our time, for a time. We’ve overseen huge calamities and also huge progress. Yes, we’ve made a million blunders.

But is there anyone who would realistically prefer to live in a 19th century world of poor hygiene, high infant and maternal mortality, lack of antibiotics, no voting rights for women? I can go on and on.

Now we need to step back and reflect on where WE want to be in 100 years.

Women have done just that over the past century, and I like, with maybe a few hesitations, where the female gender is heading.

The world of “might is right” is rapidly fading like morning stars at sunrise.

In the bible book of Genesis, it’s stated, “God made the two great lights—the greater light to rule the day and the lesser light to rule the night“.

The sun and the moon, perhaps the metaphor that speaks to men and women in historic terms.

For millennia, from the dawn of civilization, in most of our world, men have ruled the day. Simple brute force and testosterone held the upper hand.

The dawn has grown elderly and tired, even tiresome, now.

Sunset is approaching, growing nearer and nearer and soon… soon… the lesser light, the moon, women, will rise in the starlit evening sky where the quiet and peace of nightfall will be taken gently by the feminine hand.

The shift of momentum is whispering softly in our ears.

moon whispers

 

 

 

First The Twist, Then The Hustle, and Now The Senior Slide

Leave a comment

Grumpy old men.jpg

I’m tired of complaining. I hate it when I sound like a Grumpy Old Man.

I’m fighting the Senior Slide into Assholedom.

Glen, a regular visitor to my gym, is 93 this year and he still smiles and talks with buoyant cheer. He’s a superstar inspiration. The perfect iron pumper with a positive perspective.

Of course that’s negated by mid-70’ish Ron at the soup kitchen who volunteers to help the downtrodden, drug- and/or mental health- challenged souls, then ironically… acts like a classless Soup Nazi who hates the clientele. I don’t get it.  Shitcakes with soup.

I rarely used to swear and there I’ve gone and uttered profanities twice in the first 4 paragraphs.

OMG, the Senior Slide is happening…. I don’t want that on my dance card!

Senior Slide.jpg

The real reason I’m fearing the onset of Senior Slide is the weather outside. And my overreaction to the nip in the air.

There are great swirls of pine and fir branches doing sunbathed cha-chas in the crisp breeze outside my window.

And in the distance, across mirrored Okanagan Lake and the valley, the soft, rounded peaks of the undulating hills, thrown up like toss cushions caught in the March winds, are still … STILL… coated with snow, evergreens poking through the whitewash like prickly slivers on my hand.

The symphony of chattering robins and chickadees and flickers is the best streaming music channel going.

It’s March and this is the Okanagan Valley. Spring.

Living in the Okanagan in Canada is the equivalent of living in tropical La La Land or Miami in the States.

The mere whiff o’ nasty chill weather here is usually less reality than an imaginative head trip… kinda like fake weather news.

We know that REAL winter is out there somewhere but we don’t want to see it or experience it.

I occasionally admire the throngs of people that live in New York City or Toronto, those who love big city life, the incredible restaurants and amazing, diverse cultural opportunities- Open Mic nights every day of the week!

Then I remind myself that these “lucky” souls are also burdened with the additional joy of dealing with the Great White North head-high snowdrifts; the regular frustrations of Currier and Ives winter scenes that linger on for 80 days and nights beyond when that furry rodent pops his toothy little face above the ground in early February.

Here in the bucolic interior valley of British Columbia, winter is typically a quick blast of 3 or 6 inches of January snow, followed in short order by deliciously mild, springlike days leading to daffodil, tulip, snowdrop and daphne blooms by mid-March.

tulips.jpg

Typically. Usually. Most years.

Not 2017. Nope.

Even our backyard hens are sounding off about the weather like crabby little bitches. We give you eggs every day and this is what you give us in return?, the girls seem to be clucking.

This is where I find myself playing the grumpy old man.

I’ve lived in the Arctic and in northern BC.

I’ve played broomball at -35C on frozen Frame Lake surrounding Yellowknife.

I’ve cross-country skied over snowbound Alberta mountain passes listening to the bass rumble of avalanches in the near distance.

I’ve tasted hard-frozen maple syrup poured over shaved ice during Quebec City’s Winter Carnival.

Yes, I’ve survived and thrived in climates that can kill in a matter of minutes, the sensation of cruel polar air freezing my moustache brush and the alveoli in my lungs.

So, paradoxically, it seems silly and ironic to me that I now whine and whinge whilst the “spring” temperatures outside my window float barely below or around the freezing point.

Is it possible that I’ve lost my thrill of the challenge? Weather or otherwise? What faculty or personal test will I next see slipping away in the fog?

Am I sliding closer to the point of no return where my children decide the time has come to set me on a floating ice island to oblivion?

Is this weather issue the thin edge of the wedge where Assholedom becomes a wolf that demands daily feeding?

I don’t think so. I hope not.

My childish mind wanders onto bizarre weather tangents of apparent nonsense… Is it possible that global warming has been scared chilly with the ascendance of Trump? Are the weather Gods cowering in cold, dark horror like little babies in fear of a nasty tweet at 1:44 am.?

Trump tweet

Sorry, I slipped away there for a moment. See? It’s happening…

Ultimately, my answer to this question of Senior Slide is… I don’t know.

I do know that deeper understanding of ourselves, others, and the world around us comes with experience and seeking to see from the inside and not merely looking in from the outer edge.

Perhaps it’s part of the natural process of growing up, growing old.

Sometimes wisdom is knowing that not every question contains a neat and tidy answer. Wisdom.

I also know that regardless of any “slide”, I’d prefer to tap-dance on the sunny clouds of Pharrell William’s Happy than shuffle in the sewers of Scrooge and The Grinch.

 

Because I’m happy
Clap along if you feel like a room without a roof
Because I’m happy
Clap along if you feel like happiness is the truth
Because I’m happy
Clap along if you know what happiness is to you
Because I’m happy
Clap along if you feel like that’s what you wanna do