Another Blogportunity

I’m at it again, this time whoring for coffee. Check out my caffeinated ramblings at www.klekolo.wordpress.com and in the unlikely event you’re in Middletown CT stop in for a cup, a 1/2 pound and tell Yvette I sent you.

Nachos and Static Cling

Originally posted in A Man Remade, November 8, 2010

“Down the hill, nachos. Twenty minutes. Be there.”

Okay, simple. Down hill. Man, gravity is the schizzle sometimes, ain’t it? Twenty minutes? Subtract 5 minutes for gravity to do its thing and that leaves 15 to address appearance. Again, no problem as that’s about 75% of my time budget for the entire week to address grooming. Plenty of time without complications.

But I have complications.

Not the Author – he’s even cuter.

As things are getting colder than a 20 year-old’s stare at my pick-up lines, there is a little piece of bliss I like to bring to my life particularly after a late night, and that is the Sunny Couch Nap. Probably a variation of the classic, ‘Resting My Eyes’ (developed by the visionary Reginald Lewis Cruttenden – a true genius in the field of napping and also my maternal grandfather and therefore the man responsible for my bitchin’ hair line), the Sunny Couch Nap is dependent on Mother Nature.

It’s about a 20 minute maneuver in itself, and I must confess to flawless execution if I do say so, but the chilly weather and clear blue skies mean a drop in relative humidity. Add to that my head rubbing on the arm of the couch as I writhe in nap ecstasy. Add even further the fact that I was still damp from bathing activity when I laid down. The bath water somehow didn’t counter the low humidity and free electrons transferred adequately to leave my hair in an odd state. It was flat and straight and static-y.

So now I have to deal with this and get out the door. Static. Rogue hairs searching the universe for more free electrons. Small children will be frightened. Wild animals agitated.

So I took a Bounce sheet and rubbed it on my head. I’m digging the dryer fresh scent.

Recycling In Action

So, today, I found that a song I’d written and recorded circa 2003 is featured in an episode of Access Hollywood, likely generating upwards of $6.00 in royalties nine months from now. Scoff all you want, but that still gets me a medium pepperoni pizza on a walk-in special on Tuesday nights. I guess Tuesdays are slow pizza days. Perhaps what Van Morrison sang about? The song was also the first song I sold for television use, in 2004, also buying me a pizza, even though the track was inaudible during the broadcast. Doesn’t matter to me. The cheese melts the same.

It’s a bit of recycling in action on the intellectual property side of the ledger. It doesn’t make for great composting, but it does serve to provide impetus to gather a few other eggs into a basket, which may also resurrect this dormant space. I’ve found some followers of ShpakBlog aren’t aware of other blogs I’ve done, so I’ve decided to re-post what I feel are the best of these. Hopefully you will agree. A Man Remade featured the trials and tribulations of converting me from a scruffy neo-biker into a refined arty bohemian. I suppose it worked. Along the way I documented the changes and spoke about topics from, for and about the male perspective. What follows over the next few days are the nuggets of wisdom and/or chuckles contained therein. As always, your comments are welcome.

-s.

Some Things aren’t Easy.

Impressing strippers. I guess that’s not easy. Myself, I have no need to impress strippers, however there are others amongst my current entourage who do feel such a task is worthy of the challenge. Shock and awe must be a difficult effect to muster in such a case, so when 30 degree temperatures and precisely measured amounts of rye and mix are involved, it is, I suppose, inevitable that mischief would ensue.

Now, I’ve endured the weekend saddled with the moniker “Dozy Smurf” based primarily upon my ability to fall asleep with relative ease in pretty much any situation, be it riding in the back seat, at any time night or day when a relatively horizontal posture is achieved and during the occasional George song. Strait or Jones, it matters not, as long as it’s in G. To the best of my knowledge the Smurf appellation was handed down for reasons other than any azure-ishness on my part.

I think the Smurf business has to do with the colour of the Telecaster our guitarist sports. He is the one who may or may not have let slip a certain personal detail about me to scale the monumental sang-froid  with which the exotic dancer in question is possessed. When queried he did confess that the “may not” chances of disclosure are less than 2%.

To wit: Our agent in question sports ear plugs to ensure slumber in the band room as it is difficult to find a balance between entourage members as far as schedules. As much as we try to synchronize through communal rye ‘n coke pourings and en mass poutine runs, disparity remains. I, as Dozy Smurf can be sound asleep within 30 minutes of closing time. Other musicians may sleep at night only if enjoying the accommodations of the local drunk tank. Guitarist in this case uses said ear plugs to minimize aural distractions when he does decide to enjoy some controlled unconsciousness.

It would be too mundane to say to someone who is as wise in the ways of the world as our dancer friend that the earplugs are so the snorers or early risers don’t wake you. So instead, our picker, who is notably without imaginative regulation in the brain, and filterless between brain and mouth, described a situation whereby bassist (Dozy Smurf, that is, me) practices autoerotic asphyxiation in the band room’s closet. At such time as the desired effect is created, bassist passed out, crashing through the closet door onto the floor, causing what must be a cacophonous upheaval. For those readers who don’t know me personally, consider that #2 nickname for me this weekend has been “Meatloaf” and you will be able to approximate the noise level that guitarist was suggesting.

Life on the road has elements of a shared journey with others that one encounters, and certain bonds of sympatico develop quickly, a community in miniature where those who are drawn together start to look out for each other, and share amongst themselves for the betterment of all. For example, during the Friday night show, I offered two young ladies the opportunity to come live with me on a spur-of-the-moment impulse that had everything to do with feelings of goodwill and nothing at all to the sexy gyrations they displayed before me. In fact, their husbands offered me money to assist in the transition. I refused of course, asking only a return address for shipping in case things didn’t work out.

With the communal spirit in mind, it is natural for Ms. Dancer to knock on our door and ask for a garbage bag when in need, and of course, Guitarist (Cokey Smurf, after his love of certain carbonated beverages) wanted to help as he did have an extra he could spare. While he retrieved the aforementioned bag, our friend of the undulatory arts waited at the door. Somewhat uncomfortably; avoiding eye contact with moi, having had 24 hours to ponder the veracity of my companion’s colourful elaboration on the true purposes of his need for sound level abatement in the form of foam pellets. Obviously, the cynicism borne of the realities of her profession allowed that such a scenario may not, indeed, be impossible.

I suppose I didn’t help by rubbing my throat and sighing, either.

Ah. Life on the Road.

Avoided Stupidity

So, no mail strike for now in Canada. See http://ca.news.yahoo.com/strike-averted-canada-post-workers-present-contract-proposal-002053197.html.

Maybe I’m a little disappointed, because of the chuckles I’m missing. I wanted to see the postal workers walk out, management locking them out (“You can’t quit, you’re fired. Sort of.”), then watch the rest of the country finally get around to signing up for all those paperless bills like they’ve meant to do. I wanted to see the end of the strike, where both sides breathing deeply and drunk on the punches of negotiation, re-emerge into a world that doesn’t need them anymore. For the families who might have lost income, no, that would be bad, but for the stupidity of union and management posturing, it would have been a fun show.

I’m not anti-union, not in principle, I’m not pro-management either. I’ve been on both sides. However, I’m anti-stupidity, anti-wasted energy and anti-empire, and the latter part of the 20th century and into the 21st has abounded with silly empires, 1 mile-to-the-gallon efficiency and enough stupidity that I suspect it comprises the bulk of the black matter of the universe. On both sides.

We all know the moronic nature of International Diplomacy, where each word is carefully chosen then dissected like a high school frog, feigned offenses are taken, postures are held and people who really should know better act like children. This is the model for management and union interaction of late. People saying things that veil reality in saccharine sound bites, everyone knows what they really mean, though they don’t say that outright. So when the Canadian Union of Postal Workers says that Canada Post’s latest proposals include important compromises, what they really mean is that they know they cannot break the backs of communications and economy like they could in the heyday of Jean-Claude Parrot. They know they are increasingly irrelevant and that a strike would only hasten their demise.

Instead of anyone admitting this, the face-saving nonsense of negotiations plays out. The earliest they can strike now is Friday, playing by the Geneva Convention of work disruption politics. The threat still has to be there, of course, until negotiations are done. But it is a lame duck threat, everyone knows it, and if the union were to thumb their nose, it would be stupidity of the first order in terms of their own job security. For the rest of us, it might simply be the start of the wave of the future. Whatever. I want to say stop wasting my time with all this labour drama. I’m not buying it. Like postage stamps. I haven’t been buying those much either.

Workin’ for Peanuts is all Very Fine…

…but a better time will be had in May. One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest runs from May 11 to May 21 at the McManus Studio Theatre, downstage at London’s Grand Theatre. I’m designing sound (regardless of what Pacheco might claim), and now I have a paying gig blogging for and about the play. You can check that out at Cuckoo’s Nestlings.

Blogs here have been sparse due to Very Busy-ness in the writing department (you can find me all over eHow, like THIS for example), and I have been keeping busy with both volunteer and mercenary theatre engagements. I have not forgotten about Hewlett-Packard, though they seem to have forgot (were they ever aware) me.

There are some other things in the works that may bring me back to rambling rants in regular rotation blog format, the usual mix of malaise and melodrama, and you can be sure I will irritatingly self-promote those if and when. In the meantime, sit back, visit my other stuff, thus earning me the undying loyalty (and increased accounts receivable activity) of my clients.

Sales have exceeded all expectations for my first book of short stories, The Rhythm Of King Street. It even shows up in Google searches now. That’s like seeing your name in the new phone book used to be. The extended sale will, however, come to a close soon, so if you are not one of the many who have already stopped by, it is available as both a trade paperback or an e-doc download through Lulu.com.

HP–Further to, Further to

Never did receive that automated reply after one hour. Checked my junk mail. Just the usual penis enlargement stuff. I guess my email wasn’t really that important to them after all. Of course there’s always a chance I entered my email address wrong. I’ll try again tomorrow.