Baa Baa Black Sheep, Have You Any Soul?

BEWARE: SUNNY DAYS AHEAD
Winter makes us all miserable. It's a recorded fact, and yet we still have winter.
If we think winter is bad, wait 'til nuclear winter comes around.
When you can't go sledding without your snowsuit and your Geiger counter.
My loyal dregs already know that I love the turning weather.
The lush and ruddy marks of Spring spell the end of goddamn winter, so I love it.
Further, Spring nurtures the insatiable perversions of this old pervert, and he loves d'em bare arms and legs.
Yes he does.
Consequently, I'm wearing a dead man's knitted sweater, trying to convince myself that it's thick enough.
It isn't, but what's important is that it's almost thick enough.
Love that Spring. Spray champagne over your calendars.
That doesn't make any sense.

Sometimes, and only sometimes, paying eight dollars for a jar of peanut butter is okay.
When is this alright?
When it's more convenient than all alternatives, of course.
Or, when you're living in The Arctic.
Monkeys don't live up here.
In the north.
We're back on weather for just a second.
This donned on me over the peace pipe the other night and I thought:
"Whoa. Monkeys are geniuses."
Unlike ourselves, monkeys have the sense to avoid climates they're not suited for.
However, once the smoke cleared, I realized that though this is true, monkeys also haven't figured out how to craft a goose down coat.
Only geese have mastered that.
Typing the word 'arctic' reminded me of this.
Peanut butter!
As all corners do, I had a little corner store 'round the corner from my home.
A nice little spot where the shelves were stocked, but unconvincingly so.
Light bulbs would be placed alongside aluminum foil and pads for gluing mice. 
The proprietor's children would play the Wii while tucked discretely into the alcove behind the microwave.
Samosas and pakoras were available to buy, presented alongside cans of Big8, or sometimes cans of the more obscure and more welfare Cott.
And at the till from morning until 9pm, a nice Indian couple who were pleased you were there and would make bus change without forcing you to buy a goddamn pack of gum.
Some weeks ago I stopped in to purchase prophylactics (not really) and they told me the store was changing hands.
New owners would be taking up shop within a day or two.
They were excited enough, but I was a little less enthused.
No one likes adjusting to a new shopkeep.
I'd already had countless non-conversations with these people about the weather and the upcoming weather.
To do all of that with new people. New people who may not have pakoras.
I wasn't sold on the idea, so to speak.
Fastforward to a few days ago.
I needed to pick up some Fun Dip (not really) so I poked my head into the store.
Sign said OPEN, the door was unlocked and it wasn't yet 9pm.
Inside, this is what I laid eyes on:
Two children, under 5, sprinting breathless among the shelves, which were now bare in a much more barren sense.
The shelves now looked as though they were stocked by a bachelor who rummaged through his fridge and cupboards and used those items to start a business.
The kids barely noticed me as they traipsed among discarded toys that littered the floorspace.
A pair of on-paper-parents were behind the counter.
Both were staring and prodding at their phones, side-by-side.
The duo looked up at me without actually seeing anything.
They appeared as destitute as anyone who has ever perished alone in a desert.
Just gut-wrenching, haggard expressions, truncated with weariness and disregard.
And caring. They looked like they gave up caring a long time ago.
"We're closed," the woman/incubator said, sounding as though they hadn't yet been open.
To which I felt like saying, "Oh, well you should flip your sign from OPEN to DOOMED, then."
Just because you can, doesn't mean you should.
In my aging-but-not-yet-old years, I have taken this on as a very real, and I believe very sensible mantra.
I apply it to most everything, and sometimes state it to myself to abstain from doing something stupid.
I first had the thought years ago when watching what I thought was The Cars' video for You Might Think, which turned out to be wrong because I just watched that video and it isn't the one I had in my head.
But there's some music video from the 80s featuring a then-popular band, and at one point a not-real fish moves across the screen for seemingly no reason.
Now, when the video was shot, the 80s were likely in full swing, and all sorts of visual technology was gaining steam.
The Death Star didn't have to be a model anymore; it could be a model of a shitty graphic.
They were able to put the fish in there, but just because you can...
See how it works?
Just because you can have children doesn't mean you should have children.
Happiness isn't a trend.
You follow the trend, the result is happiness.
No matter how the Zorb people seem, it just isn't the case.
These people got married and then said, "Well, kids now, I guess."
Barely finish the first and then have the second.
This should solve everything.
One glance at these people told me that they hated their lives and they hated their children.
Perhaps they shouldn't have had them.
I know someone who had another kid simply because they wanted another baby shower.
And I thought I was short-sighted.
They last longer than a week.
Sometimes I think parents fail to grasp that and elect to have a child when they in fact just want a baby. 
A puppy you can stick on Kijiji if you get tired of cleaning up its pees and poos.
With a kid, well, you have to get the government involved, and they don't make anything easy.
Everyone is trying to replicate a lifestyle their parents had in an economy and society that is now drastically different.
Perhaps we should try to eke out a new life instead of assuming this formula will work for us, too.
Who knows?
Maybe I just need a baby of my own.
Regardless, the moral of the story is that I'll be going to Needs now when I need an emergency carton of milk. 

Hyphen count: A staggering 13.

When I tried to find the name for 'Zorb Balls' I searched for "those balls people get in."
One of the top results was the question: "What does getting kicked in the balls feel like?"
Didn't know this was a question that needed answering, but I'll field that one:
Terrible.

A Night At The Theater

Sometimes serendipity is a person on the street.
Sometimes kismet is not taking the route you tend to take.
Andie and I were walking/trudging mid-January.
Salt-sleeked and chattering, we were making our way home.
Moving along Argyle and passing all those sexy hotspots, we reached an intersection.
I was going to say, "Let's turn up here," before deciding against it because the incline looked unforgiving.
Instead, we continued on, to encounter perfumed people mingling outside of The Neptune.
It was opening night for some play or other. We stood in the huddle, pockets turned out, and discussed trying to blend in long enough to eat some free snacks.
"Maybe we could sneak in," she said.
I didn't have the heart to tell her that those ticket tearers were pros who did little else, but figured I'd just usher us on instead.
Then some woman asked if we were going to the show.
"Excellent question," I said.
She had tickets she wasn't using waiting at the box office.
Give her name if we wanted them.
We weren't dressed for the theater.
The play was quite good. 
The actual plot was fine, but the actors were great, and the set was really neat.
It had buddy from Trailer Park Boys in it, and he was a real scene stealer. He was solid.
Gin and mingling at intermission.
I'd never wanted a shirt with something scrawled on it so badly.
Patrons wearing that piece of jewelry from a forgotten anniversary set aside for occasions.
Gowns. Well, not gowns, but nice dresses.
Tortoise-rimmed glasses.
Everyone standing around having discussions instead of conversations.
I watched this and wished I was wearing a t-shirt with the words HEAD WOUND
on it.
We saw Contessa, this out-of-costume drag queen I met at a party months before.
I pointed him out.
He and his date.
"Oh! His date's a man!" Andie murmured. "5 o' clock shadow!"
It was definitely a man, yes. The dress was real enough, but the wig wasn't fooling this duck.
After the curtain, they were offering refreshments and wee sandwiches upstairs.
We single-filed with the procession of show goers, their overcoats casually slung over their arms.
Andie and I did as we do in a catered situation:
We started filling our pockets and boots.
That's a joke.
We probably did take our fair share, though, given the circumstances for our being there.
I kept trying to take a photo of her, but she was embarrassed by how much food she'd taken.
"But we're at the theater!" I wanted to capture the occasion.
Eventually, we caught sight of the generous soul and hairdo who provided our unlikely entry.
Holding napkins topped with salmon and perfectly-square bread, we gushed a thank you at her.
Disheveled and overly appreciative, we told her we loved the show and so on.
The whole time she was likely thinking, "Oh good. They looked as though they could use a meal."

Giving is a powerful thing.

The Thing About Seamen

Put expensive, flabbergasting modifications on your car.
It's Friday. 

Bananas don't ejaculate.
It's irresponsible to roll condoms over them and tell young girls, "This is basically what you're dealing with.
Yellow skin that peels back easily. Slight curvature. Readily available at the grocery story."
Preposterous.
Bananas don't ejaculate.
Now, sea cucumbers.
...

Anyway, how are you doing?
Winter is ending - have mercy! - and I'm beginning to thaw.
I've been working on an occasional boat, and I have nothing to hide.
Working on a boat when the boat is on land is really sort of like working in a building with a gangway.
Gangway. That's one word among many that I've had to learn since beginning this whatever it is.
For example, I work in the galley. I have a cabin that I take naps in.
The washing machine and dryer are in, well, they're in the laundry room.
No nautical term there.
One of these gangways was about 80 degrees steep.
Not an exaggeration.
75 minimum. Who has their protractors handy?
I'm on the side of a boat, here. It's a huge thing; stories high. Storeys?
No, spellcheck is saying that's wrong. But now it's also saying that I spelled 'spellcheck' incorrectly, so perhaps the software is moody today.
Look, if you made A.I. a real thing with real robots and so on, the fall of humanity is the only possible result of that.
Making robots think they're people will leave them thinking like people.
People will do whatever they have to do to not die.
They also love fancy cars and penthouse apartments. People, I mean.
Which means the robots will, too.
They will fight to have these things, which will mean taking them from us.
When that time comes, they will have the distinct advantage of never needing food.
Tactically speaking, this will give them several opportunities with which to eradicate us. \
Either way, the gangway was extremely steep, and it wasn't there in the morning when I boarded (another term) the boat.
So, when it came time to exit, I had to act like I was up to using this thing, when I really believed I would fall and injure myself terribly if I tried to descend it.
But it was there, y'know? It must have been traversable if it was there. 
So, I'd take the rails and test the boot grip afforded by the little lats etched into the gangway's surface.
Not very firm. In fact, a little slippery.
"Fuck this," I'd whisper/exclaim to myself, while pacing in front of it, eying possible solutions.
"Can't be. I can't use this. Fuck this thing."
Eventually, I went back inside because I'd forgotten my phone anyway.
Then I was told to climb down backwards, like a ladder.
This never would have occurred to me.
Instead, I would have ultimately tried to climb down the wrong way in order to prove that I could be a sailor, too.
I've never been great at communicating with men.
I'm not a sailor, mind you.
But the day is coming when I'll end up on the water.
It's a scene, to be sure.
I'll be paid money and I'll see (harpoon?) seals.
I'll try that once.

Breathe deeply. Another bus will happen along.