Tying the Knot

Like most sprawling voyages, this one begins with Ken.

It's a long story, but in June I bought a tiny book about knots for eight bucks in Lunenberg, Nova Scotia.
While I was on the ship I vowed that I would learn how to tie some cool knots from all of these clever sailors.
But you know me with vows...
I left the ship learning nothing (what a relief!) and I decided I'd try to uphold my empty promise to myself regardless.
Then, while having a two-day hour long conversation with an old buddy's dad, I found this wee book about knots.
Serendipitous as it was, I decided to get fleeced on the price and take it home with me.
I really will have to try and pack the story of the knot book into a seperate post because it really was quite retarded.
Anyway, yesterday I thought I'd cut off a length of rope, wrap each end in electrical tape, and get to work.
Here's what I picked up:
I have no spatial reasoning, no patience, and no new knowledge of knots.
I learned the half-hitch and thought that everything was going quite smoothly.
Half-hitch slipknot. Hey! I just pull this guy and it comes undone! Tying knots is a great bit of fun.
Figure eight stopper knot.
...
Half an hour later
Figure eight stopper knot.
The book, proving to be of less and less value with each passing day, shows the knots, but doesn't provide figures instructing you how to actually tie them.
And goddamn this knot.
Ten minutes later
I'm watching a YouTube video on how to tie a figure eight stopper knot, realizing that this is why people are reading less books.
The video didn't help either and by then I was too pissy to continue.
Anyway, feel free to try it yourself.
The book says it's a better stopper knot than the regular overhand we all use to tie everything.
If you're willing to trust the book, that is.

 

I'm warm and I'm probably sooky.
It's incredible how desperately a man may need a coffee shop.
I'm not one to write at home.
Perhaps I've always had problems with writing at home because I fish for excuses to not write anywhere.
Or, ultimately, maybe I just enjoy a three dollar oatcake from time to time.
No oatpucks to be had in this town, however.
Oh sure, I can buy cotton gloves and rat poison under one roof here in Pasadena ("Where? Where is he?"), but coffee shops are a tad rare.
There isn't even a Tim's, for crying out Horton's.
There is a Trudy's, however.
Picture a cafeteria in a trucker's driving school, then attach a walk-in beer fridge to it.
That's Trudy's.
It's my first day writing here in Trudy's, and I suppose, ideally, it won't be my last.
I mention all of this because there are two dudes wearing steel-toed boots sitting across from me, and I think they're finding my prescence strange and it's making them uncomfortable.
I hope this is true because they're definitely throwing me off of my game.
So, Colin got married.
This is my oldest brother for any newcomers.
Colin is a curmudgeonly, sour man.
He likes cats and those soft cheezies, and that's about it.  
No one who knows Colin personally would have expected him to agree to something so joyful as a wedding. 
Don't worry, he planned none of it.
As a consequence, it was a pretty good time.

Andie and I just returned home after an almost-week at Mom's, full of sweaty family members, screeching toddlers, homebrew and sex down at Mad Rock.
So, settle in with your mamosa - wait, let's find you a recipe for that.
Okay, so coochy in with your mamosa and your favourite lap dog, and let's see if I can relive the magic over a number of seperate, marketable posts.

Chairman of the Board

John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt?
Yeah, I know 'em.
In fact, that's my name too.
And whenever I go out, people always shout:
"There goes John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt."
"Na na na na na na na," I say.
"You're thinking of the other guy."
Here's something that the song doesn't mention about ol' John:
Mean drunk.

What's yer game?
I'm not referring to the lies you choose to tell women so as to have sex with them.
I mean your board game.
Those Mormons who have had me over for dinner know that I enjoy Scattegories.
Though, if we're splitting irons and thimbles, Scattegories doesn't involve a board.
I used to play Mouse Trap. Remember that one?
I'd construct the whole mouse trap only to set it off and put the game away again.
Because I had no friends.
Speaking of which, I used to play board games by myself.
Monopoly. I'm not sure what else.
Chess, when I got older.
Our school went through a chess phase in junior high.
Everyone set up boards and played during recess.
This lasted until the adolescent hockey players realized this behaviour wouldn't get them handjobs any sooner, certainly.
Sort of fizzled out after that, leaving only the kids who looked like they should be playing chess playing chess.
Just reread that last sentence. Should make sense this time.
Summers spent on wheels resulted in a lot of board games.
Clue was always a favourite of mine (God knows I'm a sucker for role play ["Oh. What a drag. Miss Scarlett again."]).
Clue's fatal flaw, however, was that its whodunit format necessitated 3 players.
And, as I believe I have mentioned, I used to struggle to find a 2.
Hopelessly romantic and sentimental both, I always wanted to play a game with the whole family.
Just once.
Like the family on the box!

Everyone is laughing, tossing their heads back devil-may-care.
That could be us, right?
Wrong.
If we ever sat to play a board game together, the photo would look like this:
Mom would be rolling the dice with one hand while mashing potatoes with the other.
Dad would be checking his watch (though, in reality, this is something he would never do).
Colin would be complaining that he's bored.
Brian would be stealing fake money from the box.
And Paul?
Well, I'd look the part, actually.
Just like these freaks.
I'd look exactly like the wiener kid in the green polo shirt.
Hand poised, unmoving.
Back then I couldn't understand any of this.
Instead, I'd wonder, "Why can't we sit down together for a nice game of Life?"
It took me so many years to understand the inevitable truth:
No families look like that when they're playing board games together.
No families play board games together (again, Mormons. Mormons are the exception).
That isn't life.
Charlie horses from Brian.
That's life.
Never being able to nap on mom and dad's (motor home) bed because Colin was always asleep on it.
That's life.
Mom and Dad arguing about which exit to take.
That's life.
I couldn't understand that I was in the game already.
Mom and Dad were the blue and pink pegs in the front seat.
The three of us the burdensome blue pegs in the back seat.
It took me years to learn that the game box photo was taken by Santa Clause.
It took me even longer to learn that Life was fun, but life was better.

My Three Sons

Of all of the things that my mother has done for me, birthing me is by far her most resounding accomplishment.
I must not have been easy to have around.
Crying all of the time.
Not that that was my fault.
Writing 'hookers' on all of her grocery lists.
And, apparently, once when I was two I got into her cupboards and spilled eggs and oatmeal and stuff all over myself.
Between people dying and people being assured they'll die sooner rather than later, Mom had a rough Christmas.
And I had no money.
This was her gift.
I have wrestled with the idea of posting it.
It has been a constant struggle between my not wanting to type it all out.
And my desire to seem sweet.
And since I don't have a girlfriend right now...enjoy!


Through Jiggs and Reels

The crest of an evening, a building clad brick
Tears of elation, both tired and thick
Fell from my mother, below her strewn hair
She's just birthed my brother (though I wasn't there)

Decades have passed and we've all grown new lines
But you can't help but smile, cause we had some times
Imagine my parents had abstained from the rearing
And chosen a companion far more endearing

A pet with thick fur, or fresh molted feathers
Some sort of parrot-I hear they're quite clever
Instead they chose us, for better or worse
And today mom gets some credit, long since deserved

They left then for home, amid Autumn's sighs
To start their new family and form some new ties
The first, he was weened on teet and baloney
But the house was too big; soon he was lonely

And then there were two, as the ol' saying goes
Knocking things over and shitting their clothes
Crying and fighting and getting the croop
Rashes and flues (did I mention the poop?)

Yup, things sure were great in the new Warford hut
'Cept everyone would leave the toilet seat up
"A girl's what I need!" Linda exclaimed
"Someone to help me to cope with these pains!"

She soon glowed anew with a baby soft growing
"Third time's a charm," said Linda, now showing
"She's gotta show this time, before it's too late
Tea parties and Barbies, this'll be great!"

The skies parted open and the birds chirped with mirth
The deers hugged the hunters at this glorious birth
The stock market paused and wars went on hold
Because when God made this one, He shook up the mold.

But sadly her body once more had been duped
Xs and Ys were mixed up in the soup
"A boy!? Are you sure?! Did you check it enough?"
"Ma'am, I'm a doctor. He'll pee standing up."

"Well we can't leave him here. He has to be mine
The nurses won't take him-they didn't last time."
So home we all went to begin our new end
The third time had missed and halted the trend.

Soon we would speak, and mom would be tested
"Mudder's" a name she never requested
Yet she heard it enough when we wanted supper
When we lost our new cap, or told on each other.

When the phone was for her (if they bothered to answer)
When they were out of cash, or they were stranded and plastered
When they burned all the gas, and could they get more?
When they broke souvenirs or put holes in the doors.

But she never heard "Thanks" for the money or meals
The lunches she packed or the carrots she peeled
The bikes she bought for our riding sessions
The books that she read or piano lessons.

For floors swept and mopped after meals never burnt
We'd just grab some cookies and walk through the dirt
You kept this house in pristine repair
For sons who never even bothered to care.

How did she do it? No one knows how
And it's not like she's stopped; the turkey's on now!
These were her three brothers instead of three sisters
Who never could value a family picture.

Why was such effort just met with complaining?
And how can passed gas be so entertaining?
So today is your day, and you'll be praised thus
When we weren't looking you managed to raise us.

And of course we appreciated the calm and commotion
But we were boys become men; we don't show emotion
You know we have loved you and all that you've done
It frazzled your patience, but come on, it was fun.

Like the time Colin helped Brian crawl up the stairs
The Wholesale "De-Pot,"* and all of the fairs
The Cub car rallies and the dimly-lit plays
BBQs and red cheeks on long summer days.

The time I threw up in my swimming bag
Turning our Vaurnet shirts into rags
Carving out pumpkins and getting detention
And occaisonally sitting on Claude's lap at Ascension**

Swimming and fighting in Antigonish
Leaving with dad to come back with fish
Motorhome on the highway, the Venetian blinds sighing
With Colin asleep and me up and crying

We'd make such a racket, we should've been beat
But we'd get quiet fast if you rose from your seat
It involved give and take, with little to spare
But you braved all the storms and that shows you cared

"Why can't you wear proper boots on your feet?!"
"Why can't I wear my cap while I eat?"
"Pause your game now before supper is cold!"
But we'd keep on playing; we'd let it grow mould
"You're not going to McDonald's in all of this snow!"
"But they're out in the car and they're waiting to go!
If it turns out it's slippery then I will go slower
Oh, I guess I'll need money, and can Bussey sleep over?"

You weathered all this with no sign of surrender
And that's just the stuff that I can remember.
So thank you for helping us survive in this game
I'm sure these two others were thinking the same

When our chips were down you held us aloft
Tough when required, but otherwise soft
The lynch pin who held this whole family together
And look at us now, we're all for the better

I guess we all thought we shouldn't distract you
To acknowledge the backbone might weaken the glue
You were the Jenga piece holding things up
And it might all tip over if looked on too much.

But now we are here to realize your feat
A mom and her ducklings crossing the street
You kept your head up and now we've all made it
And it'll always be something appreciated
Through everything right and everything wrong
We're all here now, and we love you Mom.


Alright alright.
A little mushy at the end. I guess that was the point.

* The Wholesale Depot was a Price Club before Price Club existed.
Located in Bangor, Maine. We always intentionally mispronounced 'depot'.

**Claude Taylor often acted as Santa at the Ascension Collegiate Christmas parties.
Because he was so jolly.

Kinda Cheesy

When you take a step back, 'Breathalizer' is a really stupid name.

Get your new titty calendars out of the plastic.
It's New Year's Day.
My least favourite celebrated religious holiday that there is.
Next to Remembrance Day.
Which always tends to be a downer.
But New Year's is up there.
Like I need to be reminded that I have a whole new year of possibilities.
Do you know what all failures start as?
Possibilities.
Besides that, fireworks startle me.
No resolutions to speak of this year.
There's nothing quite as sad as breaking a promise to one's self.

My grandmother began eating cheezies at the age of 92*.
Never touched salted snacks beforehand.
92 she can't get enough of them.
By 94 she'd stopped eating them again.
Two years of an intense fondness for cheezies.
After nearly a century of not being fussy on them.
I think that's the funniest thing.
If you don't agree with me, re-read the previous paragraph or something.
Go back to September.
There should be something funny in September.

*I forgot to mention this when Colin initially wrote this post.
Cause Colin writes all of these.
He's the literary mastermind behind Tragic Hero.
I'm just the figurehead.
On her diet:
My grandmother, 'near the end' as they say, was chilling in the hospital.
She maintained she was fine, but she wasn't big on the food.
And she wished that she could have a couple of boiled cod's heads.
Which is as adorable as it is disgusting, really.
My favourite part of the story?
The elderly woman in the bed across from her said:
"Yes my dear, and I'd love some boiled cod's heads, too."

Paul Bearer

There was a terrible storm on the day Nan was burried.
People joked that if she were alive she would've said to stay home out of the cold.
They were right.
I carried one sixth of her to her final resting place.
The casket weighed a fair amount, I think.
Otherwise six of us probably wouldn't have been necessary.
She used to give me change to blow on Ghost Rider comics at The Red Circle.
Apparently, when she did, I used to shout "I got two gold dollars!"
Which was hilarious to my parents and grandparents.
Because I was theirs. Which made me charming.
I'd imagine that anyone sharing a plane with me would have disagreed.
Anyway, I left a couple of loonies in her casket.
Because I'm dramatic.
I've never left anything in a casket before...
I was wary, though, of the mortuary staff thinking it was some 'pay the ferryman' bullshit.
Later we had tea and everyone asked me if I was getting substitute time.
And I just wanted to lie and say that I was writing for Modern Dog Magazine.

Please God

So my nan died.
Yeah, I know.
On her 90th birthday we had an 'open house' at our place.
Like you'd hold for The Stanley Cup, or The Mona Lisa.
Colin and I joked at the time that she was like the godfather (yeah, that one).
Because she just sat in her chair.
And all of these people we'd never seen would kneel in front of her.
Whispering things. Offering her gifts.
And she would nod and say, "Si, si."

People always said that she had the most amazing memory.
Which I didn't clue into until it was becomming too late.
Typical.
Once she told me a story about dad losing his tam.
Whatever the hell that is.
I guess it's a hat.
And dad was only three or four at the time.
I found the story fascinating because it was about my dad.
And he was three or four.

When I was old enough to drive we'd visit.
Because I'd have to drive to her neck of the woods to get the Coke in the glass bottles.
I used to warn the others that she might offer them money.
In which case they may as well accept it.
I used to always say, "Me and you are gonna take this money and go on the beer now."
I also used to hug her and say, "You know, I believe you're gettin' taller."
She liked that one.

She always said that she hoped to "be around next year, please God."
But when she said it, it always sort of sounded like "plaise God."
And as a kid I didn't know what that meant.
Turns out 'plaise God' meant nothing.
Nan just had a really thick accent.

She taught me to appreciate creamed corn.
And when I told her that I kissed Natalie Webber that time when we were five, she didn't tell anybody.
I'm really not good with death.
Seinfeld said the number one fear among people is public speaking.
Number two is death.
"Death...is number two?!
That means that at the funeral you'd rather be in the casket than giving the eulogy."
I have no problem with public speaking.
The shitty thing about death is that you go from appreciating to remembering.
And I suck at that, too.