MetaFilter today has a post linking to a site where people can post their confessions, big or small (an internet rip-off of my Canadian Confessions idea). This got me thinking about what I might confess, and that drummed up this repressed memory:
When I was 18 and in my first year at UPEI, I shoplifted a pair of black fake-leather pants from Zellers. I did this because I planned to go the The Barn’s Halloween party dressed as Billy Idol, and I needed those pants. I couldn’t afford, nor bring myself to purchase, a pair of awful nogahyde pants that I’d only wear once. So, I went to Zellers with every intention of stealing them. And I did. It was easy. I felt exhileratingly guilty about it. I think it was the only time I ever shoplifted.
The night of the dance came and I prepared the rest of my costume. I already sported the blond spiked hair, and could manage the Idol snarl whenever I needed it. I also had the punk-inspired gloves, all I needed was a black vest, black studded wrist bands and some cool footwear. I had none of that. So, I went to the kitchen and got a black garbage bag, cut out a vest to wear over my shirtless torso. Then I cut out a couple of black garbage bag wrist bands and painted some white liquid-eraser studs on them. Only the footwear left, and all I could find that were black were my father’s black rubber overshoes. Well, what’s an Idol to do, so I wore them, too many sizes too small, to boot.
Out into the frozen night I went, dressed in garbage bag and stolen pants.
At the dance, “Rebel Yell” inevitably played, and I, at this point needing little coaxing, went out on the floor by myself and slam-danced the hell out of that song.
Surprise of surprises, I won the costume contest, too. I didn’t even know I was entered. I won a 50 dollar bar-tab and shared it with all my friends that night, new-found and old.
So, take that, Crime Doesn’t Pay.
However, as an offer of humility, and to show the error of my ways, I offer up this photo as a sort of penance. You have to imagine the sneer.
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In the movies, here are
In the movies, here are three moments that are guaranteed to make at least one tear fall from my right eye (I find that my left eye is more tolerant of emotional drama).
Want to know your true
Want to know your true Pirate Name? Head to this site and fill out the 20 questions.
Turns out I’m a scoundrel called Captain Roger Vane. This is how I’m described: Even though there’s no legal rank on a pirate ship, everyone recognizes you’re the one in charge. You tend to blend into the background occaisionally, but that’s okay, because it’s much easier to sneak up on people and disembowel them that way. Arr!
Get ready to be boarded!!!
I’m pretty sure we all
I’m pretty sure we all know the commercial from which this quote is taken. When it first came out in the 1980’s (and for years afterward), it was parodied quite a bit and became something of a catchphrase (during a time when everything was a catchphrase).
I hadn’t heard, or thought of, the phrase for a long, long time. I heard it today on the radio on my way to work. It was played, sort of as an “aren’t we a cool station for playing this clip” clip that gets played during the lead in to a song. I was taken aback at how I reacted to it.
A couple of weeks ago, my mother, who is getting up there in age, fell while trying to keep her great-grandson from running out onto the road. She hit her head, which resulted in a huge lump over her deeply-blackened eye. She also hurt her knee and hip, which were already delicate and achy. She was shaken up rather badly, but is recovering okay, I guess.
Because of her fall, when I heard the phrase, I imagined my mother falling, her momentary helplessness, and it kind of hit me.
I pulled the car over, and I wept.
No, not really, but I was surprised at how the phrase that I had heard thousands of times without really hearing, suddenly seemed so relevant.
Now, it’s got me wondering what circumstances will occur that will cause me the same types of feelings when I hear “Where’s the beef?”
This idea is free for
This idea is free for the taking by any entrepreneurially-adept, forward-thinking producer; or by Craig Mackie.
A nationally-aired weekly, one-hour radio program called “Canadian Confessional”. It’s a phone-in program where Catholics can call in and anonymously make their weekly confessions of sin. A priest is on hand to offer the necessary penances from damnation. Perhaps there could be weekly guest priests. Maybe the week’s best confession could win a prize, like a Mainstreet license plate, or a CD of Stuart MacLean’s latest stories. Rex Murphy would not be involved.
Any other ideas to make this radio program a sure-fire hit?
Watching baseball yesterday and this
Watching baseball yesterday and this thought hit me:
Why does the crowd have to be quiet when golfers golf? I mean, is the golf swing that much more difficult than the pitcher’s pitch that everyone in the vicinity of it must hold their breath? Same goes for tennis, too.
I say it’s time the crowds stopped pussy-footing around these athletes and started getting vocal. Get a wave going all around him as Tiger tees off on number 9. Get into a Williams’ head as she’s serving: “Veeeeee-Nuuuuuusssssss. Veeeeeee-Nuuuuusssssss.”
I used to love baseball
I used to love baseball and I used to love the Expos. I remember, as a teenager, meticulously going up and down the radio dial some nights trying to find a broadcast of the games, and watching any game that was on TV. Then, maybe 15 years ago, for some reason I don’t know why, I couldn’t watch baseball anymore. I just found it incredibly boring. I didn’t watch, and didn’t get caught up in it, when the BlueJays won it all, and probably haven’t watched more than a couple of innings total in the past 10 years.
Until this year. I didn’t watch a single game all year, never kept up with the statistics at all, except with a rough gauge as to where the Expos were in the standings. But I find myself, inexplicably, watching this year’s playoffs. I don’t know why. But I’m kind of enjoying baseball again.
Watching baseball yesterday reminded me of my greatest moment as an Expos fan. It was 1983, and I and my friend Rob Kelly went to Montreal to watch a few games in person. At one game, the old veteran Woody Fryman was pitching for the Expos. I think, that year, Woody Fryman, who was 43, had pitched only a handful of innings and his ERA was something like 20. Not good. Anyway, he was out there, late in the game, for a rare appearance. I don’t remember the details of this particular game; who was winning and stuff. But the crowd was quiet. My friend and I, who’d both been enjoying the liquid concessions during the game, decided to start a rally cry for the Woodman. So we stood up and started chanting “Let’s go Woody, let’s go.” Nobody joined us, but we were persistent. Slowly, we began to hear the chant coming from other areas of the Big O. Eventually, most of the crowd was chanting with us. It was a pretty cool feeling knowing we started it. I don’t know if it helped Woody or not. That, quite possibly, may have been the last inning he ever pitched.
That was my greatest moment as a baseball fan. Maybe that’s why I gave up on baseball.
I went into Burger King
I went into Burger King to buy CB some hashbrowns, because today’s his birthday and that’s what he wanted..
While waiting for them to heat up, I make eye contact with the guy sweeping up behind the counter. I nod, he smiles, seemingly, with recognition of me. Now, I am terrible with remembering people, both names and faces. Since he recognizes me, I assume I should know him, but I don’t. Perhaps he saw me in a show, I think.
“You know what I always think about when I see you?” he says as he continues sweeping. Somewhere in the back of my brain I imagine that it’s something from Annekenstein or 4Play, or something likewise pleasant. But in the front of my brain, I know exactly to what he’s referring.
“It must’ve been about 10 years ago, now,” he adds. Yeah, I know exactly what it is. Here it comes.
“The Peter Pan.”
Sigh.
“Yeah, that’s one I can’t escape,” I say.
“Huh?”
“I took a lot of ribbing for doing that.”
“What is it you said? ‘Peter Pan, Peter Pan, Peter Pan!’, and the high voice.”
“That’s it, pretty much.”
“That was a good one.”
“Memorable, anyway.”
Off he goes to sweep in back. Leaving me with the young girl who was bagging the hash browns, who obviously had no idea what we were talking about.
Someday, people like her will be all that remain. I look forward to that day.
Just on the (not so)
Just on the (not so) off chance that somebody reading this doesn’t know about Loudon Wainwright III, and on the further off chance (or would that be “offer chance”) that reading this would cause somebody who was previously unfamiliar with LWIII to discover him and enjoy his music even a tenth the amount that I do, I’m gonna post this request…
Check out some Loudon Wainwright III songs. The excellent live album “Career Moves” would be a good start.
I was informed that someone
I was informed that someone was having difficulty reading some of the older posts further down the page, that the first couple of posts were okay but the rest of the page was all ‘orange gibberish’.
Is anyone else having this problem viewing the page? If so, please let me know by posting a comment, or emailing me at sendit2me@myway.com (link to the left)
I realise much of my stuff is nothing more than gibberish to begin with, but I won’t tolerate it being orange gibberish. I just won’t!
The Annekenstein Monster 