In the Silence before the Dawn of the Dead

I woke up this morning fairly certain the world had been taken over by zombies. Not the kind of zombie everyone is at 5:30am on a Monday morning – not that type. Nope, I’m talking about the rip you to pieces eat your face off sort of zombie.

As I lay there, emerging from what must have been one heck of a dream because it was hanging on even as my brain sought consciousness to deal with it, I could hear sirens outside; I knew that sound for firefighters on their way to an emergency. “Stop,” I wanted to yell. “Stop firefighters! That’s not a fire! That’s zombies! They’ll eat you!” But I didn’t. They wouldn’t have heard me.

At this point my left brain started to wake up and tell me that no, the world had not been taken over by zombies. It would be safe to get up, go downstairs, have my cereal and leave the house. But my right brain was still in overdrive telling me that the moment I stepped outside a zombie with half its face torn away would jump me and garner for itself the most important meal of the day.

Then my imagination really cycled up. What would happen with the four of us stuck in our townhouse with zombies outside? What would happen to my 3 year old son? My 10 month old daughter? My left brain knew this whole thing was pointless but right brain was just getting started. I don’t feel fear much, mostly because I’m removed from scary things, but I was starting to get afraid.

All those times my wife suggested we should have an earthquake preparedness kit echoed in my brain pan. We’d only done a partial shop for the week food was going to run out a lot quicker than it would have had the zombies comes last week. What would we do then? Someone would have to go to one of the giant stores and cram as much in the car as we could… and that someone would probably have to be me.
I don’t have a gun. I don’t have a bat. I couldn’t even try to choke a zombie with my PS3 Controller because its wireless…

… and then I sort of fell back to sleep and woke up 10 minutes later. It makes me realize my part in a zombie movie would not be as hero – not even as villain. I’d be the guy who got eaten halfway through the movie; just another guy. Just another meal in Zombie Land

I’m glad it was just a dream. I’m safely at work now and no one has tried to eat me… though my co-worker is kind of eyeballin’ me funny.

Gordon Lightfoot Still Alive, But Weak

Dear Solitary Reader In the news today comes word that Gordie Lightfoot is changing the words of one of the iconic folk songs of all time. From henceforth some of the lyrics of The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald will be changed from … whatever they are now to … um… something else.

Old Lazarus Lightfoot, apparently, woke up from one of his many naps during a documentary on the sinking of the Edmund Fitzgerald and discovered that crew error may not have been the reason one of the hatches caved in, but a giant wave was responsible (DAMN YOU GIANT WAVE! WHY MUST YOU RUIN EVERYTHING!). Upon seeing this Gordo thought perhaps he’d better change the lyrics of the tune so that it no longer casts doubt upon that brave and sadly dead crew.

Now personally I’m not a big fan of Lightfoot or The Wreck of the Eddie Fitz; it sounds like two chimps clapping their butt cheeks together to me, but here’s the trick Gordie, how are you going to get a significant number of people to bother to relearn the words to the one song that everyone knows from you?

To me this is another instance of science – or near science, or something that sounds good enough to sound like science and therefore become generally accepted – ruining things. Scientists told us that the Brontosaurus no longer/never existed (keep in mind though it was scientists that told us it existed in the first place); scientists told us that Pluto, because it failed to pay its membership dues, is no longer a planet. Now science is telling us that it was a big giant wave that crashed the ship.

Okay… fine.  Big giant wave (HOW I HATE YOU WAVE!?!) or not – how do we prove that it was not human error? Does the hatch look like a wave hit it? IT WAS A BOAT!  If I produce another documentary that shows a dramatization of the crew not locking the hatch, will you change the lyrics back?

This makes me want to write another song… The Wreck of The Wreck of Edmund Fitzgerald… its just the original song with the following two verses added on:

Gordie saw on the TV right there
a documentary on it
How the hatch didn't blow it was the wave that did so
And he got a bee in his bonnet
"I'll change me the lyrics" he said to the wall
"I'll blame it on that giant wave.
Then people will see that I am still alive
And I haven't gone to the grave."

So he put out the word he was puttin' out words
And changing the lyrics by June
He wrote about sails to drum up some sales
Out of a long forgotten tune
But no one will remember when it come to September
Except for his own cousin Harald
That he spent all that time, commiting the crime
Wrecking the Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

Le Fin

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Why Comedy & Exercise Don’t Mix

One of my unofficial resolutions of the new year was to lose some weight. Very original I know, but what’s made this one different than every other year is that this time it actually seems to be taking hold… I’ve lost about 30lbs since the beginning of the year. No applause, just throw popcorn chicken.

This week I decided to take a couple of vacation days off figuring I’d make myself a healthy scratch from work now that the eyes, the ears and the throat are all better. So yesterday, and again today, I found myself on our elliptical machine while the Just for Laughs  comedy festival was on the comedy network (that’s the problem with working out 10 in the morning – little to nothing to watch while doing so).

I used to call the elliptical machine the ecliptical machine because within seconds of beginning my routine the corners of my vision would begin to go dark. That was three months ago and this is now. Now it takes about 10 minutes for that to happen…

So there I was this morning running as if all the demons of hell were behind me and there’s a guy on TV doing a very good job of being funny. I usually take off my glasses when I exercise because I sweat like a pig at a luau and they get dirty, but today I didn’t so I could actually watch the guy’s mix of physical and verbal comedy which turned out to be almost dangerous.

I don’t even remember the name of the man who almost killed me just that he was a fellow of Scottish Indian descent – which for some reason seems funny in and of itself. Well anyway, he’s doing his thing and I’m starting to laugh.

Laughter is one of those things that grows exponentially so when he got me laughing that first time it was easier the next time and the next so that by the time I was on minute 14 of my eclliptical training I was laughing so hard I almost fell off the machine.

I’m pretty sure if that had happened I would have been pummelled by the swinging arms of the machine and then fallen under the still moving steps; and that would have been the last of me.

They say laugher is healthy… but in this case it almost did me in.

I can’t get no… Stratas-faction

Yesterday I had the misfortune to go to a strata meeting – or part of one anyway. Normally I avoid these intellectual black holes because unless you’re playing My Town you can pick your friends and you pick your neighbours but you can’t pick your friends to be your neighbours.

Our council is pretty on top of things so I’m usually keen to stay home and send in my proxy – I know what I want and listening to other people blather on so they can feel they’ve been heard isn’t high on my list of things to do.

My wife, however, threw this one under the umbrella of “spending time together” (I’m not sure where that logic runs but I’m trained well enough not to question her) and so I went.

I should have known things were not going to go well when, as we were leaving the compound, um… I mean complex, my eyes were assailed by one of the Children of the Strata lying in the middle of the road attempting to break dance. I implored my wife to floor it and take down this genetic wasteland before a) he could pro-create and further damage the gene pool and b) he brought break dancing back and got rich doing it (quick poll: which is worse?).

Fortunately for Elmo the Genetic Throwback, my wife feels for dumb animals (I’m not complaining, it’s why she married me) and didn’t listen. As we drove by this kid stared at us as he danced slack jawed and drooling with a “Look what I can do…” expression pasted on his determined and vacant eyed little face I forgot to check to see if he was wearing cursed shoes… maybe that was it.

In the first 20 minutes I knew this was to be a strata meeting like any other strata meeting (or at least like I’d imagined them – as I said I’m usually pretty good about worming out of these things) when the woman interjected with an inane point that proceeded to spark 15 minutes of pointless conversation. The thing is, where more than 5 people are gathered one of these people will be a stupidity emitter that will dampen down the common sense of all nearby individuals – the moment someone says: “I just wanted to say…” you know you’re in for something especially dumb because this person will have no point other than to hear their voice.

But all this is beside the point (happily I had to go home and look after the kids as we’d only booked Oma for ½ hr), my point is about punctuality (well it was before I went on too long so I’ll touch briefly on the topic).

Yesterday’s meeting started at 6:30. To set the ground work here there are 30+ units in the strata and there were about 18 of them there on time; after that in waltzed another 3 or 4 people as if they expected the entire proceedings to wait for them. Thanks to them the meeting couldn’t get into full swing for about 15 minutes into it (and that’s when the walking brain freeze said: “Excuse me, I just wanted to say…”). What could have easily been a half hour meeting went on much longer and only thanks to the children at home did I get to leave early and miss the rest of it.

It’s a shame that you can’t pick your neighbours because if I did I would not chose the sort of person who shows such casual disrespect as to arrive late to a meeting where ALL YOUR NEIGHBOURS ARE WAITING FOR YOU and probably expect the entire proceedings to wait for them. This is reflective of another of the “commons” that isn’t common – like common sense there also seems to be no such thing as common courtesy.

It doesn’t seem like a good idea to piss off your neighbours (that being said if you’re my neighbour and you’re reading this I am, of course, not talking about you (unless you’re the break dancing kid – STOP DANCING!)).

So my brief foray into the world of strata meetings reinforced everything I thought it would be – and now I have a phobia about going to these things again… you might say I have a … wait for it… wait for it… stratas-fear!

Wanted: 1 Hr

Well now that work has settled down again and my brain cells have resumed their normal level of activity (it’s sort of a slow moving zombie shuffle) and the cold seems to have cleared for a bit I reckon it’s time to get back on the blog. Speaking of Time: Daylight Savings Time Sucks

Word on the street is that this whole time change thing is Ben Franklin’s fault. Thanks Ben. That’s another thing you’ve ruined for me (kite flying is the other one).  Last weekend, although sick, I was feeling quite comfortable with my days and nights being right where they were. It was light in the morning when I drove to work and I didn’t have to worry about driving over the center line during inclement weather like I do now (my dark vision isn’t that good in case you’re wondering thanks to several eye problems I’ve had).

My three year old boy was also doing well – we’d blacked out his room so he didn’t get up to early and have him on an IV of Vitamin C to prevent the scurvy from setting in and Vitamin D to stop the Rickets  and Vitamin Z… which we made out of some mashed banana and sugar; and he was beginning to go to sleep in the 8:30pm range – now thanks to the miracle of modern daylight savings time my kid is awake longer than I am.

As the song says, time keeps on tickin’ tickin’ ticking into the future; but this weekend time didn’t just tick into the future – it vaulted. The Thief of Time hit again and managed to steal away another hour.

Okay I did some research on the whole thing (occasionally I like to know what I’m talking about) and it turns out that Ben Franklin only proposed the idea of daylight savings time as a satire. I can appreciate that Ben, but I still hate you for the Almanac. The true culprit according to Wiki (and the Internet would not lie to me, its favourite son) is some guy from New Zealand, a country which is now lucky that it hosted The Lord of the Rings  and I swore never to say anything bad about it – or otherwise I’d be saying something bad about it.

The guy was a bug collector. A bug collector. He wanted to stay up later and collect bugs. I sincerely hope this man is roasting in the lowest of the nine hells, right beside the broom closet, where he’s being eaten alive by ants that, between mouthfuls, are saying: “Ant, am I glad there’s an extra hour in the day to eat this guy…”

As you’re stumbling around for the next few days keep that in mind – you’re up an hour later so some douche bag could hunt bugs.  How does that make you feel?
Tired probably.

My point is the three words Daylight, Saving and Time should not appear in the same sentence unless we’re talking about a sequel to a Stallone movie… Daylight 2: Saving Time.

Man Cold, Khaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan & My Town

Man Cold

I have a cold. It is the cold of cold, the threat of throats, the inflection of infection.

They say if a butterfly beats its wings somewhere it causes a hurricane in Gulf; if that same butterfly sneezes he causes the hurricane of colds and that’s where I am right now.

Normally I don’t sit and whine and moan when I have a cold; but this time I’m moaning full throattle.

I feel like I accidentally swallowed some of my own cooking. It’s that bad.

Here’s a skit by the BBC sketch comedy group Man Stroke Woman showing just how bad I’ve got it:

Yup. It’s that bad.

Khaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan

As part of the cold I have also picked up an ear infection. That is the particular circumstance that’s putting the whole thing over the edge; sore throat whatever, but combine that with this ear thing and I feel like Giant Machine and Hulk Machine are walking all over my head. And Captain Lou is yelling in my ears the whole time.

It’s been a while since I had an infection of this magnitude and it was rather disconcerting when I scratched my ear this morning to find some dried blood there. The application of a cloth indicated there was more blood to be cleaned. A check of the pillow case indicates even more blood.

That’s right – bleeding from the ear. I mentioned it to my wife who had the following to say: “Ah sit down ye dafte pussy. I ha’that the lass teem I ha’a’fection an ye dinna hear me weenin’ about it ye blu’ babby!”

I don’t know why but whenever my wife yells at me she does it in a Scottish brogue.

Now I’m not generally that queasy around blood – a boyhood of nosebleeds has taught me that my body is to blood as a chip factory is to Doritos – it will make more.  But my discomfort from this experience comes primarily from having watched Star Trek 2: The Wrath of Khan  more specifically that seen where Ricardo Montalban slaps some worms in the ears Chekov and Sulu.

How do I know my wife didn’t (hold on … wife asked me to take out the trash… okay back) put (hold on my wife is asking me to do the sa’sudra… I don’t know how to do that… make it up? I hear and obey… okay back)  one of those things (what’s that dear? Hop on one foot? Sure! Okay back) in my ear to make me do her bidding?  You laugh.. why are you laughing? It could happen!

My Town

I’ve recently started playing My Town on Facebook. It’s kind of fun – I’m a real estate appraiser by trade (not calling) and have subsequently watched neighbourhoods go through various cycles.

It’s interesting to force that cycle myself rather than having to wait for slow moving municipalities to do that themselves. That’s not the point though…

The point to the exercise is that anytime I play the game my internal radio cranks out “Ghost Town” by CheapTrick. So yesterday I sat down and wrote a parody of said song. Without any ado here it is:

My Town (To Ghost Town)

Well the streets are all crowded, but no people around
And there's music playing but I've turned off the sound
Just the sound of my mouse button clickin' s down
I've stopped playing Castle Age since I've picked up my town
Yeah life goes on around me every day
But I'm harvesting my houses for the fourth time today

Chorus
I'm playin My Town on my facebook
I'm playin My Town, you should come take a look
I'm playin My town baby can't you see
It's My Town - won't you be neighbours with me.

Well I wish I had more friends, friends to play with me
They'd send me more gifts and I'd reciprocate see?
Though my town is expanding, not fast enough for me
Without more friends, My Town's no place to be
I've got a zoo I harvest every night
A fire station too so everything stay's alright, everything stay's allr ight

CHorus

I'm playin' My Town... won't you come, won't you come play with me

And just in case you forgot how the song goes (which I know you haven’t because it’s a classic) here’s the tune:

Title-us Suckus

Today’s “No Shit Sherlock” award goes to the fine writers at The Associated Press. The AP brings us this little tidbit Pentagon shooter had a history of mental illness. Um… anyone who’s got a gun and decides to take on the Pentagon is going to be a few sandwiches short of a picnic… if ye olde nutbar were thinking clearly he might have a mental conversation that went something like this:

"Hi Self, how are you today?"
"Why not so bad Self, you?
"Well, I'm feeling a bit angry at the world, things just don't seem to be working out for me?"
"Oh? Tell me more?"
"Well sometimes it seems like everything I do just screws things up more. And I swear the people on this planet are out to get me."
"Now that you mention it self, I think you might be on to something. I thought that guy in the mumu was looking at me and thinking about eating me."
"You know, Self, I was thinking that."
"If I had my gun he wouldn't be thinking that."
"Why self, it looks like we do have a gun"
"Okay, let's go use it!"
"Um Self, that's a really bad idea."
"You think, self?"
"Yeah, Self. I kinda do?"
"What should we do then?"
"Let's go blog about how the moon landing was faked!"
"Awesome! Let's do it."

And off he goes - still slightly delusional you'll note - but harmless in a passively mad sort of way. Instead this man, whom the AP tells us had a history of mental discombobulation, had the following internal thought process:

"Flower, Moses, Edgar, chicken, GUN, tomatoes, Bananas, Racing, Blowhole GUN,
Eddy, Bobby, Gumbo, Panda GUN furry, MURRAY HURRY CURRY PENTAGON WEEEEEEE.

One hint that the guy was riding his horse backwards is the fact that he went off to take on the Pentagon – they probably have guns there you know…

Thankfully no one else was killed in the incident and I feel bad for the family of this guy because a) their son is dead and b) they now have to deal with the the stigma of being “that family who’s boy went bonkers and tried to kill the Pentagon.”

As for the story title, AP, we can assume that anyone who goes anywhere and shoots anything, especially the weapons cache that is the Pentagon is either making ice cubes in the Arctic or trying to rid the world of the lizard rulers that wear human skins for disguise.

Signs Signs Everywhere There’s Signs

Dear Solitary Reader: A sign says a lot.  STOP. YIELD. GEORGE BUSH KILLS CHILDREN. These are all very important signs. With only a limited amount of space on a sign, there’s very little room for mistake. You’ve got 2 ft x 2 ft to get your point across to the world so you’d better come up with something to make them notice you.

I’ve got a marketing degree, which has seen as much use lately as Tiger Woods’ side of the marriage bed (can you believe that’s my first Tiger Woods related joke after that whole debacle?), and one of the areas we covered was advertising. Signs fall under that category (if you need the P – its Promotion).

In the last couple of days I’ve come across a couple of signs that have certainly made me notice them – but not for the right reasons.

FREE RANGE EGGS: The first sign, pictured in an artists reproduction above (available from the Franklin Mint for only $14.99 – give your family the gift of laughter this Christmas. Order now and we’ll throw in a leftover Dale Earnhardt Jr. collector plate. NOTE: THIS IS NOT A DALE EARNHARDT PLATE OF LEFTOVERS), says exactly that – Free Range Eggs. Now if I were to stretch my powers of deduction to their fullest I would surmise these are eggs from free range chickens.

But that’s not what this sign says. It says: Free Range Eggs. What this brings to mind is a bunch of eggs roaming the country side (probably wreaking havoc, I bet eggs would be huge a-holes). The only other thing I can think of to explain this is that the free range chickens are using their eggs for some free range lawn bowling.

Because this sign did fulfill its primary function I did actually stop and see what the crack up was about. The wait to get in was egg-crutiating; and what I saw when I got there was more than I’d bargained for. This was a really free egg:

I think this egg is a little too free if you ask me.

On to the next.

ANNUAL CHILDREN’S SALE: While pulling into a hearing today I noticed this sign outside the church where my review panel was held. If you look closely the sign says: “Annual Children’s Sale.” So for those of you who thought that it might be a good time to have another kid but didn’t want to go through all the trouble of labour, here’s your opportunity to own one without the hassle.

Of let’s say that you’re shoe factory has been short a few employee’s lately because they keep falling in the rubber tree vats? Where are you going to find some new kids at this time of year? Check the sign! Despite the fact that this sale is still 2 weeks away I’m pretty sure I saw Kathy Lee Gifford at the head of the line up. Apparently she’s got a new clothing line coming out.

What’s most disconcerting about the sign is that the people having this children sale are from a pre-school. Now either some parents aren’t stopping by to pick up little Timmy or Jenny and the school has a surplus of abandoned children or they’re writing fake death certificates.

Well that’s it for me folks. I’m gonna go stand in line: if I’m ever going to open my Children’s Chimney Sweep business (You won’t hear a Peep while we Sweep Sweep Sweep!) now’s the time to do it.

Sincerely,

Me

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