Zombie Pride

There are many reasons why this is such a great city to live in.

Here is but one:

Marginalized minority groups are welcome to celebrate their individuality and uniqueness on given days by parading their respective unnatural lifestyle choices in full view of the general public. Certain established or traditionalist members of the community may be offended at these brash displays of diversity, but I argue the overall health of any metropolis is preserved by embracing such events.

So it goes without saying, I was there the first time my people strode the streets of Cowtown. And so was my camera.

Without further ado, I give you the first annual ZOMBIE WALK:



Just an ordinary mass of listless, jobless teens?




Think again!




Gad, the youth of today. Loitering,
sucking back sugar water with no
regard for their health or longevity,
lacking even such basic means as
ambition, motivation, knees for their
jeans, buttons for their shirts...
a beating heart in their chests.




Even reputable professionals have turned
to this slovenly way of non-life.




A little pop music Where's Waldo? for the after-life set:
Can you spot the Roger Daltrey and Glenn Danzig zombies?
I think there's even a Village Person in there.




This guy misheard his biological imperative to
eat "braaaaaaaaaains..." and opted for the
vegetarian alternative: "braaaaanches..."




This gal really creeped me out.




But these fetching twins I'd ask on a date any time.




Now, this fella didn't object to my
zombie-paparazzi ways at first...




But then he took an unhealthy liking to me.




Despite my initial hesitation,
we forged a fast friendship.




Turns out he's a real sweetheart.




So we went for a pint with some friends of his.




Certain guests were too impatient to
wait for service and instead chose
cannibalism as their appetizer option.




Even zombie gals take the time to
ensure they look their best. Check out
the fine makeup jobs on these hotties.




Though the guys, as usual, go out 'as is'.




But lo: occasional fiends showed a touch of class
and drew many appreciative looks from the ladies.




My buddy, on the other hand, had his advances rebuffed...




And didn't take it too well.


Remember, folks: zombies have feelings too!

...

And this, fellow corpses, was only last year.

2006 saw an even more impressive turnout, though sadly, I was unable to join my bleeding brethren this time around.

No matter. I can't get my fill of photos. So if you're like me, you'll enjoy the following murder of sites with wonderful pics from both last year's inaugural lurch, and this year's sophomore shuffle.

Out of respect, I'll link to them in the zombie native tongue. Peace and long death, brothers and sisters:


aaauuuurrrrrruuaaaaarrrghhh

muuuuuaaaaoooooorrrrmmmmggg

oooaaaaarrhhhhhhhhhhfffmmmh

gggggggggggggggggggggggg

rrraaa rrrraaaa rrrrraaaa rrraaaaaahhhhh

ssssssgggggrrrlllllmmggggssss

bbbbrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

ooookkkll oookkkllll ooookklllllaaaaaauuuuuu

uurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

rorororororrrrrrrrooroorr

asssmmmmlllllrrrrssssslllgghhllfffkkk


The night is young! More to come!

Braaaaaaaaains

And so it begins...

It has been established that persons who have recently died, have been returning to life, and committing acts of murder.

A widespread investigation of reports from funeral homes, morgues, and hospitals has concluded that the unburied dead...
are coming back to life, and seeking human victims.

Your only hope...

Stay tuned! The sun has yet to set, and more is to come...

Runaway Pumpkin

I like to keep these digs current, but I'm not finished blogging through my experience Down South yet, and there's still a bunch of past news to note before Mini Nerd drags itself back to the present. But I'm enforcing another (sadly, short) intermission to recognize a holiday of great importance to me: All Hallows.

It runs neck-in-neck with Christmas for my favorite celebratory time of year (make of that pagan/Christian dichotomy what you will), and usually I dedicate the entire month of October to savoring its creepy vibe. Unfortunately, I've been too busy these days to add a 'grave' prefix to any of the yards available to me, and I've no office space to decorate with knick-knacks both seasonal and spooky. So, I'm making do with a Mini Nerd makeover and a few upcoming posts to satiate that inner ghoul.

For a thematic segue - from discussing my Down South photos to some trickery and treats over the next little while - I'm using a pair of images snapped while on vacation with Mike and Carolyn. We saw this post's namesake nearly every day as we sped past him on our way to historic destinations and comic shops galore, and then again on our way home. But not once could I capture him in-camera to my liking, so jumpin' fast was this Jack-flash.

Candy corn in the previous post was a passable preview, but now I'll let good 'ole Jack-O bring home this year's monster mashup.

Tummy Travel

A lovely ex of mine said the following of her trip to Peru:

"My constitution is no match for developing countries."

She got the unsolicited 10-pound slimdown, courtesy of staying in the rainforest. Alas, she also got to see Machu Picchu. It could be argued that's a fair tradeoff, but at the risk of getting kicked in the nuts, I'll refrain from making the argument.

Can you tell I really want to see Machu Picchu?

Anyway.

I haven't anywhere near that level of gastronomical (or gastrointestinal) anecdotes to relate about my own trip Down South. But I did feel sick to my stomach two times.

The first was at the shooting range.

Before you get all defensive and accuse me of being a peace-loving communist with barely one nut in that sack I was protecting from ex-wreckage earlier, recognize I have a healthy relationship with my lizard brain and find suitable outlets for releasing the aggression that is my birthright as a human animal.

Said outlets don't include the shooting range, but I'm sure it works for many on this planet. I say that because after my initial nausea, it worked for me too.

I was massively pumped for this event, since I've never shot worse than an airgun, or, more frequently, an atomic laser pistol. I was all ready to walk in with my fake handlebar moustache, impromptu redneck garb, and an unreasonably wide-legged gait.

Perish the thought of levity in these environs, though, because "gun people" take it very seriously. I was afraid to even crack a smile during the NRA video Mike and I had to watch while completing our written firearm safety tests. I actually felt like the two of us were back in high school trying to stifle chortles at insipid, dated sex education films.

At any rate, we passed and proceeded to spend $60 USD (this is an expensive form of stress release) and churn out quite a few spent bullets on paper targets both disturbing (Mike's, of two theoretical assailants) and neutral (mine, a simple bullseye), at distances of up to thirty feet, and calibers of up to .45.

Good Lord.

The feeling I had when firing a real gun took all the fun out of every cops and robbers game I played as a kid. You pull the trigger, with some effort, and when you manage to get that hammer to hit the cap that ignites and forces the bullet down the chamber and out the muzzle toward whatever the hell it is you want to put a hole in, you get this WOOF of air against your nose and forehead that feels like a child slapping you in the face - along with the WHIFF of a smell I don't think I'll find replicated anywhere else. It's warm and it's cold all at once. It burns and it stinks.

It took me about 20 rounds with the .38 before I could stop shaking and handle the killing tool without fear of dropping it, pointing it in the wrong direction for even a second, loading (or unloading) it improperly...even handing it to my friend, I held it like a piece of radioactive sludge and really wished he had gloves.

Now.

The second gun we shot has a loading mechanism called a slide, and if you "have a pair" (I refer you to the single-nut-in-sack description above, which thankfully isn't my situation), you will LOVE pulling that thing back. At least, I did. I liked it more than anything else I encountered in the building. I pulled that slide, and I pulled that slide, and I pulled it, that slide, dammit--

Boy did I feel like a man.

And for a few precious, unforgettable moments, I let loose with a tight series of rather accurate shots in close succession that did the job for me of making all the noise I wanted to make with my own lungs and vocal chords while picturing certain objects of disenchantment begging for a judicious bullet-riddling treatment.

Yes, readers, I wanted to bellow. Yes, I felt my temperature rising. That lizard brain kicked in. Bloodlust raged through my puny arms and quaking legs as they worked to keep me perfectly still and ensure the accurate dealing of imaginary death.

It was after that I knew it was time to leave.

Also, the three other groups of casual shooters who'd arrived and were blowing the crap outta their paper targets to either side with increasingly louder sidearms were really getting to me. I'd rather jump every second while watching a horror movie, thanks, instead of getting whiplash trying to figure out which direction the potentially life-ending threat is coming from.

In short: guns are serious business.

And they're no business of mine.

On a slightly lighter note, Nausea Number Two:



Mike and Carolyn made the mistake of taking me to Golden Trough for lunch one afternoon, because a tourist really should have "the experience". Truth be told, at least one of the locals in our party had never eaten there before either, and regretted it just as much as I did by the time our repulsive repast had come to an end.

I thought I'd be in the clear, choosing only gentle options such as (supposedly) fresh vegetables and fruit, a little cottage cheese there, some macaroni here. I avoided the stuff that looked truly toxic and helped myself to only two plates at this ludicrous buffet destination where you can eat as much as you can fit, buster, at $6 a pop. I even skipped dessert.

No matter.

My guts were in revolt for no less than two days following, everywhere from intake channel to bilgepipe. Our other Golden Corral virgin suffered similarly. Only dear Mike made it out unscathed, clearly possessing a digestive system of iron.

I leave you with some tasty pic(k)s from this distinguished eatery.


Your appetizer.





The main course.





Destination: diabetes.





A light treat.





What appears to be cookie pizza.
NOTE: in the foreground, that is NOT honey.





I was taught to clean my plate.
Here, I really shouldn't have.




A battleground cleared.
The meal vanquished.
Our appetites conquered.
Perhaps forever.

Time Of The Signs

For some reason, whenever I travel somewhere, I become fascinated with the public signage of that particular locale. It's all the more ridiculous because I pay little attention, if any, to the signs where I live. Somehow, being removed from my everyday milieu makes me more sensitive to how people signify elsewhere.

I imagine these foreigners' own everyday milieus are just as rote and undistracting to them as mine are to me, but seriously...check some of these out. I mean, come on!

PART I - OF COMMERCE

Let's start with a classic.

Apparently there's a Krispy Kreme dispensary where I live, but I've never been there. And I think it's better to view exotic creatures in their natural habitat. Therefore:



How could anyone take this next establishment for granted? How could they calmly drive into its parking lot and choose a space and get out of their car and perhaps select a cart and wheel it into this extraordinary building called FOOD LION without marveling at the singular absurdity of that name?! How, I ask you?



Do you think there is a chain and somewhere, a FOOD ZEBRA?!

Next up, we have an establishment I would frequent often, were I physically located in the city it graces. I like it when a store's name captures exactly the spirit of the product it purveys. Because - I don't know about you, but my wine experience, when activated, is most certainly TOTAL. No PARTIAL WINE for me.



I grew up eating groceries from a place called Zehrs and came to accept it as status quo, but I don't think I could walk under this sign every week to collect my edibles without breaking into hysterics at the poor namesake's John Henry.

Or rather, HARRIS TEETER:



These folks want to make sure they slam the point home as explicitly as possible so you know for sure, this place is a 24-Hour Waffle and Pancake House and by damn, it's open 24 hours, 7 days a week. Make no mistake, mister. I didn't.



This place is probably my favorite. Like its predecessors, it gets right to the point, and it's thematically appropriate too. But note the visual symbolism! The marquee below the establishment name is completely EMPTY, signifying that you can take these guys at their word. Their storage is AMPLE, nothing like the cramped quarters offered by that two-bit joint INSUFFICIENT STORAGE.



You recall me getting all excited about stores that showcase their wares clearly in their titles? Well, this one takes the cake. I'm not even sure it actually has A NAME. But it sure as heck has products for sale, and you're gonna know about it, buddy, long before you step through the door.



This one I snapped from Mike's car window at high speeds as we motored swiftly away from it in search of the sister (or brother, I should say) store, INTENSE MALE MINI.



Lastly in our opening category, we have an establishment that to you may seem unremarkable and not worthy of inclusion with these other giants of retail signage. I beg to differ. This sign amused me most. Certain of you will understand why.

Others will hopefully move on to the next section!



PART II - OF CATTLE

The fine establishment called Angus Barn was where I had my last dinner when visiting with my friends Down South. And it deserves its own category. Firstly, here's the impossible-to-ignore call-to-action seen from streetside:



You KNOW we were going in.

And once inside, here's what we found:



Sounds like my kinda digs. And the EXIT's right there, so it's only a quick lurch to alleyway for taking care of business when the Wild Turkey quotient surpasses the settled stomach quotient and it's time to be thankful for what's out of you.

Plus, don't forget this important public service announcement on your way outta the Angus Barn parking lot (which I INSIST to you is a full city block; I am NOT kidding, the restaurant itself could be zoned as a neighborhood). Speaking for myself, seeing these garish wooden flowers in the full wash of lambent headlights was enough to tempt me to the brink of psychosis.



PART III - OF CLERGY

These require no smartass commentary from me.

I can't possibly top them.







Well, that last one could do with an explanation. But don't look at me! Visit their website! The URL is right there, I dare you...


PART IV - OF CORNBALL

If you're like me, you have a problem with personalized license plates. I won't go on at length, in case you're someone who swears by them, but honestly, some of these personalizers should just simmer down and accept their fates as faceless jumbles of letters and numbers like the rest of us hoi-polloi. Cases in point:


Oh, really. You insufferable jerk.




And my pain.




What the living hell.




I'm forgiving this one, but only just.

PART V - OF CURIOSITY

I'll finish off with the stuff that doesn't really fit any one category but caught my eye nonetheless.



Why? Because it's Bacon Street, okay?






From the old tobacco district.






Why? Because it's different from the ones at home!






I want this on a t-shirt.






Just your average parking lot.






What. The. Living. Hell.






A little reinterpretation...



In the Museum of Natural Science:



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Intermission

These mackerels are holy
A life gets full suddenly
Nuthin' turns to everythin'
And I ain't been around

To yap at yese read these
Missives, none been new--
Apologies and soon, I'll come
Up for air to please
Sounds like song lyrics, so I'll turn it over to the ultra-talented gang I've been listening to the most these whirlwind days:

When you're standing on the side of a hill
Feelin' like your diss-me be done
Here it comes, the strawberry smoke
Chasin' away the sun
Don't let those precious moments fool ya
Happiness is getting you down
A rainbow never smiles or blinks
It's just a candy-colored frown

You were goin' on at half-past seven
Now it's goin' on a quarter to nine
All the angels want to know
Are you lost or treading water?
And you're goin' on your fifteenth bender
But you've only got a matter of time
Yes, we've all got seeds to sow
Not everyone's got lambs to slaughter

When the night wind starts to turn
Into the ocean breeze
And the dew drops sting and burn
Like angry honey bees
That is when you'll hear the song
Falling from the sky
Woah-oh-oh
Happy yesterday to all
We were born to die

Sometimes you're filled with the notion
The afterlife's a moment away
You wanna tell someone the way that you feel
But then you ain't got nothing to say
You fight for freedom from devotion
A battle that'll always begin
With somebody givin' you a piece of advice:
By the way, you're living in sin

Now there's never gonna be an intermission
But there'll always be a closing night
Never entertain those visions
Lest you may have packed your baggage
First impressions are cheap auditions
Situations are long goodbyes
Truth so often living dormant
Good luck walks and bulls**t flies and--

When the headlights guide your way
You know the place is right
When the treetops sing and sway
Don't go to sleep tonight
That is when you'll see the sign
Luminous and high:
Woah-oh-oh
Tomorrow's not what it used to be
We were born to die

Woah-oh-oh
Happy yesterday to all
We were born to die

Dog Blog

Behold these beasts:


Cute, no?

I am not a dog person by trade, but I fell for them.

Muskoka, he's the boy.


He's very good at the sneaky eyes.




And he's a mama's boy.




Oh, yes.

Then there's Sydney.

There are three things you need to know about Sydney.

1) She's not very bright.

2) She was not obedience-trained.

3) She cannot fully close her jaw, so unbidden, her tongue is always hanging out. The doctor calls it an "underbite", but Mike and I investigated; to us, it looks more like a "non-bite". She can't put her front teeth together! Thence the tongue ventures forth. Apparently, she's used to it. All I can say is, "Poor thing!"

And...

"ENDLESS PHOTO OPPORTUNITIES!"


What a sweetheart!




Dog killed in freak vacuum cleaner accident.




Here she looks regal but for the tongue.




How can you not adore this creature?




Alas, she won a place on my bed by week-end.

18 Years

Last week I visited with my old friend Mike. We've known each other since Grade 7 and despite a few fallings-out, have managed to retain a lot of what we shared in common as teenagers - which is now "tempered", I suppose, by our fledgling adulthood.

One of those things we shared was an absurd sense of humor, often realized in ridiculous short videos with outlandish characters, excessively strange dialogue, and lots of extreme violence (mainly as an excuse to perform dangerous stunts).

The need for violence has tapered slightly over the years, but the absurdism remains. So before departing from Mike's climes last week, I convinced him to revisit two of our earlier characters.

As it turned out, we were able to work fast and fun and FINISH what is, I think, our only completed video together (as in: fully edited, titled, scored, and exhibited to a theoretical audience - via YouTube, Absent Canadian and now, Mini Nerd).

It only took us 18 years to pull off, but it was worth the wait.

Regular readers of this blog may detect mention of the Magic Cactus. Maybe not as readily, they'd see it as a metaphor for fulfillment - a realized goal, a closed circle, a healed wound. Dmitri Pablos El Grapos, in this video, is aggressively pursuing his Magic Cactus. Big Nose Barney found his last year. Presumably, Barney's departed lover Agnes is still out there searching for hers.

Me and Mike? We found one of our own, in making this silly short:

meBay

I've spent a lot of time on eBay the last few months, selling off some old and picking up some new. Usually, it's toys - and mostly, it's Masters of the Universe.

My good friend Mike (from whose digs I've just returned - more on that soon) provided me an intense primer on how to list my items, and his recommendations netted great transactions.

Key to the strategy is ensuring you have high-quality photos to represent your wares. That means they should be well-lit, in focus, and display your goods in a fashion that easily and accurately conveys their condition.

So I worked hard on my pics. Here's an example:



Now, sometimes it's not as important to show your things in their best light. They might be out of their original packages, or missing some of their parts. But I've never seen a listing with a photo like this one, where the seller represents his offering pretty much how it probably looked in his toybox back during the 80s:



Starting top left, I see 2 Clawfuls, Hordak body-surfing across his henchman Leech, my man Trap-Jaw with his belt on backwards, Blast Attak nose-diving into what looks like tablecloth or a carpet, Mer-Man getting kicked in the face by Zodak, and Thunder-Punch He-Man making a cowardly attack on Grizzlor from behind.

I honestly can't tell who else is in there. Is that a Transformer bottom left? I see random plastic limbs protruding from the edges. Might even be a Mekaneck or a Webstor up top in the middle.

Maybe the selling point here is classic "grab-bag" joy: you never know just what you'll find. But eBay sellers and buyers are rather partial to W.Y.S.I.W.Y.G. (What You See Is What You Get). So in this case what you're getting, as far as I can tell, is a He-Man battle royale - perhaps shipped in this very configuration - from one person's toybox to yours at home.

For my part, I thank this fine seller for a good laugh.

Down South

To the tune of Tom's Petty's "Down South":

Headed back down south
Gonna see my genius mistress
Gonna ask for her forgiveness
Steal yet one more kiss

Second time down south
Leave the family back home
Humidify my dry bones
Spend a forty-buck loan

So if I play the friendly mooch
Let me sleep with your pooch
I'll share what wit I have
I'm a decent goof

Sleep late down south
Vacation from my rituals
Live off yankee victuals
Old friendships are habitual

Create myself down south
"Impress" all the women
Then try to make my amends
Wear holey jeans and cotton linens

So if I play the friendly mooch
Let me sleep with your pooch
I'll share what wit I have
I'm a decent goof

Foofie plants down south
See companions from my childhood
Who turned out pretty damn good
Tour around their new 'hood

Lazy drives down south
Rundown barns in dead fields
Breakfast meat's a great deal
Prejudices revealed

So all y'all, if I impose
In yer biz, stick my big nose
State my aim, to strip your clothes

Recall I think you rock:
It's your company I chose

With apologies to the lovely Erin, the hospitable Carolyn, the venturing Miguel, the shaved Muskoka, the tonguetastic Sydney.