I love learning new expressions. Harry Newton, author of Newton’s Telecom Dictionary, defines salmon day as, “[o]ne of those days where you swim upstream all day only to get screwed and die in the end.”
I blew off an opportunity on Saturday night to go to a party and meet the peripatetic lsc in order to go for drinks at Dieu du Ciel with someone whom I met awhile ago. We had a blast, and what was supposed to be for only an hour lasted until much late. We then dropped by my place, since Frances the cat had been left outside and J suggested that I should probably let her in. Well, that’s what she suggested, and I’m normally too dense to read anything into stuff like that.
So, we get to my place, J looks arounds, laughs uproariously at the fact that I have a climbing wall, and then states that, “You have such a guy apartment!” Strange, I never thought of it as such. Granted, I don’t have throw pillows, nor do I have posters of nekkid chicks on the wall (I took them down beforehand), but there was never a conscious effort to project any supposed masculinity. Damn, I’m a stereotype. Must now learn to burp and scratch my balls in public. I foresee a steep learning curve.
Coming into work, a panel truck drove by, with the following painted on its side: “Kershey, fresh cheese every morning.”
Heaven forbid there be any aging process.
Okay, so I stated earlier that, on the new Survivor Thailand show, there was a contestant who had previously been a soft-core porn star. (In fact, one of the local TV stations, the one owned by Ma Bell, has been airing his movies on Saturday nights recently.) Anyhow, he turned out to be a shrewd player, and ended up walking off with the grand prize last night. Too bad he got the crap beat out of him by his wife a few days ago.
To make up for the cancelled Xmas party, the company served up a holiday lunch for the proles today; your typical Christmas dinner. Consequently, I’m presently buzzed out on turkey tryptophan, Cuvée du Château Box-o-Wine, and chocolate-covered coffee beans. Right now I’m bouncing off the walls, not feeling a thing, and being very tired.
astroglide, um, stuff from the drugstore the other day, I noticed, in one of the bargain bins at the front, a whole bunch of condoms on sale, at a good price at that. Ultra thin and sensitvive, and only $5 (Can) for a dozen. I thought of picking up a box (yeah, dream on), but realised that buying condoms on sale probably ain’t the smartest thing I could do.
For the first time in the past 15 years that I’ve living in this little town of ours, mostly around St-Laurent blvd, I had never been to Schwarz’s. I make it a point to never enter a club, a resto, a movie, etc., where I have to wait in line. Nothing is that good, is my motto. Well, that and “blame someone else.” So, anyhow, I’m walking past the place last night, and strangely enough there were available tables. Didn’t give it much of a thought, and continued on my way to the bus stop. Stand around waiting for about 10 minutes, feeling my testes slowly retract into my body cavity, my nips getting hard enough to cut glass, it was that frickin’ cold/windy last night. Screw this, might as well get it over with. Head back down the boulevard, grab a stool at the counter. Order their “world famous” smoke meat sandwich, along with the requisite fries and Cherry coke.
I’m given this hunk of pinkish flesh, served on what amounts to crusts with a spit of mustard on each side. Cherry coke? Screw that, the waitron hands me a can of Cott’s black cherry, which I love but I asked for that stuff out of a tap. Then, I’m almost finished my sandwich before the fries arrive.
World famous Schwarz’s, my ass.
There was a joke, back in the ’80s, that went like this: Q: Who’s killed more Indians than John Wayne? A: Union Carbide. Nothing like morbid humour, I say. I remembered the joke this morning while reading the paper, because there was a story about today being the 18th anniversary of the gas leak in Bhopal, India, back in 1984.
It seems that, although 4000 people died immediately, nearly 11000 have died in the aftermath from various disaster-related illness. That’s almost 15000 people! And still, Warren Anderson, who’s accused of gross negligence in the cyanide leak, refuses to go to India to stand trial. Honest, who cares? Just a bunch of dead poor hindus.
Had the strangest dream on Friday night. Now, I normally look forward to nightmares; I love the rush of waking up drenched in sweat, panting, my heart trying to pound itself out through my ribs. Friday night’s, however, has left me wondering.
I was walking down University toward La Gauchetière, on my way to the Windsor station, when I realise that a rocket is docked in front of the station, flames shooting out of its tail. Now, this wasn’t a toy rocket, but an honest-to-god Gemini rocket from back in the ’60s. I could even make out the black ridges in the tail. So, in other words, the rocket was warming up for take-off. How I was able to get so close to it is beyond me; it was a dream, after all. I’m at the corner when the rocket takes off, the flames and fuel rushing out the back. Then, like one of the earlier Gemini/Apollo launches, the rockets gets about 100 feet into the air before falling back onto itself. I only had time to think, “Oh shit, this is going to be bad” before turning around and taking off running. By the time I had made about three or four steps, I realised the futility of the situation and simply threw myself to the ground, hoping that the intense heat would finish me off before I felt any burning.
So, I’m lying face-first on the grass of the church in front of the Windsor station, and the time is dragging. The force of the rocket’s explosion is blowing across my back, whipping up my clothes, I keep expecting to feel the heat, but nothing is happening. “Oh shit, this is going to burn,” I’m thinking, and force myself to be calm. Strangely, I felt myself sinking deeper and deeper down the levels of consciousness. Still nothing.
Finally realise that I’m not yet shuffling off this mortal coil, and decide to wake up. The cat’s looking at me, waiting for her breakfast.