Portrait of the Artist as a Bad Artist

I'm not sure if it's the fact that they gave me their last cherished Dairy Queen Buster Bar or if it's the Do Not Resuscitate order they slipped in with my early Christmas presents, but whichever it is I'm left with the sneaking suspicion that I may never see my parents again.

Like most other water fowl, my folks migrate south for the winter (or, in their case, starting when my father can't wear his Hawaiian t-shirts anymore without getting a chill). Every year around this time I get to experience, in the span of one day, a mini version of numerous holidays that come to pass over the next few months. Yesterday my father swings by with bags of Christmas presents and Easter chocolates, not to mention a wide assortment of freezer burnt meats and other indistinguishable food-like products they're forced to pawn off on me in order to unplug their freezer for five months.

But I don't mind. I like presents.

"Now, don't open anything until Christmas time," my father says. "You know how upset your mother got when you didn't wait last year."

"Of course, dad," I reply. "Christmas presents are for Christmas. I'll wait. Have a safe trip!"

I, of course, leave a trail of torn wrapping paper from where the door to my father's departing car was moments ago to the couch in my apartment.

The first cause of concern is not so much the presents themselves, which consist of the traditional men's undershirts and plastic wrapped tools for my unopened toolbox, but the vast quantity. Instead of the normal package of five shirts it's 15. Instead of a wrench or two it's a 415 piece toolset incased in a large black plastic carrying case. I'm used to getting things I don't need, but why suddenly am I getting so much of what I don't need?

But that's nothing. As I'm skimming the customary five page "List of Emergency Numbers" that my dad creates with a disturbing amount of pleasure each year, a sheet of paper slips to the floor. Interesting, since dad usually is most careful in ensuring everything is securely attached. Leaning down to pick it up, I feel a certain level of dread creep up the small of my back. What could it be?

The paper is almost entirely blank except for two lines, centered both vertically and horizontally and in 12-point Times New Roman font, along with two signatures and a date near the bottom.

Mr. and Mrs. Pizza Diarist are not to be attached to a Live Support System in order to prolong life.

I don't know whether to type ROTFL or WTF?! Nice head trip. Their last ice cream bar, a 415 piece toolset AND a Do Not Resuscitate notice all in one day!

Oh, and what the hell is a "Live" Support System?!

Merry freakin' early Christmas to me.

For the past few months I've been obsessed with pepper mills (I used to call them pepper grinders but "mill" just sounds classier). At first it started as a curiosity. But, just like my infamous toaster obsession of 2005, it now has me fully in its grips. It's about all I can think about these days. My dreams are plagued by them. And what with their phallic shape and all, I really need to move on.

So I've taken to scouring the bowels of the interweb in search of the perfect pepper mill. The problem is that like every desire my mind turns too much attention to, it becomes nearly impossible to satisfy. There are just too many factors involved. Wood or metal? Battery or hand operated? Do I want one that will fit in the palm of my hand or shall I splurge on an 18" restaurant style behemoth that will take up more room in my kitchen than my bike? Or do I just want this guy?

So far the photo that led off this entry is the top contender. Part of the Pep Art line of William Bounds Ltd. pepper mills, it has everything I need. Its unique and distinctive style is inspired by North American Indian totems and fetishes. Its patented milling mechanism crushes rather than grinds, resulting in a fresher flavor and more consistent texture. And, unlike other mills, it will never jam or wear down. Just gaze at its circular white base... sleekly curved green shaft... round dotted head...

oh my

I'm off to slip into something more comfortable, poor myself a glass of wine, transfer the remaining few dollars from my student line of credit onto my maxed out VISA and do a little internet comparison shopping. If ya know wat i'm sayin'.

Happy Thanksgiving!

For those of you not from Canada, you might not realize that we celebrate Thanksgiving on its correct day, the second Monday of October (makes sense, right?). Today I'm giving thanks for not being one of these poor saps..

Say this tongue twister, or else...

'What will your obituary say?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Bongos = Crap
Dueling Bongos = Get me the f#%k out of here!

The evening began and ended with somewhat old pizza slices. In between wasn't much better.

It started with a slice purchased at the university student union building. I was rushed, had a major presentation to make, and wasn't sure if I was starving or just really, really nervous. Turns out I was just really, really nervous, as during my entire presentation I passed gas the smell of which would kill a charging elephant.

Later I decided to head out on my own to Ginger's to see the ever delightful Petunia. Unfortunately I first had to sit through dueling acoustic guitars, followed by dueling bongo drums. While I dueled with multiple beers I also duelled with the idea of fleeing. Luckily I tuffed it out as Petunia struck a mighty figure on stage in his french beret, Arabian neck scarf and super stylish red stripped shirt. His kazoo struck chords in my nether regions that any normal straight man would be too concerned about to mention in such a public forum.

As I stumbled home I decided to do my body no favours by picking up my second pizza slice of the night. Tomorrow I'm going to a job fair. Though in my mind it's more of a blow job fair, as I really, really need a job.

It was just like Close Encounters of the Third Kind, complete with an amazing light show, simple note changes, and an encounter between slack jawed onlookers and a band of wrinkled little humanoid shaped alien like creatures.

The Rolling Stones have come and gone, leaving behind them mud and tire tracks where once there was grass and baseball diamonds. I'd like to say that I holed myself up in my apartment, closed the blinds and ironically watched Gimmie Shelter. But rather, at roughly the time (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction echoed back and forth amongst the north end houses, I was ponying up and doing some booty dancing while watching the concert for free in the rain safely on a slick and wet rooftop overlooking the Commons.

BEFORE

DURING

AFTER