An even 10, and "homeburgers"

I just noticed a few things. I began this blog on April 1st (appropriate, because I'm such a fool). Today is the final day of April, so I've been at it a month. If I make a post now it'll be a nice even 10 offerings since I began. Seeing as how I do most of my counting by using my fingers, this seems apt.

I wasn't sure how this blog would go when I began. It's hardly an illustrious accomplishment yet, but I like it enough to continue. Although you wouldn't know it by what I'm saying today, I'm trying to avoid postings about "what I'm doing today". Instead I'll try continue to share stories and ideas that are more like essays or anecdotes. I'll try to put something up about once a week.

Over the past month: I figured out how to do my own taxes with Quicktax and filed online, saving myself about $250.00. I re-landscaped the front yard, using the grease of my elbow, sweat of my brow, and a couple of large machines. I hosted a bunch of boys for a birthday party and fed them nachos. I expressed my lascivious love for my wife in a public forum and got away with it. I began to share info about my community. I got the first half of one on my best anecdotes down for you all. There will be more Kingsway bits, and I'll soon finish the story of "The Debacle of the Steveston Tall-ships".

In May I have lots to look forward to. There's an Everett full-pull Victoria Day Cabin Retreat (2 grandparents, 4 sons, 4 wives, 8 grand children, 2 chocolate labs, and a bit-o-food and booze). The Circle E Chili team will attend it's 3rd cookoff. I'll pour yet more money and ink into this arm of mine. I will host a community hot dog party for the 8th year in a row. I'll also continue to try and share with you whatever scattered dad musings I have, hopefully to the tune of about once per week. I've gotten some lovely and friendly comments from folks and strangers over the past month. Thanks so much for reading and don't feel shy about posting.

Tonight I'm making "homeburgers" for supper. They are like hamburgers only better. It's all about the beef. I take a big chunk of eye of round and trim off the excess fat and membrane (there usually isn't much). I make sure when I'm working with the beef that it is still just a bit frozen. I cut it down into manageable cubes and run it through the meat grinder, using the coarse grind plate, with a slice or two of stale bread and a couple cloves of garlic. Then I add salt, plenty of fresh-ground black pepper, and a good shot of dijon. Mix it up well (I use the paddle on the kitchen aid machine) until it just starts to look a bit sticky and is coming together. Make yourself some big-ass burger patties. Try not to make them too perfect and professional, but go for flatter and wider shape so they cook evenly. Mine usually check in at about a half a pound, but do as you will.

These are okay on the bbq, but I prefer to cook them on a oily, screaming-hot cast iron pan. Why? Well... it makes the house smell really yummy, for one. Also, that way you can get a nice crispy exterior and it's easier to control the done-ness. That's right folks, if you trust your butcher and your skills, (and I do) you don't have to cook these to the grey well-done death that's required for "food safety". Using excellent meat from a reliable source, keeping it cold, and trimming and grinding it yourself are all great ways to ensure that you won't get e-coli. I offer no guarantees for you and yours, and recommend that you never give pink hamburgers to kids. Still, I know that I'll have mine medium-well, please, just slightly pink and very juicy, yet relatively low in fat. For a big chunky burger that would be about 7-8 minutes per side in a med-hot skillet. It should start to feel firm (not hard) to the touch, yet no longer squishy. You can always cut it to check.

The rest is window dressing, because this is all about the beef, remember? I suggest you use really good buns, minimal condiments and a slice of good cheese. Actually, cutting the patties and half when they're done and ramming them into crusty, fresh baguette is a good way to go, too. I prefer to leave the lettuce and tomato out of the burger and have it right next door, as a salad.

Thanks a ton for reading my blog. More to come.

Bad behavior in public. part 1

I'm a proponent of an unusual concept in public politeness. I think that one should always default to proper manners and consideration... but... one should always be prepared to eschew those niceties when it is necessary. There are situations when vulgarity, aggressiveness and rudeness can be excellent tools. Indeed, they may end up being your only friends.

I'd like to be able to say that I'm ashamed of my behavior that day in Richmond. I'd like to say that, but I would be lying and I intend to be honest in this forum. I'm proud of what I loudly and firmly said to that woman (a senior citizen no less) in a packed and very public space. It was offensive and inexcusable. Denied excuses, I'll try to explain.

It was a shiny, spring day about five years ago when I discovered that there would be a special appearance of tall ships in Richmond. The festival was unprecedented and would see many large sailing vessels from across the globe cruise past the crowds in Old Steveston at the mouth of the Fraser River. I was torn. The romantic in me imagined a lovely afternoon by the sea with my five-year-old son. We would have lunch and watch the grand old anachronisms float by, banners snapping in the breeze. The realist in me murmured a warning against crowds and lack of parking and organization. "Tut tut", I thought, "Stuff and nonsense, Pip pip and all that rot. The boy should see this." Thus I placed myself into one of the worst cluster-fucks I've ever seen in my entire life.

Time was tight if I wanted to beat the crowds, so I picked up my boy from his half-day of kindergarten and we headed out immediately, snacking en route. I had armed myself with information regarding supplemental parking and buses a few miles from the site. Oh, it was to be a grand, rural adventure in the sunshine! Just we two, in a new place, seeing new things. What a fantastic Dad I would prove to be that day, I thought. Traffic became more and more congested as I drove farther from the main roads.

By the time I approached the vast field full of cars where I was supposed to park, things were downright busy, even though it was still two and a half hours until the ships were were to appear. "No worries," I thought. "This'll be fine. My boy is lucky that his Dad is so organized." I drove into the access road. It was bumper to bumper. After navigating into a scenario that would make a Saturday Costco gauntlet look civilized, I was hailed by a grizzled and beleaguered-looking man wearing a traffic vest. "Five dollars," he said. The old gentleman held out his shaky hand in the blazing sun in the middle of a fallow field nowhere near civilization and said to me, "Cash only. C'mon. Lotsa people here." as he glanced anxiously at the growing line of traffic snaking up behind me.

Normally I have money. I told you that I'm organized. I just didn't have any cash at that moment because I was planning on using the ATM that was sure to be found at a massive special event in a popular tourist area. I was informed that, as I did not have any cash, I would not be entitled to a slice of this lovely farmland in which to park. Grinding my teeth, I inquired as to the quickest way out, thinking of the miles of free parking along the street I'd just left 50-feet behind me. Apparently the only way out was through. I won't bore you with a detailed account of the ups and downs and twists and turns that I explored over the next 15 minutes. Let me just say that it was a route that would have bewildered both Perseus and his bastard Minotaur. The best part was when I passed the kind gentleman on the way out and saw that he could have simply stood to one side and guided me back without sending me on my tour of fifty acres of minivans and subarus.

I used the free parking at the side of the road just next to the entrance of the pseudo-parking lot. "Just a glitch," I told myself as I tried to ignore the growing sense that I should have given it all a miss. I grabbed the day-pack and my boy and we followed the growing crowd to River Road. The information I had downloaded explained that there would be shuttle buses waiting to pick us up. The murmuring realist in me was not surprised when there were none. I stood blinking in the hot sun at the lack of buses, with my boy, who was beginning to wonder why I looked so upset. I swallowed the bile and annoyance and told him that all was well. We ate some fruit leathers and drank bottled water while we talked about how cool those big old sailing ships are. "Sometimes," I explained, "it is worth some hassle to do something fun and see something special."

Half an hour later we were walking along the road, having given up on those mythical buses. I wasn't sure where we were, or how far we had to go, but there were many many cars, bicycles and pedestrians and they were all heading the same direction. It didn't take long for the boy's little legs to get tired. We all know the "Daddy, how much faaaarther?" scenario. Sadly, I had no answer. A nice man on a bike stopped and eyed us both up and down. "You're not going to see the tall ships, are you?" he asked pointedly. "It's at least a half hour walk, you know." The man looked sympathetically at my son. "I mean... at least. Maybe you should take the shuttle-bus?"

The air was still and hot that day. There was no breeze, but I'm a guy who can see which way the wind blows. I will not swim against such a current. We thanked the man, turned around, and headed back to parking acres. I mean, I was done. We were going to go back to East Van where we belonged. I began to re-spin the afternoon for my boy. We'd have some Dairy Queen Lunch. Perhaps we'd go to the library and get some books about ships. By the time we were almost back where we started, God threw me a curveball. A large shuttle-bus called "Steveston Tall Ships" turned a corner, pulled up next to us, and opened it's doors. I could almost hear the angels singing.

Oh yeah, baby! It's nice when things work out. It was all meant to be. I grabbed the boy by the hand an we jumped on in. Standing room only was fine because we were on our way! Twenty sweaty, jostling minutes later we were disgorged into Steveston, just two minnows in an enormous school of foolish fish swimming blindly into a confounding net. That murmuring realist in my head yelled, "I told you so."

In the next post, I am provoked to rudeness beyond redemption. Stay tuned for part 2...

lucky little me

I've just looked over the entries of this blog from since I began this exercise in vanity. I realize that I've spoken about a few aspects of my life (dog, kid, food and community), but not the most important one. Lest the reader suspect that I'm uncaring and cavalier about my life-partner, I think I should talk a bit about Wifey.

I'm not a religious guy and I'm sure not offering any guidance or advice here. I chalk my happy married life up to getting lucky at a pivotal moment, then sticking with something that works. What works for me may not work for you, but for the two of us it's the mix that makes the fix and gives us our kicks....

I've come to a few realizations about my marriage recently. This match is getting to a respectable and venerable age (17 years) and as such, it's beaten the odds. Also, in our case it just seems to have grown better along with us. I'll troop out two important professionals in my life who recently helped me focus on these revelations: my Family Doctor (who is a bit older than me) and my Tattoo Artist (who is younger).

As a man over 40 who (at one point) almost died from a car crash, I take my health seriously. I'm one of those guys who visits his G.P. religiously every year for that annual checkup. It's clear to me that, when you're at the Doctor, digital does not refer to a satellite tv signal. My Doc and I have known each other since before I was wed, and we have a good relationship. Last time I was in we were talking about some physical aspects of "marital relations" (couldn't be better, thanks!) and he kinda floored me. He asked, "Well, you've been married for a while now. What do you think it is that has made your marriage work out so well?" That is hard to answer because I'm kinda an "if it ain't broke don't fix it" kinda guy.

The easy answer is "LOVE". Specifically the love she offers me every day, and that we share in our home with our son and family and friends. There's a running gag where folks who know us say, "Oh, your wife must be soooo tolerant." I will not disagree.

Other things I thought of were "Acceptance", "Respect", "Appreciation", and "Lack of Undue Financial Pressure". We accept each other's strengths and weaknesses as part of the entire person. We respect the contributions and concerns we both bring. We appreciate the millions of beautiful things we see in each other and share in our lives. On a superficial note, due to a reasonably large windfall about 12 years ago, we have been able to own a home and work through life without too much concern of "making it". This is not magical and gooey and sweet, but I have to acknowledge the pressure it's taken off us. It's a pressure that I see so many wonderful people struggle under. As John and Paul said, "Money Can't Buy You Love", but it can, in the right situations, eliminate a lot of friction and stress.

Last week I was in for my second session on my tattoo. (No more pics until it's done. Just too flaky/scabby/icky) I'm realizing that I quite enjoy the company of my Tattooist. That's good because I've been stuck on the couch for about 2 to 3 hours both times, with more to come. I find it soothing to make small talk with the smart and talented lesbian who gouges away at my arm with her inky motorized needles. Hell... it beats wincing and staring at the wall. She has a bit of the bartender/psychoanalyst in her and has quickly learned about how my wife and I met in music school, got married, had a kid, etc. Telling someone who is new in my life about that fateful Halloween date 20 years ago when my future spouse took me by the hand reminds me how long it has been. Long meaning ripe, and with growing maturity.

Wifey plans to go under the needle as well, so I was asking my artist what she thought is a good location for a tattoo on a woman, in her artistic opinion. My artist asked what kind of body-type my wife is. Oooh, that puts me in the trouble zone. I hesitated and thought of the best way to put it. I told my Tattooist that my wife isn't very tall, nor is she overly skinny the way, too often, women are expected to be in our culture. I said she was "fine", with emphasis on the word, much like you might hear it said on one of those black sitcoms from the States. "Fine" as in special, rare, and excellent, with an implication of curve and bounce. That she is, indeed.

That got me thinking about evening plans. I told my artist, between the buzzing and dabbing of blood, that we'd had an unexpected windfall. It turned out that our son's friend's birthday party had been extended to a sleepover, and that we would have the house to ourselves that night. Anyone who is a parent will understand how valuable a night alone is. Casual nudity and loud vocalizations, once forgotten, may be rediscovered. My Tattoo Artist laughed darkly and said, "Oh, Tim, she's gonna tie you to a chair." Sounded good to me. Actually, that didn't happen, but we did do a few new things on the stairway. And we scared that family of raccoons out the cedar tree in the back yard.

Lucky little me to have such a wife in my life.

Prickly Old Kingsway - part 1

Here are two views of the corner of Kingsway and Knight Street, looking Southwest. The first was taken in 1939, the second one was taken today. I'll be damned if I can see any resemblance. Kingsway is considered the oldest major road in the lower mainland. Depending on who you ask, you'll either be told that it was originally a trail blazed by the local First Nations folks, or by the subsequent European entrepreneurs. The trail was used to connect, via the shortest diagonal route, the waterfront areas that are now New Westminster and downtown Vancouver. You can only use the term "old" in its Vancouver meaning. A scant 150 years ago, just a few generations really, there were very few people in the area Kingsway now traverses. It was mostly wilderness.

Kingsway is awkward. If you are visiting by car it will likely annoy you that it cuts diagonally through the normal North-South/East-West grid, which grew up around the thoroughfare over the decades. I live in a 97 year-old-home near Knight and Kingsway. When the house was built it was part of a boom of new homes in the cheaper forested and farmed areas outlying what was then Vancouver. These new districts were strung together by the miracle of the electric streetcars that were installed on the original trail/road, bringing electricity for new “modern” homes with it. My neighbourhood was bulking up as if on steroids around that time. It was a combination of immigrant families in new homes, dairy farms, the old Cedar Cottage Brewery, a new school (which will be demolished this year, not quite surviving a full century), new churches, shops and more. If you look at pictures from that era, it looks very quaint and old-fashioned by today's standards. It’s all quiet gravel roads, 2-storey storefronts and long lines of electric poles, a bit reminiscent of those old Little Rascals movies from the 1930’s.

As car culture took over through the 1950’s and beyond, Kingsway was given over more and more to the needs of the driver. The strip catered to it, actually. Car shops, diners, hotels and repair shops defined the character post-war Kingsway. The residential areas filled in around it to the point that the entire area is now part of Vancouver. Gravel roads, electric streetcars, meadows, creeks, farms, and pockets of forest are all distant memories, but some of the seniors here can still talk about the old days.

Kingsway has always been a “way to and from” somewhere, and remains so, often to the detriment of those of us who choose to live here. Thousands of people drive through my historic neighbourhood every day, often inconsiderate to the fact that it's somebody's home. I have to observe that although there was a time when the car made Kingsway, it is now harming it.Back in the 1950’s and ‘60’s businesses thrived along here, servicing travelers and providing for their stylish chrome chariots. Then there were some changes and things took a downturn. Apparently one of the worst blows to local businesses along Kingsway was when, to accommodate the demands of more traffic and commuters, the city eliminated the original parking lanes and added them to regular traffic. Suddenly all those potential customers to the many mom ‘n’ pop businesses didn’t stop en route anymore, because parking became too much of a hassle. The politicians were happy though, because more and more residents found it more and more convenient to drive from Burnaby and New West past the (more and more bankrupt) businesses. The gradual decline has lasted for decades and only now looks like it may turn around. Symbolic of this trend is the fact that Wally's Burgers, a struggling, age-old landmark from the groovy car days, will soon be torn down to make way for new higher density housing and condos. It seems unfair that along this historic avenue one seems unable to keep the good history as we try to build a better future.

The silver lining to this particular cloud has been the influx of new residents and immigrant businesses from Asia, particularly Viet Nam. Cheap rents on neglected storefronts allowed those starting out to give it a shot. When no-one else was willing to invest in Kingsway, these people were. My son reaps the benefits by knowing his globe-spanning neighbours and glimpsing their cultures. He can enjoy a world-class dosa and the best pho this side of the Pacific because you can buy them a mere five-minute walk from our front door.

I believe that these immigrant investors fit perfectly in the procession of other hardworking folks from around the world who have, over the past 4 generations, build this residential community. The grandmas and grandpas on my street come from England, India, Portugal, China and Germany. Where else but on prickly old Kingsway, may I ask?

Confessions of a Stay-at-Home Dad

To begin with, there was an enormous amount of vomit. Our boy had a "trick gullet", "bad-gag-instinct", "faulty esophageal occluder"... Whatever you want to call it, the kid could puke. That's one of my few very clear memories of the treadmill that was my first year of parenting.

My wife and I were struggling financially and, no surprise to those who know us, she was far more capable of earning something like a real wage to pay for our shiny, new and massive mortgage. She was not so keen to leave our son at home and head back to the salt mines after a scant 3 months of mom-time, but that was our only real option. Nowadays there are better benifits for new parents, but back then maternity leave was basically the idea that mom goes on the pokey for a maximum of six months, which was only 60% of your regular income. I was never able to understand why the government thought that, with a new baby in the house, we were supposed to eliminate 40% of our expenses. Those politicians are so smart, but maybe they need to brush up on their grade 8 math.

My wife's milk never came in really strong so, much to the disapproval of the la leche league (we called them "tit-nazis"), we were forced to put our boy on infant formula. Oh I recall the joys of combing the city for the lowest-riced Enphalac and hoarding it as much as our greatly reduced cash-flow allowed. The sanitation and boiling and cooling and heating and rubber nipples and all.. yes, this was my domain. Being a kitchen dad and foodie, this wasn't too bad. Later I also made all the home-made baby food. Anyone for steamed yams and squash, lovingly mashed a la mano? These things my boy heartily yakked back upon the man who made and administered them.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. By the time a year went by (or 1000 laundry cycles) the vomit was within normal parameters. My son is a sweet and gentle boy and he offered me very little friction in those early days. Certainly I got off better than my mother did, but that's another story. I've observed the hellcats that some of you are trying to wrangle into adulthood and I feel that I got off pretty easily by comparison. Also, we only have the one, you see... so we outnumber him.

I did all the stuff you're supposed to. He went everywhere with me. We were often at the park with the strollers and the other moms. These women tolerated me with reasonable friendliness most of the time. I think it was because they sincerely believed that, because I was a dad with a baby, it was clear that I no longer had a penis. As such, I was often awarded an honorary vagina and allowed to hear all the details of every single epesiotomy, c-section, epidural, hemorrhoid, and even the occasional vaginal birth. They would sit there, glowing and beautiful in the full-flush of their yummy-momminess and lactate at me. It was a privilege to be in their company, and likely kept me from going completely bonkers, but at times it was a lonely sisterhood for me.

There were the occasional know-it-all moms who couldn't resist the urge to correct my shoddy parenting. I fondly recall the woman in the photo-lab (had to develop the new batch of baby pics!). I had the boy cradled in the baby sling, dozing. She confronted me with "That's not how you use the sling. Baby isn't comfortable. I know because I have one just like it." That day I really didn't feel like I had a penis.. If I'd had more testosterone at the time I likely would have told her to fuck off.

The main reason I'm looking back at this today is that tomorrow is my son's 11th Birthday. I've noticed that my recollections of the earliest days of parenthood are pretty blurry, especially if I don't refer to the photo albums. Must be due to the the life-changing exhaustion, emotion and exasperation that that phase entails. When you talk to your folks they might try to warn you about how the years start to just fly by. Today I feel like I'm looking through a telescope backwards and peering at the tiny past. I wonder if the next 11 years will feel so blazing. We've got many hurdles ahead, what with puberty, relationships and sexuality, post secondary school, and the ultimate vacating of his room. I hope it won't go by too quickly, and that my future memories won't be so blurry. In the meantime, I guess I'll get busy making them.

Why we put up with it...

Today I infiltrated the ivory towers of the West Side and snuck my dog down to Spanish Banks West, which is the only beach park in Kitsilano that allows you to run your dog off-leash. I hadn't been there in years, and returning reminded me why Vancouver is such a special place to live. The cool ocean breeze, rich in life-giving oxygen, lofted the playful eagles over our heads. The massive cluster of steel and glass towers in the distance purports to be what makes the town "world class", but I think the beach, mountains, climate, and diversity are what it's really all about. Still... if there was ever a time that my wife and I wanted to live West of Main, that's a distant memory at this point. Lemme hear an "Amen!"

You'll see my son in the pictures. He's going to be 11 this week and yesterday demanded that I buy him a toque with the skull on it, so his friends would thinks he's "cool". I steered him away from the one that said "stoned to the bone" on it, explaining the meaning. At least he agreed it was a bit inappropriate. He's hilarious in these pics, trying to look all "wicked and street". In truth he's a sweet and sensitive boy. I think I'm seeing the early edges of puberty here...

Today I'll be making Sunday Roast Beef. It's easy to do, and reminds me of my Gramma Betty. The trick for the meat is to season it well and then blast it in the oven at 450 degrees for 15 minutes. Then turn it down to 350 until the meat thermometer reads 127. That'll give you perfect med-rare beef after it sits on the counter for half an hour, coming up to about 134 degrees. If you don't have a decent meat thermometer, stop being such a loser and go buy one. They are essential and inexpensive. If you require less bloody beef, I'm afraid I don't like you much...

More important to a Gramma Betty style-roast dinner is the Yorkshire Pudding. Here's how I make it. This recipe works well so pay attention. Mix one cup milk, one cup flour and 4 eggs together about the same time you put the roast in. Whisk it nicely so it's all creamy and smooth. Cover the bowl and leave it on the counter while the roast cooks. When the roast is done, put the muffin tin into the oven with a bit of oil in each cup. Crank the oven to 400 degrees. When the oven reaches that temp, pour the batter evenly into the 12 oven cups. Close the oven and leave it alone. No really... mess with this and you'll kill them. In a half an hour they will be lofty, bubbled and nice. Make sure you let 'em get good and done (med-dark brown). If you pull them early they will smoosh down again, which tastes good, but looks very sad.

Er... you DO know how to make gravy, don't you?

Tim likes sausages.

I'm a foodie. I endured years of restaurant kitchen work in my youth, grabbed some skills, and liberated myself to cook for friends and family. I love to eat and I love to find sources for real ingredients. I''m also fascinated by the history and origins of what we eat. How many different cultures offer us their take on the noodle, or the dumpling... or the sausage?

Bask in the dark ages, when I was in music school in 1988, I got hired to perform in a cheesy rock and roll revue at Playland. I used to ride my bike along Commercial drive early in the morning to go to rehearsal. When I passed 2nd and Commercial I would get hit with this intoxicating smoky, salty, fatty smell. It was the Polish sausage shop. I'd ride past sadly, looking at it's locked doors.

Over the years I've been in there quite a few times. They make their own ham, smoke their own sausage, and offer a culinary and cultural skill and ability that is truly humbling. Walking in to the small storefront you are confronted with all manner of hanging meat and other Good Things. This morning I caved in while riding home from the gym (lo these 20 years later) and bought some garlic sausage to go with my scrambled eggs for brunch today. Fuck the diet... it's Saturday and the bran bar just ain't gonna cut it. It's the J, N & Z Deli in the 1700 block of Commercial. Go there and get some, because when these old school food artisans die, more and more no-one moves up to take their place. One sad day it'll probably be yet another Starbucks or Money Mart or other ubiquitous and depressing establishment. There are two more old-school sausage joints I can tell you about. But I'll save 'em for now.

I make sausage and back bacon, too, from time to time. It's a fattening, cholesterol-laden hobby, but the rewards are obvious, I'd say. If you are interested, I heartily recommend the book Charcuterie, by Michael Ruhlman. You can find it on Amazon.

Black Friday?

So, here I am looking into the grey, Vancouver "spring". I'll soon drive downtown to meet my accountant to pick up some papers. That's because I no longer have an accountant. At the wise age of 43 I've decided to grow up, save some money, and do my own freaking taxes. Gah. I hate that kinda stuff, but cutting corners is how you pay for vanity projects like big-ass tattoos. Rain, scrabbling for papers, math... feh.

We're still getting over the flu here, it's too wet to ride my bike with any pleasure, and I'm too weak for the gym. Is it too early to start drinking? My son won't be home 'till 12:30. Opinions may be offered in the comment section. Oh... and feel free to leave comments. I really have no idea if anyone's reading this stuff. Thanks...

Wouldn't have been on my top ten list...

Barley is a 95-pound Chocolate Lab that lives in my house. He's about a year an a half old and is doing nicely with his behavior and training. I've made a point of trying to bring him up well. You see, I notice more and more people with dogs around me, and I must say that I think many of them are twits. There are a few different types of dog owner that totally rub my rhubarb. Are you one of these?

1) Parent of a surrogate child: These are the folks who, for some reason or other, have decided to have a dog instead of a child. On the surface, this is fine and normal, except that dogs aren't people. Honestly... if you more wetly smootch your pooch than you might kiss your spouse or a toddler.. if you dress your four-legged companion in Roots gear... if your dog gets more dental care than you do... it's time to stop. Or at least don't do it in public and save yourself the humiliation. Your baby licks it's genitals, you know, which is something I've never seen my son do.

2) Clueless Galoot: Yeah, brah! You're a manly guy with a big dog who's trolling for babes at the park, or just wandering the 'hood, showing us all that leashes are for pussies... and I don't mean cats. Oh yeah, you're totally in control of Cujo as he climbs up and over my back to play with my (restrained) dog. Wanna know what's harder to control that a 95-pound lab on a leash? Try one that's actively playing with a Rottie and who's running circles around you.

3) Cloistered Caregiver: Yes, you, lady... with the glowering maltese or skittish jack russel. You know... your little dog that lashes out and goes ape-shit when my dog tries to say hello? That's when you look at me like I'm an asshole to tell me meaningfully, "Oh, he doesn't like big dogs". I guess that's my cue to vacate the planet. Here's a hint: either socialize your creepy rat or keep it away from us.

4) Lululemon in Lalaland: Oh, I love attractive young women in yoga-wear, but do they really need to accesorize with a min-pin or chihuahua? These aren't dollies, they are pets. Apparently it's too much hassle to house-train the little darlings, too, so they just clean up after them when they do their business on their couch or in their purse. I don't know about you, but one of the main reason's I like having a dog as a pet is that it's possible to teach then not to crap in your house.

5) Shit Ninja: This is a blanket term for anyone who sneakily manages to allow their dog to leave it's calling card anywhere other than on their own property. Are you the nocturnal great dane owner who walks their dog at 4 am out of the view of the neighbours? Do you let your miniature poodle wander down the alley, unsupervised, for a "visit". Cut it out and clean up your poop!

Sorry. I digress. Dog ownership is wonderful and there are always surprises. One of my favourite sources of such doggy fun is a game called "drop-it roulette". This is where you've trained your dog to follow the verbal command of "drop" and want the hound to cough up some mystery object it's harboring in it's maw. So it was with us last Monday. My boy had Barley on the leash as we were walking to school. The dog eagerly snatched an object from the ground and held it firmly twixt cheek and gum. The dog looked too pleased by half, so I figured it was likely something toxic, filthy, or just plain inappropriate. I gathered myself up in my best alpha male way and intoned firmly, "Drop it, Barley."

This dog of mine has an excellent response when he doesn't want to do something. He assumes a pose we call the "Vinny Barbarino" in which he seems extraordinarily stupid, to the point that he can't understand English. Barley stood strong and looked at me moronically as he cradled the enigma in his mouth. I told him "drop" again, dreading the idea of trying to pry something nasty from his uncooperative jaws. I guess he knew the jig was up because the regular glint of intelligence returned to his eye as he looked at me and went "blup", disgorging something onto the ground at my feet.

So, gentle readers, you knew this is where we were going. There a a lot of things you might expect a dog to spit out. Hell... I've had dogs before. I've been there. But this was unique. This item would not have been on my top-ten list. Peering up at me from the asphalt, glistening and pink in the morning sun, was a naked, beady-eyed chicken head. Bawk bawk, baby.

There are nastier things one might expect to find in an East Vancouver alleyway, but few so unusual and unexpected. I guess Henny Penny's head might've been a.w.o.l . from one of my neighbours' trash cans. Maybe it was a poultry gangland hit. Maybe a wayward Satanist, fresh and giddy from a sacrifice, accidentally had it fall from his pocket. I won't ever know. It was just so odd... so damnedly David Lynch in the morning... that I had to share it with you.

For supper tonight I think I'll fry some sirloins in a cast iron pan. We'll have 'em hot and bloody with beans and mashed potatoes. I like to have the big jar of dijon mustard on the table for ease and comfort in these cases.

mid-life crises

Welcome to my new blog. Most likely you know me if you are visiting. If not, welcome!

I'll start the ball rolling by admitting to something: I finally capitulated to that little voice in my head that's been murmuring over the past 23 years and gotten a tattoo. Not a small one, as you may see. The outline is in place, and I'll update as further work is done. I must admit to being a bit sheepish about the expense ('cause it sure 'aint over) but I am very happy with it. I'm also a bit self-conscious at my new amped-up vanity about the whole thing. There's a bit too much flexing, and checking things out in a mirror, and lotion application for me not to feel like a bit of a poseur. Ah well... what the hell. My next three hour session is two days after my boy's 11th birthday. That comment sums it up as well as anything.

Dinner tonight? I've bought a decadent, massive chicken pot-pie from costco because it's gotta be easy due to karate wrangling. We'll add mixed salad greens with low-fat dressing and Hey Presto! Usually I actually MAKE dinner but tonight I'm copping out.

Welcome to my navel-gazing.