Circling the Drain

Circling The Drain - 197

2011-12-07T10:04:00.000-08:00

I went to The Pas by bus. It was nice but a bit long.

Or...

A hangover so intense that it pulls at the cords that attach the eyeballs to the brain - sucking them back into their sockets - I like it. Winnipeg was cold in minus two and sunny - so cold the wind surprised glove-less fingers with sharp brittle stings. I waited at the greyhounds station for the ride north. I waited and watched - suspecting that my bag was placed on the wrong bus and as of 10:20 there was no driver for the 10:00 departure. We board the bus at 10:30, I pick a seat, pick my nose and flick. The air is dry. It's 10:40 as the 20,140 kg of bus begins to back its way out of its berth. I continue to dig in my nose dislodging a booger complete with nose hair and feel satisfied with the extraction in spite of the pain. In a continued attempt to get comfortable for the 10 hour ride I unlace the boots and lift out two sock covered feet out of smelly boots. I feel like there's a rope around my neck and reach to loosen it but of course there's nothing there and I think heart attack as the bus lumbers and jerks its way towards a highway over annoyingly bumpy roads. I dangle smelly feet over the seat beside and into the isle in an effort to get some comfort as the coach jolts punches into my fragile kidneys. I loosen my pants continuing to think heart attack. It was a beautiful morning if you like minus degrees and sun and lovely to philosophise from the inside of a bus. I reflected and told myself that I've had a good life but if I would do it differently if I could do it again. A thought by Jan Amos Comenius popped into mind as I stared out the window of my muse on wheels, "The further you are from the center of society the more turbulent life is." - I'm well pleased that I understood what he meant - that's one thing I wouldn't change, so no, I wouldn't change anything (untrue) - if there was a bar on board I'd raise a glass to the existential mountain climbers, past present and future - a grand toast to be sure - but heartfelt. I guess I'm just obstinate. (That's a tribute...)
I drift. Reflecting on the notion of thinking that I was once a nihilist but perhaps I'm an anarchist. I should have realized I wasn't a nihilist because I get pissed off about perceived injustices and my list of grievances is long. Perhaps McHill, the Irish green preying mantis was right - specifically, that being a nihilist was a romantic notion. Well, if I gave a shit I'd have an identity crisis! (that's a joke.)

Yes, a beatified anarchist, that's what I am, on the way to saint-hood!... The stink of my boots has not subsided but the feeling of heart attack has and this wayfarer enjoys the look of frosty furrowed fields under utterly gloomy prairie skies. The bus pulls into Portage la Prairie for a scheduled stop at 11:45. There's two natives on the bus both drunk, one talking to himself - but no harm, no foul. At 11:58 we leave. The bus is squeaking and at 12:00 we stop, the driver gets out to kick a tire or something to stop the squeak and we move on, minus the squeak.

A train with 152 cars crosses the tracks in front of us, adding to the delay and it begins to snow peacefully, lightly, gently just at the edge of perception, 12:15 eight hours north to 'destination licence'. The furrowed fields are mostly white now, frozen under, twelve thousand nine hundred and fifty two trillion unique snowflakes, snuggled cuddly against, under and atop of each other.

Flat, gloomy and bumpy at 12:30 - seven and a half hours to go. Ah nice..; a fellow traveller has turned on his radio/phone for the benefit of those all around him. I turn to deliver a death stare four rows back and see that the fellow's mentally disabled, not chromosomal or Downs disabled - worse - just weirdo disabled. Death stares don't work against the disabled - perchance he's forgotten to fully charge the batteries and soon it will die. No joke, it stops! Nope, there it is again a few minutes latter. A raven flops through the overcast mood on way to a bare frozen branch. The taste of blood fills my mouth and I remember that I forgot to brush my teeth this morning. 13:10 - four hundred and twenty minutes to go.

13:15 Neepawa, a ten min stop, enough time for two cheeseburgers and a small orange pop to go from Mc D's No offence to the Irish but Jesus Murphy $6.o2 O, Canada. The first nations guy is out for a fag and when he's finished it he sees another one happily laying on the dirty ice of the gas station parking lot and picks the partially smoked cigarette up from below, pops it in his mouth and he's good to go. No harm, no foul. We depart passing a raven teetering on a metal fence post at 13:35, five and a half hours to go. The sky has pulled apart and about 1.6km away there's a sunbeam lighting up a chaff strewn field. The snows mostly gone and the sky's opened up a slit and the road is rougher than cobblestones. 13:48 and we pull into Riding Mountain (prairie humour) and the No 5. Store. I go for a pee in the bus toilet and notice the native girl splayed out on her back over the last seats of the bus catching a bit of a power nap. Two magpies take advantage of the break in the clouds to enjoy a bit of flying in the sun. Blue sky, purple clouds, sunshine and one long, long low hill, set as the western horizon. At the next stop the driver notices that we're an hour behind schedule , so about seven hours to go - again. We cross the bridge over Turtle river at exactly 14:30, in a field there were four horses and a raven stood glistening atop a wooden pike, staring directly at the sun and I noticed the long cast shadows marking the hedgerows between fields.

St Rose du Lac at 14:40 and the cattle capital of Manitoba (according to the sign). 14:50 we're mobile again. The sun of course hangs low over the horizon and the rickety poplar trees along the ditch create an effect like an atomic strobe light strong enough to cause an epileptic fit in those susceptible to such. The blasting contrast is balanced by the universally shared emotion of the suns warm glow against a cheek. We continue to clack, bang and shudder our way north. 15:23 Dauphin and a 15 min stop. 15:43 we lumber out into traffic. We passed through Ashville at 15:55. Even the pebbles along the shoulder of the road cast long shadows as the sun descends, golden towards the horizon. The fields are showing more snow cover now as we inch our way towards another northern parallel. 16:15 we pass over Fishing River the suns obscured by a vast bank of cloud that stretches the entire length of the western horizon It's the perfect thickness that you can see the white hot star as it slides from view turning the cloud bank a deep pumpkin orange. 16:22 yet another stop, Ethelbert home to a white Ukrainian orthodox church with three tin coloured domes. 16:27 we're on the road again and the suns refusing to die, then at 16:32, in a flash, it's gone. Three hundred minutes to The Pas? 16:34 Garland Creek and a Ukrainian Catholic cemetery. 16:45 Pine River stop and yet another Orthodox Ukrainian church, white with three bronze coloured domes, a United church and another unmarked denomination vying for the favour of heaven - all but the main road is solid ice. More cemetery's, somber silhouettes of things to come - stone punctuation marks for the last word in life. We bounce along highway 10 through northern darkness - looking forward to getting "there." 17:23 three? four? hours to go? 17:32 into another hamlet to dark to read we stop at Hemetehek Enterprises for a scheduled stop - Minotas - all the streets ices except the main road and by 17:33 back on the highway. 17:48 Swan River 15 min stop Jack Links beef jerky for dinner and a rudimentary calculation extrapolates the 35 gram package for $3.90 into a 250 kg cow that would retail at $28,600.00 - including tax. 18:10 we go and pass another white Ukranian orthodox church with tin domes. 18:35 We've stopped on the side of the highway - reason unknown three minutes latter we're off again. 19:15 and The Pas is 129 km away. 20:09 and 49km to go...

Circling The Drain - 196

2011-11-14T05:34:00.000-08:00

Finally! The OECD has tuned in to The Drain, as per the following BBC headline this beautiful sunny morn. The Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD) says that every economy it monitors suffered a slowdown during September.

Circling The Drain - 195

2011-11-12T11:50:00.001-08:00

Twenty-two million eight-hundred and twenty-four thousand one hundred and eighty days ago marked the beginning of the first dynasty and the approximate beginning of the end of the bronze age. There have been seven-hundred and fifty-thousand, three hundred and eighty-four full moons since then.

It is being suggested, therefore, that most people for the most part of this present era, which I'll refer to ironically, as the Attention Age - are much less oriented or attentive than they realize. Not because of the number of full moons, that's just an interesting aside. Fortunately, this fact (unoriented) rarely becomes apparent to us, unless we make a wrong turn, realize it and hence, have to regain our bearings.

Fortunate because it would freak the people out, which is as understandable as a horn blast terminating the comfortable depths of mass unconsciousness. Being free from the shadows of Plato's cave. The Socratic observation of the prisoners being angry and too upset to comprehend anything other than the illusory shadows of real objects. Being free really does mean having nothing left to loose and can be quite terrifying, more terrifying than liberating I might suggest - but I digress, (as if it were possible)!

Even then, in most environments, there are usually sufficient way finding cues — or people to provide directions — to get us back on our way. And no shortage of people willing to tell us the way to 're-orientate.' Here, appropriately enough, is a quote from the novel Hard Times and the chapter called, - 'Lost' by Mr C. Dickens, “Not the least eager of the eyes assembled, were the eyes of those who could not read. These people, as they listened to the friendly voice that read aloud - there was always some such ready to help them - stared at the characters which meant so much with a vague awe and respect that would have been half ludicrous, if any aspect of public ignorance could ever be otherwise than threatening and full of evil.”

What is the nature of the misfortune of deception? It shakes feelings of equality, justice, security and safety. Those perceptions have disturbed the sleep of those on the margins of wakefulness and brought them out to protest. Occupy wall street - there's something to be said about it, like a dupe at a card game that keeps loosing, gradually, not immediately, he realizes that something's amiss. He doesn't know specifically how he's been cheated. He's under the anaesthesia of mystification, the mystification of numbers – and psychological conditioning. The complaint lacks goals and cohesion says the cheater, just show me exactly where you were cheated. A casual observer starts to hum the childhood song, 'There was an Old Lady' - who swallowed a fly, who swallowed a spider to catch the fly, who swallowed a bird... and the friendly voice reads aloud...

Marching to the dogmatic beat of the various mantras of the capitalist utopia - has perhaps taken us off course? But then one would have to know where the march was heading to in the first place and that's where the disillusion comes into being. In times past the populous would revolt and cut of the head of the king and court and start over. Now?- Not a chance – who can fight against it? Certainly not the social outcasts in nylon tents with cardboard placards. Society is composed of people who don't live to work - but work in order to consume. Consumerism may be a psychological disorder of addiction, a disease - which is terminal yet treatable and curable. Think of the Platonic shadows and the anger of it's victims. Give us the illusions! Give us the shadows! Give us... In a democracy people get the leaders they deserve...

Being oriented, then, lies as much in our confidence of getting “unturned around,” should the need arise, (which I propose it has), as in being able to determine the correct route. Which by the way is a mantra of the swindlers (they claim to know it). Which is also a criticism of those against whom the protests are blaming for “getting them lost.”

Thus, “knowing where you are” is a psychological state that precludes unconsciousness, and includes perceptions (often erroneous but unchallenged), like freedom, that relate to the direction and distance of known locations (like the end of the rainbow). The followers are being told stories of Shangri-la, Valhalla, and terrible monsters that the leaders are protecting them from - you don't need a compass when you are going in a circle. The O.W.S. movement reflects the fact that a few on the edges of society realize that, although they don't know how to get to where they want to be exactly, they know for sure that those with the compass don't give a damn about them.

As a little note of interest, or a note of little interest! The Balinese consider not knowing which way is north, as a symptom of insanity...

Circling The Drain - 194

2011-11-11T10:25:00.001-08:00

Chancellor George Osborne has said the financial crisis gripping the eurozone is hitting British jobs and growth.

Circling The Drain - 193

2011-11-04T06:32:00.000-07:00

Canada sees biggest monthly job loss since 2009.

The US unemployment rate, which has remained stubbornly high, dropped to 9% in October from 9.1% the month before.

Circling The Drain - 192

2011-11-03T08:08:00.000-07:00

The decision to cut rates was unexpected and came despite inflation in the 17-country euro zone staying at 3.0 percent for a second month running in October, well above the ECB's target of just below 2 percent.

Circling The Drain - 191

2011-10-30T19:21:00.001-07:00

Without knowing it and at the trailing edge of the late morning darkness, that shadow at the edge of light - the feng shui, - it was perfect. Conciseness.

The sun glittered across everything and the resolution of vibrancy was tuned to its zenith. Crisp and clean, through a refreshing zero degrees came the sharp clear test of a winter voice, that of the chick-a-dee. The next acoustic to cross the stage was the shrunken desiccated clack of a falling leaf against the rigid silence of October's passing. The shadows lay stoic upon the gallant ground. Nothing less than a celebration of fire was in order to pay homage to the hyper-manic glory of the un-oxidised brilliance of the day. Fire keeps darkness at bay! I felt the electric tingle caress and stimulate mammalian follicles, electricity zipping up the “goose flesh” - I'm so alive today, I'm so alive today...

Circling The Drain - 190

2011-10-26T06:55:00.000-07:00

The gloom of middle autumn drips darkly down the melancholic sponge of cloud that rests on the oppressed wet cold ground. A base tone rumbles behind the icy cracks of a high G notes. And there is a pain in my left eye, indeed my vision may be obscured by the menacing concert bubbling in and outside my brain. I've taken to tea, Earl Grey, black – of course. Pushed, against my will towards the long night of winter I self medicate with Prokofiev and Dvorak.

Aided by the collective wisdom of a leviathan, the hour of increased darkness will soon be inflicted on the self-flagellating beast and en mass the time of day will turn back away from the light and into the darkness. The stinging burn of winter is at the gate, iconoclasts take secure positions amongst the decomposing leaves of light. The music's over, the orchestra stands to receive the approbation of a smartly dressed crowd of button pressing monkeys..

Circling The Drain - 189

2011-10-23T03:49:00.000-07:00

DEAD SEA, JORDAN // Shrinking jobs pool a danger after unrest linked to lack of work.
Slowing economic growth and escalating unemployment after the 'Arab Spring' uprisings is deepening the challenge of creating millions of jobs for the region's youths.

BBC // Speaking after the 10-hour meeting on Saturday, Mr Osborne said: "Britain will keep up pressure in the next few days to a comprehensive package to resolve the European crisis and to make sure that we get jobs and growth."

BBC // Spending cuts claim 10,000 jobs 'but worst yet to come'

Montreal Gazette // With Europe still unsettled, another worry has surfaced: rising inflation. Nevertheless, there's a global pattern of uncomfortably high inflation readings even as economic growth slows to a worrisomely slow pace.

Circling The Drain - 188

2011-10-22T04:52:00.000-07:00

Editorial staff at Rupert Murdoch’s remaining upscale London newspapers were informed on Thursday of impending budget and staff cuts, which may include some compulsory layoffs.

Ontario Hydro rates have increased by 18% so far in 2011. The reason for the cost jump is more expensive power coming online in the next year, including refurbished nuclear units at the Bruce Generating Station and increased wind generation. Under the government’s Green Energy Act, wind and solar generation, along with other forms of renewable power, are subsidized.

In Toronto. TTC chief general manager Gary Webster is asking commissioners to approve slashing 482 jobs, lowering crowding standards to pack more riders on TTC vehicles, and stopping Wheel-Trans service for 700 ambulatory dialysis patients.

In Chicago. In the proposed 2012 budget, the library system would get $11 million less from the city. Emanuel has proposed cutting 284 staff members, most of whom are part-time, in order to save $6.6 million. “They serve the young, the old, all ethnicities,” Ald. Ariel Reboyras, 30th, said of the libraries. “I believe the proposed cuts will affect our most vulnerable, our working-class poor.”

In the UK. Disabled people plan nationwide protests against cuts.

Walmart Cuts Employee Health Care Benefits. Walmart informed employees last week that it is eliminating healthcare for future part-time employees who work less than 24 hours a week, the New York Times reported.

Northrop Grumman Corp. plans to eliminate 800 jobs from its Linthicum-based Electronics Systems sector.

Circling The Drain - 187

2011-10-21T04:52:00.000-07:00

Canada's inflation rate moved a notch higher last month as the prices of most things consumers buy increased.
Statistics Canada said Friday that the consumer price index rose to 3.2%, while the underlying core inflation increased to the highest level in almost three years.

Circling The Drain - 186

2011-10-19T11:03:00.001-07:00

Oct 19 About 100 public servants at the Atlantic Canada Opportunities Agency were told Wednesday morning their jobs are being eliminated – the latest in an ongoing trickle of cuts as departments and agencies squeeze into tighter budgets.

Circling The Drain - 185

2011-10-18T03:35:00.000-07:00

A day latter one of the headlines: The rate of Consumer Prices Index (CPI) inflation in the UK matched its record high in September, rising to 5.2% from 4.5% the month before...

Circling The Drain - 184

2011-10-17T07:01:00.000-07:00

Interesting times...The prognosis - sell, short the Dow as a hedge against the pending asset eating inflation.

An increase in money supply has an inflationary effect (as indicated by an increase in the annual rate of inflation). There is a time lag between money growth and inflation, inflationary pressures associated with money growth from QE could build before the central bank acts to counter them. Quantitative easing may cause higher inflation than desired if the amount of easing required is overestimated, and too much money is created.

Oct 17 (Bloomberg) Wall Street Protests Spread to Four Continents.

FT Oct 17 UK Although this (QE2) additional stimulus will certainly be welcomed by markets, there is still a risk that above-target inflation could become entrenched. The restarting of quantitative easing will boost confidence and asset prices in financial markets but we remain sceptical over its power to restart lending, and therefore have a meaningful impact on the real economy. Where QE might have an impact is on sterling. If the purchases of assets leads to a depreciation in sterling, then this could boost demand for UK exports. However, this would also raise inflation for households, who are already struggling to make ends meet.

Oct 17 Bank of Canada's mandate will include a forceful assertion of what he calls “flexible inflation targeting,” or his right to respond to economic shocks or dangerous buildups of credit by taking longer than usual to bring inflation to the central bank’s 2-per-cent target.

Like U.S. Federal Reserve Board chairman Ben Bernanke, and Mervyn King, Governor of the Bank of England, Mr. Carney has kept his benchmark interest rate on hold in the face of hotter-than-expected inflation, judging that securing the recovery is more important than being precisely on target.

Oct 17 The Fed argues that its second round of quantitative easing or QE2 averted the risk of such a downward spiral of falling prices and wages, which can take years to overcome.

Oct 17 Home-improvement retailer Lowe's Cos. says it will close 20 underperforming stores in 15 states and cut 1,950 jobs in a move that it says will allow it to focus...

Oct 17, Phillips to cut 4,500 jobs.

Oct. 17 (Bloomberg) -- Mitsubishi UFJ Morgan Stanley Co. said it plans to quadruple job cuts to about 1,300 in Japan

16 October Up to 5,000 jobs could be lost at Royal Bank of Scotland as part of a major restructuring of its global investment banking operation.
Oct 12 B.C. Hydro says it's cutting its workforce by 300 people this week.

Oct 11, 6:15 PM EDT Whirlpool announced Tuesday it is making "organizational changes." Out of respect for the privacy of our employees we are not sharing specific numbers, however the job adjustments are spread across locations in the U.S. and Canada.

Circling The Drain - 183

2011-10-15T09:44:00.000-07:00

The ides of October continue to unravel in a blustery way. The end is nigh for my life at sleepy hollow - it was a good season and it's fitting in a way, that at its death, I'll be moving on. Strolling along the 11th line, breaking in a new set of shoes, the red jacket and Irish cap awash in an accelerating mistral - I chanced upon a mangled newt, the usual ingredient, in powdered form, for various strong potions from the medieval age, yet another sign with deeper meaning unrevealed... The sign - sold, blows in an exhilarating October wind...

Circling The Drain - 182

2011-10-01T07:04:00.000-07:00

October blew in with primordial force directly and fiercely out of the north.

I was beckoned out to survey the scene of Octobers landing. Two degrees centigrade, enough to chill my sock covered toes protruding snugly from under the straps of my sandals – as my mail order shoes had not yet arrived... Throughout the first October dawn, the tandem team of wind and whipping rain, lashed bright coloured leaves, scattering them free, down onto a plush green canvas. I love this time of year.

There was a severed duck wing and a dead goose sprawled in the middle of the road, in the middle of the 11th line. Poachers? Why would they leave a goose in the middle of the road? I took it as one could only conceive it's meaning - Augury. I glanced quickly over my left shoulder into the washing wind, pulled the hood over my Irish tweed cap, huddled my shoulders into my neck and shoved bare hands into my jacket pockets and made my way - as the wind galloped around and against my person. My mind was racing and burning, first David McHill, squashed like a bug in the middle of the road and now a Canada Goose – stay the course? Stay to the middle? But surely that was a disaster! A gruesome treatise against the Aristotelian 'golden mean' it was all my feverish mind could augur, stay clear of the average, avoid the middle, the common, as it will surely lead to death, or at least boredom. Nature howled and shook, birds buffeted by unseen currents - sending them to and fro across the bottom of the autumn's sky. I love this time of year.

Circling The Drain - 181

2011-09-23T04:56:00.000-07:00

And from pp. No I didn't take the survey. I don't work for paypal.

Dear Joseph Sexsmith,

On 09/21/2011, I sent you an email regarding your PayPal account. As part of PayPal's commitment to excellence, I want to make sure I met your needs in my response. Would you please take a minute to answer a few questions to let me know how I did?

To respond to our survey, please click on the web address above. If that does not work, please cut and paste the entire web address into the address field of your browser.

NOTE: Please respond within five days so that you can provide timely feedback to me, Ma . After 5 days, this invitation will expire.

Thank you for your help!

Ma
PayPal Customer Support

** An important note from the survey vendor **

PayPal, as the party who controls the data collected in this survey, may use your responses together with existing data it has about you to ensure its products and services meet your needs. PayPal will treat data collected from you in accordance with PayPal's privacy policy. To review this privacy policy, please contact PayPal or visit PayPal's web site.

If you want to be excluded from future surveys and survey correspondence, please click below:

Circling The Drain - 180

2011-09-23T04:39:00.000-07:00

And happy news this morning...ah I'll miss the fun.

Hello,

Your account has been closed and I've unsubscribed your e-mail address, (My alt email, used for spammers).com, from our mailing list. Your account is no longer accessible to you or anyone else.

We've appreciated your business and wish you the best of luck in the future.

Thank you for your recent inquiry. Did I solve your problem?

If yes, please click here: (the link)

If no, please click here: (the fun link)

Best regards,

Raghu.M
Amazon.com
Your feedback is helping us build Earth's Most Customer-Centric Company.

Circling The Drain - 179

2011-09-22T13:56:00.000-07:00

Does it get any better?..Robots....

You are now connected to Mani from Amazon.com.

Me:I want to close my account with Amazon.

Mani:Hello, my name is Mani . I'll be happy to help you.

Me:Thanks.

Mani:I'm sorry; I'm unable to close the account via chat. In this case, I'll send you the follow-up e-mail with the information to close the accounts.

Is that OK/

Me:That is fine Mani. I was just looking for the link to get me started in deleting my account. Thanks.

Mani:You’re welcome.

Is there anything else I can help you with?

Me:No. Just the link location. I'll watch for it im my email. Thanks, that's all.

Mani:Thanks for visiting Amazon.com. We hope to see you again soon!

It was my pleasure.

Have a great day.

I went to the link Mani promptly forwarded. I clicked on it in order to CONTACT AMAZON TO CANCEL MY ACCOUNT - and this is the result: The red colouring is Amazon's work no doubt to provide better understanding to their valued customers, ...and Quote,

"Contact Us. There has been an error while submitting your data. Please try again later.

There has been an error while submitting your data. Please try again later. "

Now to be fair to Amazon, I did receive the automated message below, again in red for my benefit - after I gave them a poor rating and told them that they were hilarious and crashing and burning.. etc, etc...:

"Please give us another chance to help you. Click the button below to provide your phone number." However, I was flustered and my composure was shaken and too disturbed to talk to another representative. If they help me any more I will surely die of an aneurysm. It was twenty past happy hour...

Circling The Drain - 178

2011-09-22T04:51:00.000-07:00

After Tansen "solved the problem" - by getting rid of me via the, "try again" mentality; akin to the old method of slapping the TV, refrigerator, vending machine etc. - in order to mysteriously fix the mechanics of an unknown "glitch". I tried yet again with Amazon. Sucker. What a cyber jungle. Failed - again. I did a search and through a round-about-myriad of paths found the item I wanted through another store. I went through the by now, tiresome process yet again and bugger belief - it worked - confirmed! No bank denial fiction. No security fiction! No terrorist money laundering fictions! It just bloody worked! Amazon 0 Me 1. But not really - right. It gets better for worse.

Charged with the endorphins of success I did peruse ebay for art. I opened a paypal account- confirmed and congratulations (like I just won the fucking lottery!) and an ebay account (more congratulations!) and was ready to buy. And buy I did! Six items in total. What a disaster! Paypal automated message: We were not able to process your payment. Please contact paypal customer service for further assistance. I could feel the blood pressure rise as I won every auction that I'd bid upon... So customer "service" sent me an automated message that does not deal with anything related to the problem. This pushes blood pressure higher. I respond back in a civil tone but without articles - assuming a Neanderthal is reviewing the incoming messages. Paypal not work. Paypal send message me - this: "We were not able to process your payment. Please contact paypal customer service for further assistance." It seemed to have worked. I was given a long distance phone number to call 4 time-zones away so that I could spend my time fixing their problem with my money. I did pause. Blink, blink.

I contacted all sellers successfully, except one...and attempted to explain in detail the problem with paypal that I know not the cause of. Clear? The experience has left me pondering the causes of commercial cynicism and the justification for industrial and corporate homegrown "terrorism."

The other seller has not provided a "contact seller" channel so... I'd bought a pair of pants. Transaction failed. I did it again. Transaction failed for above unknown reasons - except ebay in infinite wisdom has been programmed so that it "remembers" what the valued customer has ordered and when I tried it again - it remembered the first item, in addition to the second item. So, even though I selected 1 as the number of items, I ended up unsuccessfully buying two pair of pants. Genius! So, the automated invoices keep arriving in my inbox for items that I do and don't want and at the same time providing me with automated "unable to process" messages. Kind of like a circular technological Inferno of hell. Que Sera, Sera - whatever will be, will be - la de da, de de, la de da, da da.

Ta, ta!

P.S. And another thing! Because Ebay, PayPal, Amazon and others - might be potential powerful $ advertisers for local or international "news" media, magazines, newspapers etc. the joy and wonder of dealing with similar corporate behemoths that control and own "Demo-cracy" will never see the light of demo-cratic day. Don't even think about the phone cartel mafia. A scan of the problem on the web has shown that other people have had the same problems around the world.

P.P.S. - So, I did call Paypal and was greeted by cheerful automation for 4 minutes and finally transferred to a human named Ricky. Summery. "Ya, Paypal has allot of issues with prepaid cards, sometimes they work sometimes they don't - just try again." I explain to Ricky the problem with that. "Well that has to be taken up with Ebay," he says. Not paypals problem. "Sorry" he says nothing to be done...Problem solved as far as Ricky's concerned. But for me and the 5 people who think they have sold items, the problem is still there. Humm... I press on. Lets see if I can contact Ebay regarding their payment provider - PayPal: Automated response to my enquiry; "The PayPal customer service team has all your account information and will be able to help you." With that automated responce - Ebay problem solved! What ring of hell am I on? I press on. I'm referred to a 200+ word Ebay article regarding - problems the valued client may be having with debit cards. Then, I was referred to an additional 200+ word article about making one time payments. It's an 8 step process with an additional caveat. It tells me to go to "MyEbay" and click on the account tab. I click on "MyEbay. There's a drop down menu with eight options but no "account tab" Then I notice another caveat that says that prepaid debit cards can't be used to pay your ebay fees. Wow. buried deep in the ass of Ebay there it is - "the reason" - Hark! Do I hear the sound of singing? Finally! Problem understood but unresolved. Blink, blink. How do I explain this to the sellers?...I know! - Not my problem!

So there it is. No explanation, just eleven words. Justified, perhaps, with five words; it's for your own protection...
-30-

Circling The Drain - 177

2011-09-21T11:07:00.001-07:00

Here It goes again...I'm shoeless!

You are now connected to HAOROKCHAM TANSEN from Amazon.com.

Me:Confusion.

HAOROKCHAM TANSEN:Hello, my name is Tansen. I'll be happy to help you.

Me:Hi Tansen we chatted yesterday re: an order then I spoke to Beth on the phone and she told me order was compled and being shipped then today I recieved an email that seems to indicate that maybe the order has not been shipped. So I'm confused is it shipped or is it not shipped?

This is what I received todayGreetings from Amazon.com,

If your credit card payment could not be completed, the issuing bank may have declined the charge if the name, expiration date, or ZIP Code you entered at Amazon.com does not exactly match the bank's information.

Valid payment information must be received within 2 days, otherwise your order will be canceled.

Once you have confirmed your account information with your issuing bank, please follow the link below to resubmit your payment.

We recommend you select an option to create a new payment method when prompted and enter the complete information for the payment method you wish to use.

Hi Tansen are you there?

HAOROKCHAM TANSEN:I am really sorry. There was some technical issue.

Me:When now or yesterday?

HAOROKCHAM TANSEN:Just before. It is fluctuating.

I am really sorry for that.

Me:So is the order shipped?

HAOROKCHAM TANSEN:Is this the order 105-9822992-5206602?

Me:Yes

HAOROKCHAM TANSEN:Your order had been cancelled.

Me:Why?

HAOROKCHAM TANSEN:Please allow me 2 minutes while I check it for you.

Me:OK. Thanks.

HAOROKCHAM TANSEN:It is the same reason. Your payment had been declined.

Me:Why?

HAOROKCHAM TANSEN:Have you contacted your bank?

Me:Yes. The card is not blocked. It is a debit card.

HAOROKCHAM TANSEN:You have paid through Credit Card.

credit card ending with 7429

Me:It is a VISA pre-paid debit card. I think the problem is with Amazon payment systembecause it did not ask for the CVC verification code on the back of my card.

It is not a chip card. Canada has not caught up with the rest of the developed world in that regard.

HAOROKCHAM TANSEN:Well, Glen, I would request you to place a fresh order. If the problem still exist, then we need to transfer this issue to our billing department.

Me:OK. I'll try again.

HAOROKCHAM TANSEN:Is there anything else I can do for you today?

Me:No. Thanks.

HAOROKCHAM TANSEN:Please place a fresh order. Lets see if the problem still occurs. If then this needs to be escalated to our billing department.

Thank you for visiting Amazon.com. We hope to see you again soon!

Have a wonderful day!

HAOROKCHAM TANSEN from Amazon.com has left the conversation.

Circling The Drain - 176

2011-09-21T08:04:00.000-07:00

RIP McHill. It finally happened. Bound to happen in hindsight, but I predicted it two short posts ago. The sad, gruesome and timely end of Mr David McHill - crushed. A grave, weary and foggy autumn day. Now the questions begin to arise. Was it vehicular homicide? Hit and run for sure and foul play can never be ruled out. I couldn't have done more. Could I? I'd warned him about lazing around the warm pavement of middle road, would he listen! Ha, none of it. He may as well kept on with the fags and booze for all the good it came to, would likely never have happened - maybe it was deliberate?

In keeping with Irish tradition an Irish wake will be held in Davids memory. Please don't send flowers, rather - make donations payable to this website, as a trust fund has been established. To be administered by this site in conjunction and close partnership with the Liquor Control Board of Ontario.

Circling The Drain - 175

2011-09-20T08:05:00.000-07:00

Life.

Me:1XX-9822992-52XXXXX There was a problem with the order. I re-entered the order but have not received any response back.

HAOROKCHAM TANSEN:Hello, my name is Tansen. I'll be happy to help you.

Can I put you on hold for 2 minutes?

Me:I've asked a question above

I was using a Roual Bank pre paid debit card....(3-4 min latter Haorokcham returns)

HAOROKCHAM TANSEN:Your payment had been declined from bank.

Me:Nope
AS I wrote, it's a pre paid debit card

HAOROKCHAM TANSEN:I see that you have paid for the order through Credit Card Visa ****-7429.

Me:Yes and it was odd that there was no place to enter the cvv number on the back of cards

HAOROKCHAM TANSEN:I would request you to give us a call regarding this, our phone number is 1-866-216-1072. We're available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

We will surely help you out.

Me:OK I'll call now. Thanks

HAOROKCHAM TANSEN:Sure.

Is there anything else I can do for you today?

Me:No I'm dialing now and am on hold listening to distorted "musak"

HAOROKCHAM TANSEN:Do you want me to stay connected with you?

They will surely help you out.

Me:no that's all thank

HAOROKCHAM TANSEN:You are welcome.

Thank you for visiting Amazon.com. We hope to see you again soon!

Have a wonderful day!

HAOROKCHAM TANSEN from Amazon.com has left the conversation.

......Meanwhile the "musak" on the phone continues.......

Hi my name is Beth. Thank you for calling Amazon. What is the name associated with your order please?

Me: Glen Sexsmith

Beth: What is your email address (I provide it).

Me: I have the order number if you need it but I guess you can see that on your screen?

Beth:Yes. OK. Mr. er..., hu..., Sir, how can I help you?

Me: The card was not accepted.

Beth: Your bank refused the charge. So the best thing we can do at this time, is for you to call your bank.

ME: I Already did. They said no problem. (I Lied).

Beth: OH, umm, Ok. Then let me put you on hold for just a second.

Me: OK. (Distorted undulating piano music, otherwise quite pleasant.) Approaching 5 minutes.

Beth: OK. Mr, ur.. ah.., Glen, thank you for holding for such a long time. Your order is completed. It went through and your order is on it's way. It will arrive September 28^th. But I don't have a tracking number for your order so if you have any problems just call me back and we'll fix it.

Me: Why did it not go through when I tried to do it online? Because it works when I shop online at M&S in England - no problems.

Beth: Well when you called your bank they must have unblocked the card.

Me: I didn't actually call the bank. I just checked the balance on the card via an automated system.

Beth: Oh! Um.. Well it's for security reasons.

Me: SECURITY!! What? Whoa! So, Amazon declined my order for security reasons?

Beth: Yes, sometimes it happens, they may bloc it for your security. Just in case your card was lost or something maybe.

Me: Wow. Do you think that if I bought a book from Amazon now that they would refuse my order for security reasons? Because I'm thinking I might like to buy a book... (I was so close to saying - about how to make bombs – but I refrained, with all my might I refrained).

Beth: No, Mr Glen, everything is fine now. Can I be of any more assistance for you today?

Me: No thanks Melony. Your name's Melony right?

Beth: No, it's Beth.

Me: Oh sorry, Thanks Beth, good bye.

And then I got automated emails from Amazon as follows:

Tell us how we're doing

Please rate the following:

Ease of working with Amazon on your issue

I gave Beth and Tansen 5 stars.

Quality of our service representative

I gave both Beth and Tansen 5 stars.

Amazon's policy on this issue.

I left as Unrated.

Circling The Drain - 174

2011-09-15T14:38:00.000-07:00

As I strolled along the 11^th line towards the Buckhorn road I'd chanced upon McHill yet again. David was standing in the middle of the road having all the symptoms of Graves disease, especially the buggy eyes and confusedness. Obviously confused and nervous he cast a sideways glance and then looked away, straight ahead. He had gained considerable weight since giving up fags and booze, which is clearly obvious from the images to the right.

“David,” I said. “What are you doing standing in the middle of the road? Your bloody lucky you've not been run down by a truck!”

No response. “Did you see the black goat on Buckhorn Rd and the 11^th line? It's also lucky to be still alive - it's obviously an escapee, at first I thought it was a dog.” No response. Was he back on the sauce? Illicit drugs?
"You been eating Belladonna berries? Bad news they cause delusions - you could seriously hurt youself or die."
No responce. There was no obvious reason for me to continue talking to him since he was incommunicado and doing so put us both in danger since I'd brought myself down to his level and was prostrate in the middle of the 11^th line. I gave my o'le buddy a lift and helped him to the sunny side of the road. In the spirit of tough love I gave him a firm reprimand about dozing in the middle of a vehicular expressway and said ta ta. I shudder at the thought of the o'le boy wandering aimless in the headlights of a drunken hill-billy pick-up-truck...

Circling The Drain - 173

2011-09-02T10:31:00.000-07:00

Dar es Saalam is a city in the east of Africa located 6 and a bit degrees below the equator having an official population of 2.8 million, it seems a perfect place to land in. Dar, as it's esoterically referred to. The blue, blue waves of the Indian Ocean crash incessantly on its shore. The imagined labyrinthine..- the dark acoustic of dusty alleys that register the pulse of vibrant life from cells within – rhythmical beating. The English transliteration would be: Harbour of Peace. The closer I scan the periphery of this whim, the more sense it makes to me. The cold blue smoke of deception, being invisible, except in the beam of methodical analysis and understanding, has been exposed and hence, dispersed by the powerful wind of the minds eye - by way of laser vision! It makes perfect sense to erase the perfidious smuk of blithering, deliberately faithless, treacherous and deceitful garbage that passes for news, from the intoxicating bliss of a Bacchanalian intellect in search of a dipsomaniac retreat – The Harbour of Peace, that - fits the bill. It's a mythical place of course. Blue, blue, blue. There are sections of any society that - if they don't make you, they want to break you. Truthful aphorisms that really don't fit in this most pressing paradigm above, although they fill the space and are true, non-the-less, ...yet I digress. Not that I'm trying to decorate these words with the gilded breath of immortals, but...I told you so, can't be far away – the next corner perhaps? We must, must, must understand that aliens are from other planets and that blackest flag of perfidious stink should flash before our eyes when the word alien written in any text outside the genre of science fiction, (and this or similar ones, of course) must be suspect...there are no aliens on this earth!! Beware, those that write and speak of such... So, from nowhere in particular to East Africa and back to nondescript. Watch this space...

Circling The Drain - 172

2011-08-22T17:56:00.000-07:00

Immune!

Circling The Drain - 171

2011-08-21T08:15:00.000-07:00

Hey kids! Joey and Ginger have fled the jar! They left on Saturday. I'd moved them from the man made climate controlled atmosphere of the house to natures heat of the garage in order to speed up their metamorphosis as they have a long pre-schedualed flight ahead of them – they're going to Mexico. Ginger pop'ed out of the chrysalis first and I was lucky to witness Joey emerge a few minutes later all shiny and transformed with new tiny little wings and coiling proboscis. The abdomen was bulging and undulating with hemolymph or inflating fluid that the newly emerged pump into their wings, thereby inflating their mode of travel. Excess fluid is expelled via the posterior, by chance, I saw this happen as well.

The two new Monarchs hung around (pun intended) for about an hour clutching their recently departed chrysalis sheath. Ginger took flight first and a few moments later Joey, in a fit of emotion flew towards me, landed his surprisingly sharp little spikes in my face and kissed me goodbye, thanking me for looking after them.

From the time of adoption to the time they went to the lid to begin their metamorphosis it was 11 days. The day they went to the lid they were 4cm long. The time spent in the chrysalis was 14 & 13 days respectively and as mentioned they emerged asplender moments apart. Their early life in pictures below.

Circling The Drain - 170

2011-08-21T06:09:00.000-07:00

While hunting for puffballs in the poison ivy patch I chanced upon a stinging pain on the side of my pant-less leg. I was wearing shorts and sandals on my hunt, it was an impromptu decision and one that I'm waiting the outcome of. I've naturally Googled poison ivy and if I'm not one of the fortunate 25% of those not allergic to it - then I've twelve to 36 hours before I transform. I'm sure it's psychological but I feel mildly itchy all over. Anticipation perhaps?...But I digress, back to puffballing, that may sound sexual but to those in the know it's not. Puffballs are of course a large round white mushroom. But wait, back to the stinging burn prick I felt on my unprotected leg. I looked down immediately at what I thought would have been a razor blade tree, barbed wire, thorn bush or a poison dart. What I discovered was a freakish monster of a caterpillar - whoa! Having spines about it's body and a green and red stripe laterally down it's hideous sides I cringed in awe. The sting, I would latter learn, was from the venom that's injected on contact, and to quote Wikipedia “These stinging spines have a very painful venom that is released with the slightest touch.” Yep. Since, at the time of the sting, I was in the process of fleeing a mosquito attack and no longer in pursuit of puffballs, I was crashing, in a stumbly kind of way through nature, so contact was more than slight and yes amazingly, I now know there are venomous caterpillars in the dark forests across the 11^th line. Curious, I snapped off the branch that my green monsterous co-attacker was dining on and proceeded to find the path, now completely lost...and then - bugger belief - I practically stumbled on a large white puffball growing in an vast extent of three leafed foliage. Doubly pleased with my sortie into the dark forest, I waded hurriedly into the greenery and plucked gingerly and made haste. No longer even attempting to find the lost path, I ventured towards - nay, I bulldozed towards the 11^th line. Was something chasing me? Of course it's fenced because it's private property – McConkeys wouldn't mind. I wobbled over the rusty wire fence, retrieved my treasures and soaking with perspiration, burs, bites and venomous stings made towards the safety of my abode, a shower and to research my discovery along with recipes on cooking puffballs.

I washed around my toes and ankles vigorously with soap and then my entirety, pat dry and to google! It says don't wash a potential poison ivy contact area with soap, use alcohol first, as it can actually spread the oils to other unaffected areas of the body – holy hell! I wait with trepidation and aforementioned psychosomatic itchiness, my face, head, nose, eyes, eyebrows, back and bum please no, no...

As I was doing my research a neighbour kid comes over with a puffball, smaller than mine. I felt a surge of accomplishment but since she was about a few decades younger I refrained from rushing out with - “Look at this one!” I instead concentrated on the nearly scientific description, spine'y stinging green bastard caterpillar on elm twig. Turns out that it's an Io moth caterpillar or Automeris io in scientific terms. Success! I place the newly named caterpillar - Bane, (from now on known diminutively as Bane'y) into a jar along with more leaves and aerated lid for future observation. Parents and kids and an unknown adult have gathered on deck drinking beer...I greet them and I'm given the puffball that was simply, easily growing in their lawn. Humm. I wash the small gift, peeled it and sliced it in 1cm thick pieces. Heat butter in pan, add a dash of onions and why not, some crushed garlic and fry. I force the neighbours to eat. Tasty, except the little kid opens her mouth and panick'ly points at the offending buttered morsel, obviously wanting it removed, she aims artfully towards her dads lowered hand and spits..."I don't like it" she says.

Circling The Drain - 169

2011-08-14T18:36:00.000-07:00

I've been asked who or what is Kafka, fair enough because this is, after all, a place named - glenniekafka.blogspot Named as such, because I along with certain confidants, wandered through a weave of a Kafkaesque experiences and continue, on occasion to encounter the ghost of the man be it in the early, obscure or late hours of a day. As a boy he'd attended the school across the street from where I lived in Prague.

It's the birthday of the writer Franz Kafka, born in Prague (1883). OK not his birthday. A writer associated with doom and gloom, the word 'Kafkaesque' has come
to mean absurd, dreamlike, and even sinister. In a letter to his
fiance Kafka wrote: 'The life that awaits you is not that of
the happy couples you see strolling along before you in Westerland, no
lighthearted chatter arm in arm, but a monastic life at the side of a
man who is peevish, miserable, silent, discontented, and sickly.' He
had sexual anxiety, and felt inferior to his father. And it is easy
to summarize his life as tragic: He only published a few short
stories during his life and never finished any novels (besides his
novella Metamorphosis); he had a few love affairs, but was never
married; and then he died at the age of 40 from tuberculosis.
But there are some cheerful elements to Kafka's life story. For one,
he was a competent and dedicated employee of an insurance agency, the
Workers' Accident Insurance Institute. He started there in 1908 and
worked there steadily for 14 years, compensating injured workers. He
had a good salary, worked six-hour work days, from 8:00 a.m. to 2
p.m. and worked his way up over the years. He kept records, wrote
letters and articles, dealt with statistics, assessed his own
business and others, processed claims, and represented the
organization as a lawyer. Kafka himself tended to dismiss his work
when he talked or wrote about it. But he showed up every day, and he
wrote up the official annual reports, and was apparently proud of
them because he sent copies to his family and friends. His friend the
writer Max Brod wrote a biography of Kafka, and he wrote: 'I spoke to
one of the head officials who once worked with Kafka. Franz Kafka, so
the gentleman told me, was popular with everyone; he hadn't a single
enemy.'
Kafka also had a great, even obsessive, respect for health and
physicality. There is much made of Kafka's time in coffee houses, but
no evidence that he ever drank coffee himself, and he did not drink
alcohol at all. He slept with his window open all the year round,
always in fresh air, did calisthenics every evening at exactly 7:30
p.m., and he liked all sorts of exercise. He wrote in his diary in
1910: 'I row, ride, swim, lie in the sun. Therefore my calves are
good, my thighs not bad, my belly will pass muster, but my chest is
very shabby.'
And Kafka's last love affair, with a 25-year-old woman named Dora
Diamant, seems to have been a happy one. They met at a Baltic resort,
where she was working in the kitchen. He entertained her by performing
shadow puppets on the wall, and he read aloud to her. They played
together and teased each other. He wanted to marry her, but her
father refused, on the grounds that Kafka was not an Orthodox Jew.
They were only together for a year before he died of tuberculosis.
Dora said later, 'Everything was done with laughter,' and, 'Kafka was
always cheerful. He liked to play; he was a born playmate, always
ready for some fun.'

Circling The Drain - 168

2011-08-14T14:21:00.000-07:00

The image below I must confess is a clear "tabloid-esque" image of David McHill. David used to be quite the tippler but has since allegedly sworn off the juice and now swears by crickets and other in-sex's. David, clearly shocked and surprised to be caught lurking naked in my back yard - is a smoker, as is evidenced by his thin stature and grass green pallor. He's an American living in Germany, capable, obviously of transmogrification in the digitized, computerized, multi-universe that we live in... - should we be surprised! I discovered him passed out - and startled him awake in the back yard the other morning, covered in perspiration from a night of christian back-sliding debauchery, reminiscent of the days of post revolution Praha - the party centrum of days gone by. David clearly trouserless and stunned, was caught unawares and I did invite him, after some wavering, in for breakfast but unable to speak from the delirious days of intercontinental debauchery, David the green, got lost in the green grass of this laconic summer and I've not seen him since. I'm sure he's back safely supping the supple breast of the Hun and perfecting ways of making blueberry cake...Happy Birthday David!

Circling The Drain - 167

2011-08-11T05:08:00.000-07:00

I detected a glint of autumn in the morning darkness. Early, yet visible tokens of the waning season lay scattered on the lawn as trees shed their weakest leaves. The tone of sunlight has deepened across the field and trees, the dew has become heavy and the temperature was 10 degrees aka, 51 imperialist degrees. It sent a sympathetic shiver throughout my system as I caught a memory - distant, of the relatively horrific Ontario winter. I've no winter clothing. Perhaps the trembling that shook my system was the awakening of the migratory instinct, although I thought I'd put away my Hobo stick and bandanna for good. Thus it goes, day after night month after year, back and forth to and fro. Somewhere in the mix of all the to-ing and fro-ing I'd been happily bitten by the shutterbug, otherwise unbitten - the movements of nature would pass by unrecorded.

Lastly and unrelated to the shutterbuging but more to the to and fro-ing of life, the following headline from a morning paper. “Secret peace talks between US and Taliban collapse over leaks." - The Telegraph. The editor duly notes the journalistic integrity of The Drain as evidenced by paragraph 2 of post 157, although denying The Drain as the potential source of the leak.

Circling The Drain - 166

2011-08-08T17:49:00.000-07:00

And a little bit more of the beauty that envelops us...not bad for a hand held minor mega pixel device!....run rabbit run....

Circling The Drain - 165

2011-08-08T14:29:00.000-07:00

I'm aware that there's a major debt problem in places as obscure and difficult to understand as America or Japan for instance and other European countries for instance and etc. I know gold has hit a new high and that I said it would and that civilians are no longer allowed to use margin to buy it - woe. But I've been busy with other things...I'll solve all the problems later.

Circling The Drain - 164

2011-08-05T11:52:00.000-07:00

In the warm balm of August sun, I tip-toe, in as casual a way possible - through the absurdly tall grasses of a meadow, lethargically. I'm armed with a small camera, set to record the vibrations of life. The surrounding stridulation of crickets and the constant buzz of Cicadas is the predominate sound that brushed against a mild breeze...That predatory insect, the Dragonfly, takes a brief respite from its acrobatic quest for food. An alarmingly colourful and large spider awaits for its meals to be delivered...

Joey (bottom) and Ginger (a day younger) were adopted by yours truly a week ago. They have taken to their new home with vigor and gusto they both eat like horses now and get fresh food daily at the same time as I clean up their ever increasing "indiscretions."

These two wandered out into the morning dew the other day for an early breakfast as the cardinal vocalized loudly atop a 20 meter basswood tree.

Circling The Drain - 162

2011-07-29T17:33:00.001-07:00

In a concerted effort to uphold the editorial integrity of “The Drain” as it's ever so popularly referred to, I've as editor, decided to implement the discipline of technique. As a short aside, I recall part of a conversation that I had in the lobby of The Dancing Bear Inn, in British Columbia with a fellow raconteur. Namely that “writing today has to be unintelligible to be current and understood.” That was a paraphrase of the comment from my interlocutor, non the less I felt I understood what the man was trying to get at; - or get across to me. It was thus; the old adage that it's all been done before, basically, all's been written, the end of history perhaps. True, I thought a year or so latter, after considerable consideration that we've never been here before eithor, so in spite of nothing new under the sun, perhaps as a somewhat doleful reminder that nothing lasts forever and that the best way to overthrow a regime, aside from invasion, is to predict and repeat its downfall and let dangerous fatalism run its course...through this golden age.

What is truth? The editor has turned his admittedly blurry vision towards The Dragon.The Bruce Lee Story to be exact – and Johnny Walker Scotch. tAll is not los . . .

Circling The Drain - 161

2011-07-29T04:21:00.000-07:00

Cairo Protesters Call for an Islamic State In Egypt

You'd almost think The Drain saw this comming about exactly 20 days ago! :-o
(Entry 157, paragraph 3 to be exact)

Circling The Drain - 160

2011-07-25T11:40:00.000-07:00

In a puff and gush of intellect the idea I had blew completely out of my mind via a sneeze, I'd never had it happen before - but now it has. Well, at least I don't remember it happening before. The fortunate ones, having large heads with powerful muscles would not loose such diaphanous brainstorms – oh well...

On the way to the Lakefield Fair, yesterday - not on the way actually but more of a side trip, I stopped at the Thirsty Loon to wet my whistle a bit with that ancient amber restorative. It was a fine sun soaked day. The demolition derby was scheduled to begin with a roar at 17:30 and I had an hour or so before the starting flag. Low and behold who should come to rest on the stool beside me but a nuclear scientist wearing a Harley Davidson racing jacket. This pleased me to the point of considering missing the start of the smash-up-derby - at the Lakefield Fair. The perception problem with the nuclear industry is the easily led, cerebrally challenged who think the earth should be green and not blue. Actually I don't remember the details because for the most part it was not important. I mentioned to the scientist that what the industry needs is some generative journalism - narrative like stories seen from un-jaundiced eyes. In an unrelated conversation I told the nuclear scientist to buy gold - “it's going up” I said. He agreed and asked me how to do it. I told him, sort of, but I think it went in one ear and out the other; – naturally, I hold none and have realized a imaginary paper profit of about $300,000 from the time that I did actually own some but sold it, for a real profit of $500 – blink blink...

The other patrons (three) were discussing the rental of tools, a carpet cleaner and going to watch the demolition derby. The scientist only stayed for two, and bid me adieu, the clock on the wall said 17:32 A calculated 15 Min walk would have me front row standing at the smash up. I hooted and hollered, ate a hotdog and then fries, I lead the clapping brigade and inquired of my neighbours as to the rules of the derby – only rule I could discern was disqualification for smashing one's vehicle into the driver side door of opponent. It happened in one of the gladiatorial matches and the offender forfeit the contest.

Anyhow, the 156^th annual Fair is over and today is another day. A day that had woken me; indeed greeted me angrily this early AM with a thunderous blast of lightning - twice. I now gaze outdoors through variable levels of intermittent rain. A tumbler of amber restorative rests nearby on this dark sunless day, as I search the complex, ethereal network of signals inside my mind for hidden treasures that won't be blown away by something as sudden and unexpected as a sneeze...

Circling The Drain - 159

2011-07-19T07:04:00.000-07:00

Not that it deserves a separate entry at the Drain, however, it has come to my attention that the prestigious magazine Slate has penned a story idea of mine about weeds! Imitation is the finest form of flattery...

http://www.slate.com/id/2298791/?wpisrc=newsletter_slatest

Circling The Drain - 158

2011-07-19T06:50:00.001-07:00

Niagara Falls Ontario. Westbound. More south than west on a bus with an evangelical purple ceiling and matching seats – In what year was this coloured “bus cloth” considered nice? I needed to pee. I needed to get a lotto ticket, destination jackpot, 41 million tax free smackers! The thought of having that wealth cheered my being and I busied myself with what boats, condos, castles and countries to buy – I promised myself that I'd not change. I stared out the window at a bleak, oxidized and homogeneous washed horizon. Lake Ontario and the sky conspired to tease out a lithium coloured void. In spite of my expected sudden wealth, I could feel the familiar coils of melancholy wrapping themselves around me. Was the bus going in the wrong direction?

The Falls was expensive but I enjoyed it. It has been hit hard by the depression but there are still tourists. I performed a Reiki manoeuvre with one hand and could sense that The Falls would be OK. I got to change the lights on the falls one night! Woo hoo! Descended the escarpment one morning looking for fossilized trilobites, smashing rock against rock like a sweaty Neanderthal madman but to no avail - I found none. I did manage to dip my toes into the Niagara river at the edge of category five rapids, six being the highest rating and considered deadly - boats forbidden. Got drunk of course. Awoke first morning with the smell of skunk in my bag (how the hell did that get in there?), a little tiny burn on my upper lip and my debit card missing, perfect. - So many questions floating around on yet another of a thousand hangovers. Anyhow, first priority was to re-hydrate myself lest I die of cardiac arrest. I figured the card could not be too far away, the thought of it being a hostage did cross my mind... For the most part humanity is annoying, myself included. I hadn't won the lotto - why? Why did black turn up eight times in a row?...when I was convinced enough to keep my chips on red. The debit card was at reception and not thankfully, a hostage.

I wandered like an armless drooling zombie child towards the centre, trying to come to grips with loosing 41 million tax free dollars. The weather was gorgeous hot, - puffy clouds anointed the firmament, cicadas buzzed in both near and distant trees – the sound of summer sun! A crescendo underwrote the continued pulse of life! Beauty returned to earth and quickly hid its wings. Summer.

Circling The Drain - 157

2011-07-09T06:21:00.000-07:00

Talk about circling the drain. Thousands of pro-democracy protesters gather in Tahrir square in Egypt. Thousands with no single purpose other than frustration with some grievance. Perfect. There were 11 different political groups. One stage held a revolutionary folksinger belting out songs through an amplifier. At another stage, anti-Israeli slogans were shouted into the cacophony. America was stirring up the pot by feeding dissent in Syria, as it was wracked with further protests. The collapse of Syria would be a blow to Iran & Hezbollah, both enemies of Americas occupying partner - Israel. Iran (90% Shi'a) wants to create a greater Islamic Republic in the middle east and has been stirring up trouble by interfering in occupied Iraq via helping Iraqi Shi militants inside Iraq. America wants to be the stabilizing force in the middle east by threat of military force with the aim at weakening Islamic ideology and promoting a secular approach. Iran wants to be the stabilizing force in the middle east by seeking international recognition, respect and through threat of military force, hence its nuclear capacity.

The effect of the American debt crisis is the withdrawal from its conflict zones and a pending cut to its military budget – America simply can't afford the money that continued wars will cost and on that point both the Republicans and Democrats agree. As a result, moderate Islamist groups, including al Qaeda (a Sunni Islamist group) will be engaged with “dialogue” rather than bombs with the purpose of enticing them to be of the same mind on certain aspects of Arab democracy.

The problem with democracy is that the people may not vote the way they are supposed to. As an example, the Irish voted "incorrectly" when they voted to reject the European Unions Nice Treaty. The EU decided to have the Irish vote again until they got it right by voting yes rather than their first democratic decision of – no. Another example of the problem of democracy was the overwhelming, yet "incorrect" vote by the Palestinians in 2006 to elect Hamas. A more recent example is the Egyptian referendum in March 2011 that democratically and overwhelmingly approved constitutional amendments that were a blow to liberal and secular groups. The problem it seems, is that Muslim support for democratic ideals and aspirations may clash with the democratic wishes of western/American democracy. Therefore bringing democracy into a region that is not influenced by proper thinking - is problematic to say the least.

The invasion of Iraq was not about the oil, nor about nasty weapons but rather about trying to set up - influence the creation of, (or purchase), a secular Islamic state in order to prevent or hinder the efforts of Iran from creating a unified greater Islamic Republic. One of the more likely unifying democratic grievances that such a state would have, would be the western establishment of Israel on Palestinian land in 1948 and the continued lack statehood for Palestinians.

Circling The Drain - 156

2011-07-01T08:15:00.000-07:00

Perception. An interesting thing it is. Weeds for instance. I'd not be making any grand generalization by reporting that most people hate them...without really knowing why.

That edible plant of springtime ubiquity the dandelion, children recognise it as a beautiful flower given to loved ones, until that is - they are taught that the flower is a weed to be hated! A dandelion, something to spend hours of free time on, uprooting, spraying and cursing. Do urbanites hate yellow? They've been told how a yard is supposed to look ...according to whom? Is there a vested interest? Why does grass need to be cut every 4 days? What's the psychological tap root feeding that summer phrase – the grass needs cutting? According to whom? Are urban meadows illegal? Diversity maligned? Is there grass cutting legislation? A lawn court? Absurdum type questions for sure; However they may actually lead one closer to the grass roots of - how easy it is to legislate and define paradigms of aesthetics and good taste... The why in the question (why do we hate weeds?) is due undoubtedly to an elaborately interconnected Psyop created by weed killer/lawn implement manufactures and parents! We learn to hate them, we are taught to hate them. Weeds bad. Obviously bad because products are advertised on TV demonstrating implements and elixers that will vanquish the ~~enemy,~~ ~~insurgents~~ weeds. However, the maligned weed is a simple example of a reign - a co-mingled, galloping alliance between ignorance and arrogance - which “moulds” people into weed haters! Weed lovers of the world unite! Weeds have names, mostly Latin, which undoubtedly indicates a higher culture somewhere down in the roots of an ancient family tree. Take the lowly weed from its native meadow, plunk it carelessly into a clay pot decorated by a niece, nephew or an Art Scholar and instantly it becomes a much admired avant flora. Suddenly it's “Oh, isn't that lovely. Isn't that nice. Are they Japanese? Who is your Gardner? Is he gay?” Perception, perception, perception. A valueless plant growing wild, an outcast unwanted - a weed...

The Cenchrus longispinus is a maligned, scowled at bit of flora, yet put the little fellow in an aforementioned pot and presto, suddenly the valueless has been transformed into value! Not by magic but by perception, it's everything. It's simply a grass...

The other little character playing the part of example, name yet found, surrives in the wild, in spite of being trampled upon and bombed with agent orange derivatives and other weapons of mass destruction, yet it looks (in spite of it being momentarily nameless) absolutely smashing, rooted in the very latest clay scaphium! Through difficult research and due diligence (and by asking someone who knows) I'd been able to discover the name of the beautiful bonsai like flora to the left. Geranium dissectum, or more politely, Cut- leaved Cranesbill; Libellously slapped with the moniker of a noxious weed! An introduced species, non-indigenous! Without stumbling into any political analogies and indigenous-ness, it would seem that it could be called a late arriver, new commer, recent arrival et cetra. I like to think of plants existing outside of the political sphere and as not having a nationality...

Butterfly populations have born the brunt of the war on weeds as a form of collateral damage. Millions missing! Where once you could leap barefoot into the morning dew, see fluttering Lepidoptera flitting nimbly in the urban sky - no more, no more...Their homes - eradicated via fields "cleansed" to make way for other non-indigenous introduced species like barley for instance - which I have nothing against, as it is a key ingredient in many of my favourite beverages. What to do? What to do? Stop cutting and spraying lawns, get closer to nature without having to leave the yard! It's time to turn the lawnmowers into ornaments, weed eaters into arbours. The cloud appreciation society has shown the way. Yet sadly, the weedappreciationsociety.org has yet to sprout roots...

Circling The Drain - 155

2011-06-27T07:55:00.000-07:00

Palm fronds cast careless shadows swaying on the broken pockmarked pavement at the end of a crumbling Marina Hemingway. Desiccated leaves scraped along, stopped then shuffled off again pushed by the sultry breeze. Across the patio a loud staccato of Spanish exploded from an occupied table, singly at first then in bursts as five Cubans conversed at once then the chatter suppressed into a conspiratorial hush only to burst out again into wild gesticulations and volume. Domestic dogs far in the distance barked at hungry strays that wander, eternally in search of food. The scream of a chainsaw came billowing in on the breeze. A small black bird worked to free up morsel's of bright red palm nuts - it pecked lazily at the abundance until it found one that fit its fancy - black bird flys away, nut in beak. All those ordinary things happened on an ordinary day. It was time to go...And indeed it was an ordinary day that Coquina departed Marina Hemingway.

I'd met three American caballeros breaking the American embargo law by visiting Cuba on Captain Jimmy's 26 foot sail boat the Shazaam Time. First mate, Billy - a rock star. Jimmy, a part time stuntman, full time blue-collar bon vivant and Scott Kenfield, science officer and fringe researcher... Actually we were all bon vivants. We would set sail separately but on the same day and head for Cabo San Antonio at the western tip of Cuba on the edge of the Straight of Yucatan. From there we would cross the straight of Yucatan to Isla Mujhara Isle of Women – that was the plan...

We roused the immigration lady from her sleep and were boarded and checked to make sure we weren't smuggling out any unfortunates to freedom. We got our flares and flare gun back. I told immigration that our next port of call was Cabo San Antonio, we were off. The wind was not accommodating so the 24 hour trip was fuelled by diesel and the iron wind took us to La Bahia Honda where we anchored for the night. In the morning we were slightly aground – but through brute force and allot of luck we were off in a few minutes. The rough and imperfect shapes that compose the Sierra del Rosario mountains were veiled behind the humid, open weave of morning mist and we motored alone in the clear waters towards the western tip of Cuba. Beautiful. We arrived where the Cabo marina was supposed to be but it was missing... I shut off the engine and hailed the SV Shazam Time and they were an hour behind us and the plan was to just stop at Cabo for a night re-fuel and make for Isla Mujhara the next day. It didn't go according to plan. My engine wouldn't start. The Sv Shazaam crew wanted to get to Mexico asap and since they too couldn't find the elusive Cabo marina they bid me good luck and motored off into the strait of Yucatan. They waved and shouted “Good luck, you'll get it going. See ya in Mexico!” My first mate Daniel and I threw a fishing line over and tried to catch a dinner we could see swiming below. We ate corned beef. In the morning the seas and wind had built and breakers crashed ashore and exploded in white blasts of spray. Columbus didn't have an engine...so we didn't need one either. In order to avoid drifting onto the waiting rocks of shore I'd devised a strategy to wait for the waves to push the boat in the right direction, at which time Daniel would haul madly at the windlass, raise the anchor off the coral reef and I'd haul out the jib sail thereby sending us speeding away from peril out towards the Gulf – it worked. The light breeze gave us a speed of about 2 nautical miles an hour which left us dangling off the western tip of Cuba at sunset. No motor, we'd have to wait for wind. Eventually the wind arrived and we continued south so that we could cut across the fast current of the Yucatan strait - which would carry us north as we sailed west whereby we'd land directly at The Isle of Women! That was the plan.

It was 03:00 and I was sleeping in the V-birth when I heard three urgent slaps at the companion way hatch. You can tell the sound of urgency by its volume. I came up and asked Daniel, “What's up?”

“Those lights – I've been watching them and I think they're getting closer”

I looked, rubbed sleep out of my eyes and tried to reconcile disbelief with what was happening. I stared. The noise came first and then the hulk of a tanker, roaring towards us broadside. Holy sh... “Turn! Turn Now!” Daniel turned and then BANG! Holy shit! A 1000 tonnes of death hit us port side bow and knocked us sideways – a wave crashed into the cockpit, I ran to the stern of the boat ready to jump into the darkness. We both watched and waited for death as the monster roared past. My thought was disbelief, I was asking myself – “Is this how it ends?..”
It didn't. After the iron killer had gone, Daniel was the first to speak, “Did that just happen? Holy, holy shit! Was that F@*&ing real? I exhaled an unholy confirmation of sorts. The tanker had thundered and rumbled off into the darkness and it was over. Were we sinking? What happened? What direction were we facing? Two meters more and this tale would never be known...for sure.

I took watch and the helm. An hour latter lightning flashed violently and it began to rain...

Circling The Drain - 154

2011-06-15T05:19:00.001-07:00

More about Cuba. Cuba is certainly, Circling The Drain. It is a revolution that's failed and caved in on itself - as is physically manifest by a walk around the “communist paradise” of Havana. There's no milk, no beef, no cheese, no bicycle tires - ok sure, they do exist but they're more difficult to acquire than hookers or pot - expand the services! I'd found a store that sold some limited selection of cheese, it was a sparse place that had a plastic ham hock on the wall. Viva la revolution! Bread sells out early in the morning. Cuba is broke and broken. I certainly don't want to appear as an apologist cheerleader for any social system or appear to believe that happiness or contentment is a result of political/social ideology. There are buildings in the glorious broken down (rustic!) capital without a roof. Hustlers and hustleretts abound, they need to hustle. They tout Souvenirs, Chez Guevara T-shirts, cigars, girls, marijuana, restaurants. “Hey Amigo! - cigars? Good Cuban cigars cheap, best quality. Chez Guevara T-Shirts? Cap? - Girls? I can get you nice girls! Very good restaurant, good prices. Marijuana? You want?” Thus it goes as you try to take in the destruction inflicted on the city by time, economic warfare and spite. The tiring, wearisome spiel is the same from shop to store, from corner to corner, from one ordinary day to the next. Chez Guevara the most popular reproduced global image - the killer, the embarrasment that Casto got rid of - but that's another story.

Other, near by Caribbean nations thrive and do so with much smaller populations. Cuba is broke, no money. I recall one of the better lines from a tout as he followed me, after I'd declined the usual list of things he could offer and in his broken English, as he half waved his arm around at the rubble that's Havana he said, “My Cuba's tomorrow.” I got it and I loved it. I repeated it to the Cubans that I'd met and spoke with and they all cautiously agreed. I got quite vocal at times in discussions with them about how communism had failed and didn't work. There were undoubtedly “spies” I conversed with, hoping to catch a “counter-revolutionary” in exchange for some silver. Only the most severely deluded idealists and the corrupted crony, could hope to see the mad disease of communism continue. The other major issue is the ex-pats that have escaped to Miami and want their property back via restitution – and that's another important issue as to why Cuba is still adrift...

It was getting close to the end of the stay in Cuba. Soon, Daniel and I would set off to wards Mexico and a danger that almost erased us from the earth. There are a few more things to note down before we'd cast off from Hemingway marina – but latter.

Circling The Drain - 153

2011-06-14T06:31:00.000-07:00

Was thinking that The Drain was in need of its original and intended purpose to report on mostly nothing, hence. Bloody freezing at Sleepy Hollow today 08:30 and it's 12 centigrade degrees in mid June! How the hell can I sit out side and do nothing in that! Although, long ago last week, before summer ended, I was genuinely enjoying the fermented fragrance of orphaned cow poop lilting through the mostly still air of a solar noon. A murder of crows had cranked up a cacophony in the maple forest across the 11^th line beside McConkie's field. The morning research topic had been demographics. I'd discovered that I and a million or so others were the bust part of the baby boom generation – no shit? The research indicated that the bust part and I quote, “had a difficult time of it” Oh ya, show up to a party and the dip bowl's empty and all the good booze is gone –

I was sunning myself at the bottom of a cloudless sky, on an unknown weekday afternoon, reflecting – sitting in my underwear, sipping down gulps of Labbat 50. I was busy devising an escape from the dull gaze of boredoms cold lidless eyes. Thus driven by fire and by fire consumed, I glanced up heaven-wards and nothing happened; although I'd found tracers of freshly polished indium pulling contrails across my blue sky - passenger jets that looked terribly bouncy through the binoculars, no epiphanies up there. The difficulty with epiphanies, those striking moments of deep insight that lead to instant, easy, wild wealth are illusive, and mysteriously rare. Yep, a difficult time of it!

Circling The Drain - 152

2011-06-14T04:15:00.001-07:00

So Marina Hemingway had clearly seen better days. It was built by the Russians back when Cuba was on life support from the Soviets. Today the Marina is falling apart. It was 90% empty. It used to be filled with an American majority. The Canuks have taken over there. To be fair, most days the showers worked, although the toilets and showers were uni-sex - due to multi month long repairs being made to the womans warshroom. There were no parts to make the repairs, it takes weeks to get the parts and when or if they arrive they go missing – go figure! There were no locks on the toilet stalls and there were no toilet seats - gee, how hard life is. Missing toilet seats was a common occurrence in restaurants (not the really expensive ones), and of course bars. My thoughts on Havana and all of Cuba is that it's a war zone. It is an economic war waged by American policy. It is a war by the Cuban government against it's own people. China is “doctoring” Cuba now, but not to the same degree as the Soviets did. In Havana the buildings are crumbling, the sewage system is broken. The food is limited, scarce and bland. It may be quaint or lovely to see as a tourist but for the people that have to survive there, it's crap. The people are happy. Smilingly happy. Of course pink whitey, as Caucasians are referred to, represent foreign aid if they can be bullied into buying something. More on that latter.

A look at the journal now: Sitting at Cafeteria La Funete – outdoor café. The front yard – or what was once the front yard of former colonial Spanish wealth had been hacked into an outdoor café, a neglected, abused, dilapidated faded blue and white villa towers above it all. A large black feathered rooster walks up beside me takes a look and wanders off in the direction from which it came. Then a cat, dark complexion, came and sat at my feet, staring at me. (Even the animals are hungry here). I took an immediate dislike to the cat – staring at me. I moved my feet without making it obvious that I was trying to “brush kick” it way – to no effect. Best to ignore it, eventually it wandered off (no food) to accost another patron. The sky grew darker and the tables filled. A nervous bird in a cage jumped from perch to perch and back – back and forth, furious and frustrated at its confinement. Was it born into its sixteen hundred cubic centimetre world? I wondered idly if birdy was aware but perhaps unconsciously so, of the universe that existed unbounded, less bounded – just past the wire thin bars that held it. The rooster, bird, cat and me, lost in Havana on an overcast tropical January, twenty three degrees north of the equator, eighty three and change west of the prime meridian. Cerveza, Cristal La Peferdia de Cuba pulsed through my veins subduing the will to move. Was that as close to the orbit of happiness as the satellite dared to travel? The safe warm glow of familiarity manufactured contentment for another afternoon, another day – one day at a time. Thus inoculated from the clarity of emptiness makes yet another revolution bearable... the bird, it just goes insane. The sky grew darker.

A gathered crowd had jammed the flow of liquid sunshine and I was seated in furthest row of tables from the bar, opposite an empty fountain (broken/stolen motor?). The third downpour of the day began which assured my stay for a while longer. I'd considered the risk of loosing my table in order to make a dash for the bar to order, I would had to have navigated cats, roosters and humans - all blocking the way. I use the raised waving hand gesture instead. Why is it, that the customers notice but not the server? Finally the server comes over, not with Cerveza but to ask me if I would like another Cerveza – “Ci, ci, por for vor”, I say smiling. Finally, five minutes latter he re-appears. In the absence of the light of love it helps to keep a little glow going. The temperature drops and the darkness deepens but I was staying dry – well, I wasn't getting rained on...

Circling The Drain - 151

2011-06-13T07:21:00.000-07:00

Looking back at the journal entries I can see that there was a cold front blowing in that would delay departure from Marina Darsena but only by a day. One more night to raise hell and annoy the guards... The spreader was still broken and wobbly but it would due – I'd get it fixed in Havana... Looking over the ocean with the sun at my back made it appear dark and brooding. Words fail to make their way to the surface of the page unlike the ocean, it's majesty roams, crowned... In fact, on further reading of journal entries, it was I who was dark and brooding and the pages of words that followed didn't entertain, so they stay put.

It was about a 15 hour trip from Darsena to Marina Hemingway we cast off on a last minute decision at 17:00. I don't remember much useful wind – there was some decent stuff in the night, storm like but it didn't last, so we motored most of the way. A ship passed from behind and to the side of us in the night, it was, in hindsight the first inkling of how disconcerting it can be to have such a large black object moving in what appears to be your direction...

The Hemingway Marina is ten miles west of Havana. We entered the dangerous channel an hour or so after sunrise, so I was blinded going in but I could see below the cut coral on both sides and used the marker astern of Coquina to guide my way in. When talking to sailors I got the impression of what I considered exaggerated dangers – they love to talk about the potential dangers of rocks, shoals, channels and weather warnings. I would listen and wonder where the hell was the joy of sailing. Every bloody place was dangerous according to what I was hearing!

We docked outside the custom office and went through the same procedure we went through in Matanzas and Darsena although here they took the flare gun and flares along with the hand held flares – wouldn't want any imperialists starting a revolution with flares. They also bagged and taped the hand held GPS. Why? Guess I could have called in air strike coordinates...

Circling The Drain - 150

2011-06-11T13:52:00.000-07:00

If I had slouched over and died at Alpaso's - I wondered, would it have gotten any quieter? No, it would have added to the volume, the weight of death pushing the accelerator louder, louder. Yelling, sirens, the beat goes on, I didn't die (obviously) but rather, moved back to the market to see if I'd missed anything good and I had – I'd missed oranges! So I bought two and made deliberately slow progress across the howling thoroughfare past Alpaso's to El Rapido for another espresso and more exceedingly loud music. The perimeter of the patio was lined with soil for shrubbery. There huffing lay a feral bitch, collapsed against the yellow perimeter curb below a white wrought iron fence – she lay in cool dirt – waiting.

A bus passes and blasts it horn, a horn so shockingly loud that my pen slides seismograph like across the page. Later that same day in the afternoon the seismograph ripped across the page again. A young mother at the table next to mine yells to someone across the river of noise and exhaust – she shouts so loud I jump visibly in my chair, should anyone have been watching it would have brought at least a smile if not a laugh -

The flys chase me away across the screaming street to the park recently vacated by the pony but not before it vacated its bowels. The chickens were busy and took no notice of me as I sat on the cement bench under the shade tree.

A storm blew throughout the night – relatively mild but enough to bring the rigging to a constant howl. Next morning early with the wind boxing the compass I walk to Santa Marta, crossing the airstrip with my shadow lagging directly behind me. The light ruddy custard of dust had been lifted by the evaporating dew and becomes imprinted with the first set of tire tracks and the footprints of a lone pedestrian. I'm early today. Whatever day it is the usual bevy of feral dogs trot across the dew dropped field towards the food stall out front of Darsena Marina. At Alpaso's there's an exceptionally loud table of five guys drinking beer, one visibly pissed; the flys and treasonably high volume drives me to the bakery, local chapter #133 and then to the El Rapido for espresso. The feral bitch is still laying in the dirt tremulous, still waiting for the swoop of deaths wings...

Sunday in January? Walking towards Santa Marta and suddenly I notice a haze on my sunglasses. I remove them and examine the lenses from the offending side. I give them a rub but they're clean – I put-em-back-on and look towards the highway through polarized lenses and realize it's the regular ridge of exhaust and dust caught up in the continual tide of bussel along the commercial arteries of life here. I continue on my way under the morning sun across the airstrip and I'm well pleased with an eventual purchase of two ham hock sandwiches on a bun. The ferocious acoustic assault of overtaxed two stroke scooters rips up the dust of the open market plaza. Beer time...

Santa Marta has pretty-much come to an end; Adam – the whiny kid had is Mom send him some money – he bought a bongo drum with it (and ended up leaving it on the boat). He also bought a plane ticket to Toronto, so he could take the bus back to the States. I'd tested things here and it was time to go...to Havana – Marina Hemingway...

Circling The Drain - 149

2011-06-10T08:35:00.000-07:00

We arrived at Varadero on December 31, 2010. We all went through the same questions as in Matanzas. My main desire was to sit down on land and have a beverage..or two. I was soon introduced to a retired woman from Calgary Alberta, I've forgotten her name. She was the self appointed social director for the marina and spoke decent Spanish. She lived on a motor sailor of about 35ft and had an old shaggy, slow, lassy dock dog. We sat and had some drinks and She filled me in on stuff that I don't remember. I met Andrew also a Canadian – everyone thought he was an east European spy, me included. He eventually, told me that he worked for IBM and had developed some kind of drive (flash drive?) that had exponential capacity that allowed him to be awarded a $100,000 bonus. I thought he was an agent of some kind, based on his accent which I was positive was East European, he addressed the issue almost straight off when I asked him where he grew up. “Everyone tinks I'm from Eastern Evrope” “..Na, I grew up in Kanada I ad a speectch problem ven I vas a keed, I deedent speek vor years...” I met Tony. Surprise, another Canadian; Family owned the largest industrial fire extinguishers systems in somewhere. Tony was a loud, brash, gregarious Italian/Jewish kind of guy that spoke Spanish fluently and like Alyosh, oops - Andre rode a motor bike. Then, I met Thomas. Thomas was from Switzerland and owned a laundromat and 20(?) rentals in USA. Thomas was 33. All of them lived on their respective boats at Varadaro. Santa Marta is the local village five minutes away.

Looking back at the notes: Crawling out of the oceans dampness that never leaves the sheets, make my way towards the showers. Early morning dogmas...I trundle towards Sata Marta (local village) occasional pedestrians, me among them, make their ways across the four lane highway into the rising sun behind Santa Marta. Between the potentially lethal 4 lane artery and the sun lies a flat, dew soaked plain carpeted in a closely cropped grass that somehow survives, thrives on the marlestone a centimetre below. Worn into the plain is a baseball diamond, home plate demarcated by a piece of cardboard – Havana Club – perfect. Next is the abandoned airstrip. Abandoned by aircraft but used as a secondary road to a neighbourhood with ruddy dirt roads. To the westerly side of the strip oil derricks nod continually, slowly, bobbing for commercial nourishment. Once across the runway the rust coloured dust kicks up under foot. The sound of the main street begins, honks, growls, whistles, shouts begin to meet the ear. The smell. Petroleum raw, refined and mostly exhaust assaults the olfactory nerve or caresses it depending on ones preference – some people like the smell of burnt fuel.

I make straight for the market with Peso National, the local non-convertible currency. Two loaves of fresh bread the size of hamburger buns on steroids about eight Canadian cents each. Search the stalls in pursuit of tomatoes, oranges and eggs. Lots of tomatoes, I buy five for the Cdn equivalent of 15 cents – no eggs, no oranges. Stop at the street vendor for a pork on a bun burger, slice of tomato 15 cents. The village activity is in full swing.

I cross the street to Alpaso's an outdoor cafe, for an espresso – 25 cents. Alpaso's also sells beer, wine and rum. The music snaps on with a blast, almost cost me whiplash. To say that the volume was loud would be like saying the sun is hot. Then a horn blasts, remarkably drowning out the entire cacophony of traffic that's washing over everything on waves of benzene and diesel. Across the street a pony grazes in a small park, along with a few chickens and there's five concrete benches under the expanse of a single shade tree.

Bicycles, tricycles. Bicycles are as ubiquitous as any image you'd see in Holland, city or village. The difference here is in the colours, there're as varied and bright as Chinese casino whereas in Holland the bikes were mostly all sombre black.

Clop clop clop, the Doppler sound approaches in stereo, passing each other, two pony wagons – people carriers, no smoking sign on display above the flat rates. They are ornate, crafted and welded - painted yellow, blue, green, red, car rims, wooden waggon rims, - side steps and canvas canopy - bench seats, passengers rib to rib, jammed four or five per sweltering, sweaty side – clop, clop, clop. The ear piercing high pitch of accelerating scooters rip past weaving through the artery. The only thing that's missing quietude,. Then suddenly for as long as ten seconds nothing passes by and there's a silence leaving a residual buzz in the brain and the blast of the music from speakers sitting on the counter, over which conversation is yelled back and forth, then all hell breaks loose again with a roaring blast as everything passes all at once again. My heart suddenly flutters as hearts sometime do (second espresso) and I wondered at what a scene it would be if I slouched over dead at Alpaso's...

Circling The Drain - 148

2011-06-07T06:59:00.000-07:00

The Bay of Matanzas is an industrial petrolium port for tankers – not for pleasurecraft in distress. As we sailed in, the seas were thankfully diminishing towards calm. It took a while but eventually an old, well used, mini type of tug boat of sorts, motored out with a man gesticulating wildly at the bow! There was a party official waving us off as I was grinning and waving him in. I was signaling that we had no engine by making the cut-throat sign with my index finger across my neck. Eventually he got what I was trying to signal and threw us a rope which I tied to the bow cleat of the shaken Coquina – he'd caught some imperialists! We were towed about 50 meters and told to drop anchor outside a dilapidated crumbling building – it turned out to be a police station. We were boarded by five curious officials, two of whom spoke English. The inside of the boat looked as if a bomb had gone off. A box of pasta noodles had flown out of a cupboard cabinet and broken open on the floor and was crunching under state issued black boots. Books, pens, chart, compass, and all manner of stuff was strewn everywhere. He looked around as if I were a shockingly bad housekeeper. I smiled and was just as curious as they must have been. “Where did you come from?”

“Key West”

A look of disbelief and possibly suspicion emerged on the officials face. He turned incredulous to look at the translator and said the first Spanish word I knew- “Loco” The translator was grinning and enjoying his time, “Si, si, loco.” Slowly our interrogator turned back to his form, all theatrical with raised eyebrows and wrote carefully on the clearly important form. I guess it was a crazy or suspicious answer because it was a bloody big storm for the last 24 hours, after all what kind of idiot would try and sail through that? So there may have been grounds for disbelief. The process of questions continued, we produced passports, proof of ownership, answered questions like, where were we going? The answer Havana also elicited yet another slow incredulous turn towards the grinning translator. We were 60 miles east of Havana, at one point in the dark hours we were due north of Havana - 30 miles out in the Gulf, getting sucked east by the stream and pushed by wind and waves.

...In the interim onlookers came to the shore to have a gawk at us. There was a balcony on the dilapidated building that doubled as the police station which soon filled with police curious to have a look at what had been towed and plunked outside their office. There was another building beside the police station that housed a fitness yard and a really large pig.

We had to have a doctor board the boat, he came the next day and fill in what turned out to be a rice paper thin form that was printed in the 50's or 60's and devised in what seemed to be the 1500's Any instance of bubonic plague on board the vessel? Any animals like rats on board? I forget the rest, but now I was amused. I asked if we could go ashore to have a look around what appeared to be a town furnished with late 1800's architecture. "No, not today tomorrow."
We were never allowed to go ashore. We were asked if we needed anything for the boat. I was required to write out a list of what was immediately necessary and ask permission for its delivery.... Water, five gallons of diesel, beer. I handed over some USD. I was advised not to put beer on the list although it was duly delivered within an hour and consumed in a jovial, if somewhat bemused atmosphere by most aboard - two cans were gifted to the translator, for consumption later, one in each pocket.

The next day we tried, unsuccessfully, to get the engine started. We needed a mechanic. We ordered more beer at one point and just for fun I got on the VHF emergency channel and don't recall everything I said but beam me up Scottie was among it – there were no visitors next day. Day three under house arrest and the mechanic arrived, got the engine started in 5 minutes. We were requested to leave, I promised that we would be gone at dawn the following day and we were. A civilian had made the beer, water and fuel deliveries and just happened to be in charge of a marina only 20 miles away in Varadero. Salsedo (manager of marina), had delivered us lovely pamphlets (on aforementioned beer run) which had the co-ordinates to the marina. He was accompanied by a port captain that came along to gather more of the same information we had already provided, he also informed us that the entrance gets quite rough in the afternoon, come straight in, early –

We set sail at dawn the next morning, made it to Varadero without any difficulties. Varadaro would be home for the next 10 or 14 (?) days...

Circling The Drain - 147

2011-06-06T09:38:00.000-07:00

Towards the very end of my recent sailing venture it was mentioned by a fellow sailor that sailing is 80% boredom and 20% terror. So, so, so true, yet given the chance I'd do it again and then undoubtedly kick myself silly in the doldrums...

After living for two months at anchor, off of Fleming point, next to the US Coast Guard Command Centre, in Key West, I set out for Cuba on December 24^th at 06:00. I had two crew, a couple of guys in the early half of their 20's one had some experience on the high seas, the other - not a bit.

There were so many little things that go “wrong”. One of the first and more humorous for me was the incidence of the pump out. I'd gone ashore for some errand and had sent the Key West, 'pump out' boat out to the s.v. Coquina. A pump out boat is the rural equivalent of the “flower wagon” – septic tank truck – the shit sucker. As I was returning back to the Coquina, I saw the pump out boat floating off the port of the Coquina - humm. I then smelt a strong smell of shit - unusual. I could see the two guys at the bow of the boat engaged in some activity around the pump-out port. What had happened was the methane gas had expanded under the heat and built up a geyser of pressure and when poor Adam released the cap - it blasted out, spraying him, belly to chin with warm, pungent chunks of blasting, stinking shit – Woe! Daniel got the collateral damage. They worked on it slowly, releasing the cap slowly, slowly as a stream of shit trickled out under the remaining pressure from bow to stern, along the deck of Coquina.. The pump out guys told me that they have seen worse, where the geyser had soaked biminy, deck and of course the poor bugger opening the port cap. The shit was powerful enough to erase the colour from Adams sweater. He was quite a good sport about it...I was unscathed.

I had to be out of America in less than 3 days or I'd be in contravention of immigration laws. I listened to the VHF WX weather channel and all was essentially clear, other than a gale that was 24 hours away and by the time I'd leave - it would be 12 hours behind, I couldn't afford to wait. I didn't check out of America – no customs and immigration – just slipped away over the glass like waters at dawn. We got to the Axis of The Gulf Stream at midnight – that 7000 km long river in the ocean. The axis is the strongest section of the stream. The rain pelted down like bullets the waves were maybe about 10 - 12 ft. Adam was violently sea sick – bad. The wind was coming from the wrong way and beating on our nose in the exact direction which we needed to go. Our speed through the water was 3.5 to 4 knots, whereas our speed over ground was .5 a knot. We were being pulled backwards, we would not make Havana – no way.

Just before dawn the engine quit, - out of fuel. I didn't really think that I'd need a full tank but I was obviously wrong. The waves continued to build. Tremendously, the nearby horizon would disappear as the Coquina slid down into the trough of 25ft waves. Awesome power. Hair-raising. Neither myself or Adam or Daniel had slept in 26 hours – Adam was pressing me to make a mayday call - between his vomits and complaints. I didn't want to. Eventually, I contacted a ship that was two hours away but told them it was not necessary and the captain thanked me. Latter, after abandoning my thought to run the Coquina ashore (it was all rocks, no sand.) I told Adam to go down and see if he could get us a tow to Havana. A boat was coming. I spotted it on the bobbing horizon – it was a bloody tanker! They are really impressive up close and the plan was for us to climb up the side on a rope ladder that they had lowered. First we needed to secure Coquina. The tanker was being lifted by the ocean and crunching down on the port side of the boat. It would have been a really, really silly sight to see me and occasionally one of the crew attempting to push a 1000 tonne tanker off a 37ft sail boat. We did actually push hard as if it would make a difference. Lucky it didn't take one of us with it. The spreader on the mast came bashing against the side of the tanker and was ripped out of the mast – shit! Enough. The rescue was destroying my boat. I ran to the bow undid the rope and cast it into the churning water and cancelled the request preferring to take my chances with the waves and make for a bay that was just partly visible on the edge of the chart. In hind sight there was no need to bother with an assistance request. Adam was whiny now and wanted to sail the boat because it made him feel less sick, which was fine with me. There were a couple of big waves that broke into the cockpit, one completely covering me, and forcing me and the world around me to vanish for a moment. After the wave had washed over me I looked to see both the guys gawking at me with faces of amazed concern (?) - that I was still holding onto the stainless steel post of the canopy...

Circling The Drain - 146

2011-06-04T11:13:00.000-07:00

It's been suggested that a tale or two be included to highlight the miss-adventures of the sailing venture. There is so, so much. Daunting amount of typing. Seven months worth. I'm working on it now, section by abridged section, begining with my illicit departure from American waters to an enemy country and running into a forecast gale - which I figurured I could beat; figured I'd be sipping rum in Havanas lovely Marina Hemingway as it passed by...

Circling The Drain - 145

2011-06-04T04:26:00.000-07:00

The metaphorical merry-go-round continues! Back by popular demand!

Circling the drain is not an easy occupation.

Comfortably seated on a pillowed armchair under our sapphire sky with a carpet of plush green grass to massage the soles of my bare feet. The lilacs have gone to seed following the order of things – obeying the dictates of nature. A black and “pumpkin orange” moth flitters towards the verdant carpet and alights at the base of my throne - flexing its beauty. A stinging insect lands on my left wrist, antenna frantically devouring information. I resist the urge to kill it, instead I admire its beauty – it fly's away, iridescent and anonymous, more marvellous than a jewel, but singularly - worthless. Lazily, I acknowledge and bow to my great teacher – Ignorance.

Beer dribbles down both sides of my glistening naked chin, dripping onto my shirt. I fancy myself a hummingbird - supping the nectar of the Gods in the blazing Sun! Circling the drain is a tiresome and fatigue inducing business. The outward appearance is one of ease, while inside, the storm boils and lashes a flailing but otherwise functioning brain. It was pointed out recently that resistance against the vortex is futile and when circling you've got nothing much to hang your hat on – true. I've lost so many hats in the ocean...fighting unwinable battles against imagined enemies.

Leaving sleepy hollow this morning at precisely 10:45 for the distant village (5km away, one way!) in order to re-supply the cupboards and ice box with provisions. The other reason for the trek is because sleepy hollow is up for sale and the agents don't like to have the owners around, butting in during the showing of the property. As a result of the AM showing a certain person is not allowed bacon for breakfast because it makes the house smell icky and the prospective buyers may naturally be dissuaded from a purchase as a result of the icky bacon smell. The cushions on the deck chairs were left out in the rain – all night! They will need to be removed put in the dryer (high cost of daytime electricity be damned!) and put back on; - the chairs will need to be wiped dry and the warm dry cushions reattached so that potential buyers won't think that they couldn't sit out on the deck in the rain if they wanted to. Wet deck cushions have undoubtedly blown many a home sale – forget the ol'e adage location, location, location, it's really a mile long list that includes - icky bacon smell, wet outdoor cushions and dustiness! Germs may even be on the list.

Circling The Drain - 144

2010-12-22T08:34:00.000-08:00

Cuba delayed. Delayed three times in fact. Torn sail - fixed. Furler crashed into the ocean next day and badly bent - repaired and reattached to the mast $300. Engine elbow for water cooling leaked very bad and now apart and at RR Marine on stock Island. Replacement part $400. Hourly labour I shiver to think about it or even write it. Chances are almost certain that I'll get a tax bill as things did not go according to plan and I needed to be out of Florida waters for 6 months - too late. Too late for and extension by 12 days. Camera charger broken, so photos delayed.

Circling The Drain - 143

2010-11-26T08:57:00.000-08:00

Circling The Drain - 142

2010-11-25T07:03:00.001-08:00

Bob came out to help me get the torn jib down. I collided with the boom. I and the boom were going fairly quickly in opposite directions. The spot of impact was just aft of my forehead. A scarlet ribbon soon beautified my tanned face as it meandered past my left eyebrow to drip off the tip of my nose. Bob says, “Go get yourself cleaned up.”

“Agh.” Was the best I could muster as the burning pain went down both sides of the back of my neck. Mild whiplash?

“Did you hit it against something sharp?” he asked.

“Ah.” Was the best I could muster as I stood dumbfounded, gawking at the heavy steel boom in front of me. I got it stopped, sort of, with a patchwork of three criss crossing band-aids, went back above and continued to fold the jib in a sort of daze. I needed to get back into the dock by 17:00 to get fuel for the dinghy. We got there at 16:40. Went to City marina, “I need fuel”

“Sorry, fuel service closes at 4:30..” I walked over to another dock, dabbing crimson perspiration from my brow. Conk Harbour marina, “I want to get some gasoline”

“Woe dude, you've got a goose egg on your head, what happened?”

“Ha ha, I need to get some gasoline – I hit my head on the boom.”

“Ho ho, now you know why they call it a boom, your a real sailor now!”

Earlier in the day I wrote an email message to a yacht broker in Toronto enquiring about listing this boat. I always intended to do that, it was part of the plan, about the only part that was still in existence and recent events (prior to boom) motivated my intentions. He called later and suggested it be listed right away, as there was a boat show in January and I should take some pictures and provide a description etcetera – I concurred. I informed him that I planned on being in Toronto by May 1. That I would use the iron-wind and take the Hudson river and the canal system, de-mast and later re-mast once I got to Lake Ontario. He told me it is a beautiful journey that he'd done it before...

The biggest challenge that I can foresee now, is being at two places at once. To drop anchor requires me to be at the bow of the ship and to slowly let out the anchor and chain, slowly so that it does not pile up on itself and to be at the helm of the ship, to slowly move between neutral and reverse or forward to set the hook, so to speak. The same challenge is required when lifting anchor, I envisage a careful sprint, from bow to helm - to make my way. I calculate that I'll only have to do the maneuver about 42 times...

Circling The Drain - 141

2010-11-24T06:14:00.000-08:00

Picking up clumps of mangled sentences and try to pull them into the light of comprehension. Saturday..05:30 turn on the radio 103.1 FM “Giant steps are what you take, walking on the moon, I hope my leg won't break walking on the moon...” I turn off the radio and turn on the VHF and make some Turkish coffee - a present from the past. Leaf through an already read copy of Rolling Stone not knowing any but one of the top ten albums, I toss it aside and stir the coffee grinds to the black bottom of the mug and focus on the weather. Small craft advisory due to sustained surface winds of 20 knots. Waves outside the reef 4-6 ft expect higher in the Gulf, waves inside the reef, 2-3 ft...

Another day?.. Went for a sail with Eric, a friend of Bob's and the same Eric I sailed with in Punta Gorda, who is also a friend of Ron's. Went out and along Hawks channel. Bashing into waves sending them splashing over the bow to starboard. Bob asked, “Isn't that dingy a little low?” Eric says “Naw, it'll be OK.” I concur. Bob, the one with the captains license, says “OK.” Five minutes latter,...Smash! A wave caught the low dingy as the boat healed in the wind and flipped it vertical as about 40 gallons of ocean rushed into my shuttle. Emergency was at hand. The davits were groaning and in peril of breaking off. I hauled on the rope to lift the dingy but it was too heavy being filled with ocean, so I stretch out off the stern of the boat, step one foot onto the side of the flooded dinghy and push hard, it turns slowly towards the vertical again, spilling much of the ocean back to where it belongs. With the help of Bob, we jerry rig up some ropes and a cushion to stop any further damage as we crash into the waves and after a few minutes the shuttle is safe again. My mood darkens but I hide it. I lost a bike cable, bailing bucket, a pipe, used for steering and the light $ I bought, last week – ripped off with no effort by the ocean, and another cleat with a rip in it – Shit! Thankfully the engine stayed on. Still no crew. Took a look at expenses and must implement and follow a strict budget.

Slept great. Woke with a worry pain in my chest where my heart should be. 05:00 the moon's full, white and high in the morning sky. Seven days and I'll have to leave or buy another month dinghy pass. I did manage to secure another quick “mailing address” at one of the marinas – important documents to follow. It's not much fun being on a boat alone, it's not much fun being on a bus alone, it's not much fun travelling alone. I wander off to the end of the rainbow, sit under a Kapok tree at a picnic table and open a book and stare at the words. Chickens scratch around the base of the table. Bummed out and bored in Key West. It's Monday and it's oyster races at Pepe's.

November 23, My oyster won on Monday and I got offered a deal for my key, twenty Pepe' dollars, I took the deal, my key did not open the lock.

I went for a sail with Bob and his friend Bart. 16 knot wind and we roll out the jib, latter we reef the jib. After about 5 minutes the Auto helm, GPS, depth gauge and wind gauge all go off in unison. I go below to look and the breaker's blown. I reset and re-engage the instruments and instantly the breakers blow again. No navigation equipment at all – great. We sail and crash into four foot waves that splash over the bow and soak the jib with salty spray. After about an hour Bob says we gotta pull in the jib head into the wind. “What?” “Your jib is torn.” I look and it's no figment of my imagination, the nightmare is real. The clew was ripped nearly off and will require it to be taken down and repaired. This is not the type of experience or happiness I was seeking. Bob's leaving Key West on December 2^nd and has been a great help. Indeed the ripped sail will no doubt be hauled into his truck and be driven to some sail repair shop – getting the sail back and re-attaching is for now a mystery. I wasn't angry or frustrated by the failures. Empty, hollow and listless. We dinghyed back to the dinghy dock and they went to Turtle Kraals for a beer and I went to go purchase, 4 AA batteries for the second dinghy light in two weeks, then I went to Pepe's. The only interesting thing I heard was after I mentioned North Korea bombing the south. A big old guy with coke-bottle lenses barked from around the corner of the bar: “We'd crush North Korea in a day! They are all in the army because it's how they get food. They ain't fought a battle in 50 years, any army that's any good has to fight a war every ten years so they have commanders that actually know what war is. If the North Korean soldiers saw bombs exploding around them they surrender in a minute.” I smile and nod. “But what about the the other countries that would want influence in the area? Russia, China, Japan..” I can't remember if I got a response or if the conversation got diverted by someone else to NASCAR, or a trip to Europe. I left. Trundled over to the dinghy dock, stumbled and then fell into my dingy, put the batteries in upside down, then put them in correctly, struggled with the switch as I motored despondent, out to my cell. Neverending sleep seems like such a sweet drink of water.

Circling The Drain - 140

2010-11-22T06:09:00.000-08:00

A Banyan tree. Pepe's. Dinghy dock with my shuttle vessel near the top. Boring sunset. Oyster races at Pepe's. Tonight (Monday) is the maximum jackpot of $500.

Circling The Drain - 139

2010-11-22T06:03:00.000-08:00

A bearded, deeply tanned, dilapidated ragamuffin, with his shirt tied turban like around his head and carrying a child's guitar, a plastic juice bottle (not containing juice), trundled unimpressed over the shadow of a yacht, named - Princess Sahara. He did not seem to even be aware of its overbearing presence. Unlike the ships shadow it cast no spell of desire over him nor was it able to beguile the passing man or touch his oddball charisma. Whereas, I wished the vessel were mine.

The embarrassment of riches was docked outside the shore-side Marriott Hotel, there was an outdoor bar, with four bar stools, (I imagined myself on one), a white leather sofa and two matching white leather deck chairs. It had three decks and flew three flags. One of the flags was from the yachts home port of the British Virgin Islands or BVI for short. The second was the German tri colour and another peculiar, antiquated, more important looking one, painted in the bequeathed colours of aristocracy. All outward aspects suggested that the vessel belonged to a good family, as the saying still goes. I lingered and marvelled and then headed for Pepe's...

Ticks, tocks, groans, howls and snaps along with furious flapping canvas and of course the splash of rough water rocked me to sleep. When I woke at 02:38 the band still played, at about 04:00 the party was still going strong or stronger. According to NOAA it will be a 30+ hour affair.

Last evening, listening to the VHF an urgent message regarding the safety of a person or property cracked over channel 16: “PAN, PAN, PAN. All stations, all stations, all stations, this is US coast guard sector Key West, this is US coast guard sector Key West, this is US coast guard sector Key West, A 17ft abandoned and adrift Boston whaler type vessel has been reported approximately 35 nautical miles south of the dry Tortugas. Ten to twenty people are believed to be in the water. All vessels in the area are requested to keep a look out and report any sightings to US coast guard channel 16 or to call 305 295 9700. This is US coast guard sector Key West out.” Latter, followed by the same introduction... “All persons rescued safely, cancel previous alerts, out.”

Next morning, while listening to the VHF... “PAN PAN PAN, All stations, this is US coast guard, we've received an alert of an overdue vessel, an white well-craft, 18ft, 150 HP with 5 people on board, departed from Stock Island. US coast guard requests all vessels to keep a sharp look out and assist if possible and report on channel 16 or to call 305 295 9700. US coast guard, out.”

Different day different beach. Fort Zachary Tylor Historic Park, $2.50 entry for pedestrians. I won't see any of the same characters here. Cloudy and windy. The warm sun feels good on the bare back in the breeze, under hardy conifers. The waves scrub the white marlstone sand beach behind me. Under a spell of relative calm I conjure up imaginary days. Bucolic sentimentalism meets no resistance and disappears as easily as the wind falls from the sky. I turn my back on the bed of fallen browned needles and clumps of grass bordered in white sand, dappled in light and shadow with perfection and turn to face the glittering steel of the Gulf as a cruise liner makes a silent passage south east.

Circling The Drain - 138

2010-11-17T06:42:00.000-08:00

An abridged, version of events. Not necessarily in sequence, but close.

Dinghy-ing into Key West is less of a chore now that I've jerry-rigged a patch, made up of a rubber patch, glue and then covered with bits of plastic bag and a second kind of glue stick that is heated with a flame and rubbed onto a preferably, no, necessarily clean surface, it seems to hold. My inaugural ride in was uneventful until I arrived at the actual crowded dock. I reached out my hand as a form of bumper and the first object was the shroud of an old (1970's) outboard, which instantly popped off – great. I wrestled and bobbed up, down, sideways back and forth, struggling in front of a popular marina restaurant. Finally, I got it re-attached and jostled my dinghy into position tied it to a post and climbed up the side of the dock. Later back at the mother-ship I'm treated to the echo of music gliding across the gentle waves. “The Monster Mash” I look over to the source of the revelry and it's a large motorized Party Cat (catamaran) maybe a 100 or more people, with strands of yellow lights. I insert the American Flag in the pole holder astern and it flutters gently towards the west.

According to NOAA strong northerly winds due to arrive. Awoke from turbulent dreams of an upside down world, dis-masted and adrift. Sweat like I've malaria, soaking in crazy heated dreams, admittedly not entirely due to the heat...

Parrot heads have come and gone from Key West. They are Jimmy Buffet fans, average age 60, call themselves as do the locals – Parrot Heads. “What chapter are you from?”

“Huh?” I point to Bob - “He's in six chapters”

Bob, unlike myself, holds a captains licence and is sort of showing me the ropes around the Key's. He's 70 and most of his friends are 60 to 70 and he introduces me to them when he sees them. Bob lives on a 25 food McGregor here in the Key's for a month then gets in his truck and travels north eventually ending up on his other 35 ft boat in Lake Michigan in the spring.

I've solved the cavitation problem which may also have been aeration as the two are often confused but regardless, I have fixed it... I went to a hardware store and bought a two ft piece of plumbing plastic pipe and simply push it over the motor handle which allows me to sit further forward as I motor too and fro shore, this forward placement of weight allows the propeller to maintain its grip on the ocean.

Wander around on foot, mopeds and golf carts jockey for position on the roads with cars, trucks and pedestrians.

The wind howls from due north at 25 knots orchestrating haunted howls as it rips past the halyards and spreaders. The boat creeks and snaps as the waves wash against and past the bobbing boat. By 08:00 the wind has built to gusts of 32 knots, the waves are white caped now. Check the dinghy and notice a handle, where I'd secured a line, has ripped in half fortunately the knot held to the bitter end. I attached another line as the wind picks up the seas around me bearing aloft salty spray across the moderate chop of the bay.

“Vessel assist.” “Vessel assist, Banana wind, vessel assist” ...No response.

“Key West Coast Guard, this is Dragon Seeker, you have a vessel dragging onto your north wall” no response. “This is Dragon Seeker coast guard – Coast Guard come in this is Dragon Seeker”

“This is US Coast Guard Key West, identify your position Dragon Seeker, over.”

“US Coast Guard, this is Dragon Seeker, you have a vessel dragging towards your north wall, you may want to go out and lend assistance, over.”

“This is US Coast Guard Key West, does the vessel appear to be in distress, over”

“The vessel appears to be grounded now, there are two people on board, if you have a boat in the water you may want to see if you can lend assistance now, over”

“This is US Coast Guard Key West, does this vessel appear to be in distress, over.”

“This is Dragon Seeker the vessel appears to be no longer dragging and assistance is being provided, over.”

“This is US Coast Guard Key West, thank you for your report Dragon Seeker, we'll continue to monitor 16 over.”

“This is Dragon Seeker, return to 16, over.

Weather report. Saturday - “Near shore waters very rough.”

Sunday - “Near shore waters very rough.”

Monday - “Near shore waters rough.”

Tuesday - “Near Shore waters rough.”

So with water too rough to get to shore I set into a Russian novel called Scarlet Sails, I finish it in a day. After two days it was calm enough to bounce my leaky shuttle to dingy dock.

Some days latter. The US Navy, Trumbo Point Annex, is dropping divers from helicopters into the ocean from just above the water 30 ft maybe. James bond from the cockpit of my floating antique and I drop wine bottles into the ocean. Pepe's has become my local. Serving local prices to everyone since 1909, reads a sign affixed to the front of the building. Buck and a half for amber ale. Pepe's holds oyster races every Monday and Friday. It's free and anyone who wants a chance to win the ever growing jackpot (now $475). Patrons can pick a card from one to five. There are five oysters in their shells. There is an oyster shukker and a master of ceremonies with a microphone and a stopwatch. Oysters are selected randomly. Oyster number three, the MC says go, the shukker shuks – 2.3 seconds. Oyster number five, go! 1.9 seconds – oyster number five is the one to beat. At the end of the race if the number on the card you hold is the same as the oyster that wins the race you get a chance to pick a key from out of 75 keys, one will open the lock to a box containing the prize money. The MC however will offer a deal to some contestants in exchange for their key. Twenty Pepe dollars for the key! Crowd participation – TAKE THE DEAL!” in unison they yell. Pepe dollars can be spent at Pepe's for anything - food, drinks, t-shirts, caps, sweaters, ice scrapers, ashtrays and sundry souvenirs. I saw one girl get talked out of using the key and she took 30 Pepe dollars. She tried the key and it opened the lock to a jackpot of $350 at the time. The jackpot increases $25 each time there is no winner and stops at $500.

A touch of madness sat down beside me at Pepe's last evening. Barbara and Tennessee. Tennessee was from Tennessee. Both were homeless and staying in homeless shelters. Barbara had a old demented husband in Thailand and Tennessee had left property, two houses and a wife of 38 years back in Tennessee and took up with a crack addict... I sip my beverage, “Oh really?” I say. He didn't do drugs he told me. Tennessee was struck by lightning while climbing over a fence while deer hunting one January, in Tennessee. The lighting strike had ruined his watch and blew out the heel of his boot. Tennessee and Barbara had found each other at the library, only a week before. As madness can be, it got confusing as to the genealogy and future plans of the two romantics.

I had bought a dinghy light so that I could motor to and fro at night without getting a $400 fine. I installed the light but inadvertently inserted two of the batteries upside down and could not see enough to get them out, so I dinghy-ed out to the mother-ship in the dark over calm seas under starry skies.

I met John today. John is a friend of Bob's. A talkative fellow. A loyal subscriber to any conspiracy. He's sure that contrails of passenger jets are chemicals being deliberately sprayed over America – (why so, wasn't clear). Europe has 50 plans to destroy American freedom. Five people control the worlds media. The CIA started the Vietnam war as a practical joke that got out of hand. John lives above a laundromat, beside a Cuban witch and across from power lines that humm in the night. The vibrations from the laundry and drying machines vibrate his entire flat and the vibrations are destroying his kidneys. The power lines are also degrading his health but in undetermined ways. The witch may be practising voodoo – maybe. John no longer drinks nor does he drive because of 4 drunk driving convictions in the distant past, so he lost his licence forever. He's 65. The US Coast Guard has come under the power of the United Nations... Because of the bad vibrations from the washing and drying machines that run throughout the night, he can't sleep. He'll get out of bed around 01:00, comb his hair, get dressed, then after it all - decide not to go to the pool hall and instead maybe has a smoke at the kitchen table, he gets undressed and goes back to bed.

The beach. A sign.

Warning. Portuguese Man-o-war may be present in water or on beach “AVOID CONTACT” Tentacles are TOXIC and will cause Painful stings. May cause Shock in some victims. If stung seek medical attention. Courtesy of Munroe County Public Works.

Looking out from Higgs beach at an ocean that's as flat and empty as my mind. Quite a number of 'down on their lucks', talking, smoking and like the ocean reflecting. Some are sleeping on picnic tables and others are prostrate on the sandy ground, under seemingly, unnecessary blankets. A prematurely aged matron with a home made tattoo, indelibly inked in the early 70's perhaps, sits on a bench with a beverage and a pack of smokes. With a hacking gurgle of tar filled lungs she laughs at something her friend has said, takes a satisfying drag on her cigarette and exhales. It's 09:30ish and a sea breeze bends fronds and other foliage in silent respect. This shaded place is as good as any but I feel the urge to move. A lone policeman armed with gun, tazer and communication gear walks towards the prostrate sleeper in the sand, he casts a sideways pause and keeps going – the sleeper continues his dreams. A senior and his wife show up. He's got headphones and a coin master 6/DB metal detector – she sits in the shade while he detects – “A penny!” he says almost immediately. I glance over at 12 of them sitting on my table, they can stay, I move on.

Without exaggeration there are swarms of turkey vultures a 1000 strong riding thermals over the Island. Gliding under cloudless copacetic skies, they look like insects. Hungry, it's time for an early lunch, Turtle Kraals Restaurant in front of the Dinghy dock. “Lunch for one?” says the knowing waitress.

“Yes.”

“Do you know what you'd like to drink?” In spite of the sworn oath to keep this temple dry today I could think of no good reason to maintain dawns early oath and washed it down with a Yuengling at lunch.

“I'll have a Yuengling.”

Friday – breezy. Headline in newspaper. Receeding economy shrinks American middle class and I add – as the new world order continues to develop...Back at the beach next day finds the same cast of characters, except that the treasure hunter is different, but none the less present, complete with headphones. The half dozen or so bright green Iguanas that I neglected to mention are positioned in a very large cactus bush which protrudes from and cascades down a delapitated red brick wall set back on the beach. On some steps leading to the waters edge something curious washes aground, transparent, the size of a grape and then it vanishes with the next wave. The sulphurous scent of bio-degradation mixes with the constant flutter of the Gulf edge. Roosters continually punctuate the blazingly bright 80 degree scene, with near and distant screeches.

Predictability never messes with the mind. A lone eastern cloud looking exactly like a Man-O-War jelly fish slowly dissolves high in the stratosphere. Nervous apprehension stirs in a constant pit between my spine and bowels fuelled by some unseen rusted importance, neglected waiting to happen. Still no crew. What will come of it all? Blisters, sea shells, tropical seeds and rocks, a collection of miscellaneous jetsam gathered together in a box, mnemonic devices.

After a slow uneventful sail with Bob and two of his friends I dinghy-ed the four of us, slowly at top speed through tidal currents for 30 minutes back to their distant dock. Then I powered my (then) cavitating pony over to the KW dinghy dock, tied up my misbehaving pony and flip-flopped over to Pepe's for a few. I motored my cavitating vessel with increasing frustration back to the mother ship. I tossed in the dinghy bag into the cock pit. It contains safety devices, like life jackets, oil, flares, hand held VHF, wine, flash light, spark plugs, patches and other items. The bag flopped off the seat and spilled it's contents into the cock pit where most of it stayed for the night. Just before sunrise, at dawn, I noticed flotsam in the form of two blue and white Styrofoam orbs, little bigger than a five pin bowling balls – crab pot markers, floating between dinghy and stern of the mother ship – curious. It had meandered its way exactly there, under the cover of predictable darkness. The rope was not cut, it had a perfectly tied double bowline knot at one end, which at one point would have held the crab cage/pot. The other end, held the aforementioned balls, in-between knot and floats was over 52 ft of fairly new nylon one-half-inch rope. Of the 18 vessels to the port side of me and of the 30 or so vessels to starboard why did the flotsam have to wrap itself around the keel of my boat? And like Count Leo Tolstoy brilliantly described in the second epilogue of War and Peace, there often seems to be no good reason or a multitude of reasons, as many in fact as there are differing philosophies to interpret the events. I will never know the exact sequence of events that led to the flotsam being wrapped around my keel and rudder - other than to attribute it to human error. The vast majority of individuals, hear the simple truths of life interpreted through tinted windows of the prevailing social conventions.

Another day. Back at some non-discrept steps of a sea wall, I repose and am instantly, shockingly splashed with the sulphurous smelling bio-degradation lapping along the shore, slightly wet, I move. From the safety of a decrepit picnic table beside a large cactus bush filled with Iguanas, I take in the expanse of the north Caribbean climate, somewhere out there is the Gulf Stream, and Cuba. A tattered butterfly flits, wounded, looking for a place to alight, finds nowhere suitable and fluttered of to die. The multi coloured streamers and tail of a kite soars from off a nearby pier underlined by a sun-bleached blue horizon. I rise to leave and a monarch glides past from right to left and out of sight.

John Dewy, educator and philosopher of Dewey decimal fame lived in Key West at the southern most point in continental USA. His back yard faced the Gulf, doubtless he would have had occasion to contemplate his ideas as he wiggled his digits in the warm, salty waters – now his former home is a Bred & Breakfa$t.

Much latter I collapse into the cock pit cushion facing south and west cursing a badly banged elbow from a collision with stainless steel while swinging myself onto the mother ship from the bobbing dinghy. At the time my frustration was quicker than spit. The jerry rigged dinghy patch seems to be holding the cavitation problem seems to be better although I noticed it's not 100% In the event of heavy rain there will be leaks to tend to but only over places suitable for sleep...

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2010-11-08T10:56:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I was happy for no good reason. Today, wishing it was the exception rather than the rule I'm back to the romantic melancholic self. The blog will likely disintegrate like my deflating dingy from here on in due to the complication of live-aboard-life. I've lost one handle due to the constant tugging of the "spring line" to the boat and last night I lost a tow cleat - ripped right off the dingy, fortune held the other one. It's part of the toll of single handing. Water too rough to lift the motor off the transom alone, which leaves a dead weight to "bungie pull" - to and fro, weakinging every seam and joint on my little shuttle to and from shore. All I can do is watch.

I got stopped on my stroll today by a guy looking worse for wear sitting in a flower bed. "Can I ask you a question?" he said.
"Ya, sure go ahead"
"I'm a vetran, I'm on hard times, I'm an alcoholic and I want a beer."
"So am I!" It brought out peels of laughter from the Vet and I walked away. I went to the store beside the flower bed and bought a note pad and a large can of Budweiser. As I walked past the Vet I handed him the bag of liquid sunshine and he in turn, gave me his blessing. If blessings were more than poetics I'd keep it close at hand as the sky grew overcast and the wind continued to strengthen. Then latter a group of Polish people asked me if they could park there car in front of a large red water main. I assured them it was OK and they felt better and re-assured by my confidence. I stopped for lunch at the birth place of Pan American World Airlines. It was Oct 28th 1927 that the first flight taxied down a runway in Key West... - now it's a brewpub. Liquid sunshine and Black Angus beef burger, rare. I recommend it. That bit of free advice reminds me of how much of it there is everywhere. I'd believed that its ubiquity was to be found only in pubs and offered by intoxicants - since I'd received and issued volumes of it over the better part of the last decade.

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2010-10-31T07:46:00.000-07:00

Fantasy Fest images from the day preceeding the actual nighttime parade of floats and painted undulating people.

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2010-10-31T07:34:00.000-07:00

Sunday morning sun up, after a delerious night of celebration at Fantasy Fest. I hear, not for the first time roosters calling – then for the first time since I arrived three days ago, walking in the opposite direction, on the opposite pavement, I see a feral rooster belting out its scratchy call. The journey here was not to eventful but somewhat, but that story's yet to be composed. It was a 26 plus hour trip.

Walking towards Duval street I note the progress of the clan up operation and it's near completion, aside froSm the the now and then broken strand of brightly coloured plastic beads and shattered glass. I note the signs, Captain Tony's, Sloppy Joe's, Dirty Harry's, Rick's, the Green Parrot all pubs. A Rooster with two hens in tow, rounds the corner of a white stuccoed building bearing the sign Nautical Treasures and then, just as seemingly deliberate they make a right and all three, disappear into a shopping alley, There are hundreds of chickens running the streets of down town Key West. I wander aimless, becoming lost under the foliage and tendril vines of Banyan trees. Across the street there is a huge tree with a sign denoting its uniqueness, I cross – it informs the reader that they are staring at a Kapok tree – the sacred tree to the Mayan people...Linda is there marvelling at the roosters scratching around its massive base and we sit nearby and chat while she lights up a smoke. She tells me, among other things, that something is going to happen, something big in 2012 – something to do with the Mayan legend and the earth, sun and a black hole being perfectly aligned and that it will likely switch the earth's polarity. I tell her that the geologic record shows this to be the case and it has done so many times in the past. She agrees and lights another cigarette and I bid her adieu...She was from Iowa and drives a bus there and drove the 6 hours with her friend for Fantasy Fest. Continuing east on whitehead street, (past Hemingway's former residence and now museum) towards the southern most point in Continental USA. Almost all roads lead to the ocean here in the Conch Republic. It's almost 08:30 and it's getting hot.

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2010-10-25T17:53:00.000-07:00

Circling The Drain - 133

2010-10-25T07:00:00.000-07:00

I helped a butterfly today. It was standing perilously close to the white line demarcating the vehicular pedestrian boundary. I gave it a gentle kick – nothing. So, I laid my finger down as a step - for it to step upon, which it did and I lifted it up close, turning my finger this way and that, in order to see its metallic and orange markings more clearly. The unknown butterfly lowered its wings, then pumped them, taking it upwards in a dawdling kind of flight towards a nearby tree.

The on, then off, then on, then off, departure for The Keys was now going to be made on again sometime today or tomorrow. At one point about 4 hours before the last on, I began to wonder if I had come down with the flu – it was an authentic case of the nerves, which even the cancellation failed to anaesthetize, the prior morning, I'd dreamt that my boat had come undone and was adrift in a fast flowing tidal current, I awoke and went above to find it still securely fastened -

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2010-10-24T18:07:00.000-07:00

Blue.

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2010-10-21T06:33:00.000-07:00

As I wandered out through the gates of Prosperity Point I was struck by the seemingly impenetrable quietude of the white gated community, then warbling through the silence, a mockingbird went through its repertoire of various bird songs and then flew away.

Laid low from the effects of Disco Tuesdays and happy hour(s), such that it renders mind and body shaky and weak. Departure is about 24 hours away at lowest possible tide – not good. I sit perched on a stool at Porto Bellos watching similarly perched Pelicans on pillars in the marina. Yesterday was the first overcast day since I arrived. I'm under no fools illusion as I stare at the perplexity of hopes riddle. Tide's high. The blank experimental canvas awaits natures brush strokes. I overhear stories of piracy and gale-force winds – I shudder. Sade, floats out of the radio “...dark storm...sweetest taboo...”

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2010-10-15T06:05:00.000-07:00

Masts and palm fronds sway in the gentle caress of shore breeze. Jim Banks plays, plugged acoustic to a crowd of seniors and soon to be seniors, on the deck of PortoBellos – in an otherwise anonymous Floridian autumn. A halcyon cast of blue sky, manatee's, jumping mullet fish and humans weaving a dialogue over dinner.

I'd purchased my “new” “mobile home” from Ron. He was a retired mechanical engineer – that kept the mechanics of the vessel in great running condition. I was lucky. It came with extra stuff that I would pick up and examine in a way that anyone, who had an idea of what it was I was holding, would know that I didn't. Ron had a full-sized fridge in his tidy garage with a beer tap on the side. Inside the fridge was a full sized keg of beer. You couldn't help but like Ron and he was nice to me and kept giving me more stuff for the boat and invited me for hamburgers and beer. He and his friend Eric, another likeable fellow, took me out sailing, to Cayo Costa Island where his wife Mary worked as a ranger and he toured me around the Islands white sand roads with a golf cart – the only vehicles allowed on the Island, aside from a couple of emergency vehicles and a tractor. We sailed back on a run a sailing term that means wind from the stern – I think. Back at the harbour, I took the boat into the slip a bit too fast. TOO FAST! SLOW DOWN! REVERSE! FORWARD! BACK! The anchor eventually got a dock line wedged in it and had to be painstakingly extracted with the use of a screw driver. They were very understanding and forgiving. “Hey guys want to go for a beer?”

“No Glen, we gotta go.” They sped off at top speed on the gulf cart towards their respective homes. I tried to read the expression on Eric's face but it remained poker – at least until I was out of sight. The next day I was patching some minor holes in the keel of the dingy when Ron came by and told me that He and Eric could take me down to Key West, tomorrow! However there were some little things I wanted to fix first like a drippy through hull and a VHF that didn't work. I got invited to dinner anyway. Eric and his wife Pam were there and Mary, Ron's wife, we had beer , hamburgers, salad and Key lime pie. We laughed with nervous relief the previous days docking episode.

Later, in the early hours of the next morning, at about 01:30 or so, insomnia tapped me on the shoulder and heartburn was stubbing cigarettes around my heart. The familiar cast of characters were all assembled – logician, skeptic, dreamer, misanthrope, nihilist. I recalled the distant, diaphanous sound of bells, marking the hours and quarter hours of time – no bells here. There was a continual plop of mullet fish propelling themselves out of the water and splunking back through the surface, to resume their vegetarian diet below. It was a curious charm when I first arrived here. So, I lay awake listing to the mullets, thinking about the immensity of the decisions made and unmade, wondering about the validity of the assertions I'd read that evening regarding the scarcity of suitable anchorages in the Bahamas due to overcrowding. Two hours would slip away before I sank into crazy tumultuous dreams, to be re-awakened with a start, at the gasp of a nearby water cow or Manatee and the incessant splunk of mullet fish. It was the 15^th today, the day of a memorial to at least one person, spanning two continents.

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2010-10-14T05:23:00.000-07:00

Circling The Drain - 127

2010-10-07T05:34:00.000-07:00

I spend my second night on my boat with the loneliness of having lost a friend. A loneliness made more potent by the fact that he was to join me on a voyage that would have, no doubt, taken a bit of hell to paradise. I was looking forward to catching up on the insanity I'd missed and on being part of creating ever more. We 'planned' on sailing to the Bahamas, no doubt we would have run aground literally and metaphorically and had a tale to tell because of it, two stories actually, the truthful account and JB's...

I genuinely hoped at one point that his death was a hoax - a joke incubated and then hatched in some sodden den of inebriation and joy – then I realized the extent of my delusion. So many people were to be flooded with memories that day. So many people that counted JB as a friend would shed tears for the man that gave them stories and made them a little more interesting.

I recall my first meeting with the man and little did I know how close we would become over the next number of years; he sprayed out a story and banged his hand on the table of 'the fish bar' in gesticulation that turned the heads of patrons two, three tables away. It was of course a hilarious story and a propitious moment in my life. I'd actually seen him before but not known who he was.

Whenever I was feeling down he'd change the mood from sad to gladness, he'd tell a wonderful story like the one he used to tell to strangers about his grandfather and grandmother, a story of overheard pillow talk – they still loved each other. Generous with words and advice and optimism that was contagious, like the plague. He could make someone who didn't know him believe that Santa did have a workshop in the north pole and that yes, Rudolph did have a glowing red nose.

Those of us that had the privilege of nights invested above The Marquis de Sade in The Blue Room, will have extra special memories (or maybe not!). If you want to run with the big dogs, you gotta get of the porch. JB you set the pace, you made us angry, you made us laugh, you taught us something – whatever it was. You helped us laugh and now you help us cry.

Circling The Drain - 126

2010-10-06T10:24:00.000-07:00

October 2^nd and one degree above zero. Ice on the windscreen of the truck and patches of frost extant in shadows. Cloudless with a steady wind blowing from the south. I was making my way to Winnipeg, exactly 14 days from the last time, sitting in the same seat on the starboard side of the bus. Poplar trees now leafless and Tamaracks golden. No inner tumult this time as we roll south into the wind as I gaze a lazy stare out the window, nibbling pumpkin seeds, feeling numb and enjoying the peace afforded me by the doubtless temporary inner void, the sun forced my eyelids shut and I drifted away. The bus slows rapidly with a shudder, the heaviness of my head jolts off balance and I look up over the rows of seats in front of me and out through the front window to see nervous deer running in the ditch ahead, three of them dart across the highway in front of the bus – to the ditch on the other side of the highway. Still no sign of clouds as the hypnotic humm of the diesel motivates us southward and I slip into a drooling slumber. Later I'd see a bushy frantic coyote panicking at our vehicle paying it no heed. It was 10 beautiful degrees when we stopped at Dauphin for a 20 minute break at 16:15 before resuming the numb motion down the atlas in search of clouds. The kind of day that could convince a dreamer that winter would take the long way around...

Across a field on a road that ran parallel to highway 10 a truck sped along, pulling a dust contrail behind him, bigger and 10 times longer than it was. The low long hill blocking the horizon once purple, emerald and gold had veiled itself in white afternoon haze, readying itself for a dazzling night under the autumn stars, beside a mostly harvested prairie. The shadows were long and reaching towards the night.

Next Day October 3. I'd been told that the Airport Motor Inn was a 5 minute walk from the airport. The reality was more like a 25 minute walk so I was glad I took a taxi. The driver misunderstood me and drove past the Inn to some other place that was not a Inn, hotel or a place to stay. “Sorry, it's my fault” he said in heavily accented English, and proceeded to leave the meter on and take me back to the Inn. It was loud when I arrived and because I'm a subspecies that has no credit card, I was required to pay a $100 security deposit that they would return in cash in the morning in spit of me not needing cash. They only had smoking rooms left. I got to the room and an Indian woman was struggling with balancing two cases of empties bottles weaving her way down the hall. I dropped of my bag in the stinky room and went down stairs to check my emails. I checked my 07:45 flight and found that Expedia had changed my itinerary and rather than an October 3^rd departure it was October 31. Panic. Anger. I called the toll free number and could not get a human. I made numerous phone calls to different airlines and found that United flew to Ft Myers and they had 1 seat left. No freaking kidding! So, I bought it. It was 23:30 by the time it was sorted. My third ticket south. I wrote Expedia three emails and all were laced with profanity and exclamation marks. The stinky motel was filled with first nation and a mix of other, 'down on their luck' Saturday night revellers and 01:30 was the last I saw of the time before my alarm would go off at 05:00. I hate Expedia. When I woke and went to check out of the dump I was told that because the cash box was locked I could not get my $100 security deposit back until 08:00 “So how do I get my $100 back?”

“Well today's Sunday so on Monday call this number and talk to the manager”

“This is crap! You know this is wrong!”

“I don't like your attitude, that's the way it is, have a nice day, enjoy your flight, good bye”

Grumpy my frustration compounding with each beat of my aching chest.

Clearing Homeland Security was easy peasy this time. Once up in the air at 37,000ft I began to wright off the two unused non-refundable tickets, I wrote off the $100 from the Winnipeg airport dive and my sanity. The shadows crawled back from the night and were getting smaller as the sun began to rise. Like millions before me I stared down from the lofty, heavier than air flight, at ribbons of vermiculated clouds and the geologic quilt of manipulated ground. The flight from Chicago to Ft Myers was without incident and I was picked up by Dan and within an hour I had checked into the Keel club condo and was on my way to see the GS37.

October 6. I awoke Wednesday October 6^th after spending my first night on my new boat. I checked to see if I had any text from my crew – JB who would be joining me on Tuesday for what would be a memorable journey to the Islands. I had an sms from Gordon. It read as follows. JB Shoemaker died of an apparent heart attack yesterday, aged 47. I thought it a joke for a second and then realized it was too sick to be a joke and then my phone began to ring for the first time in about 8 months so I knew it was real. Numb... JB was a legend in the annals of Pragues Expatriate community. The kindest, passive aggressive, gregarious fun guy to be around in the East. He devoured and exuded life.

The wind rustled the dead palm branches. The wind turned the pages of my notebook. Life's not linear. Tears welled in my eyes. I wiped them away and others evaporated in the wind...

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2010-09-30T09:05:00.000-07:00

In responce to a couple of emails, enquiring as into the future direction that The Drain will take. I would like to advise that there will be an update by the end of the first week of October, strike that, by the end of the second week of October - I'll note, that minimum wage jumped to $9.50 in Manitoba, taking effect in October. I'll be heading to Winnipeg on the 3rd of October. Some already know the immediate destiny at hand, the rest will have to wait for inspiration to strike...
In the meantime some snaps to look at....

Circling The Drain - 124

2010-09-24T08:49:00.000-07:00

Marked with the perils from using soya sauce at lunch, I went, wearing an almost spotless white sweater towards a potential fate at Bison Books. As I walked under a sunless sky I was second guessing for the 3^rd or 4^th time the soundness of poverty line employment – at what is supposed to be a time of peak earnings for someone my age. It was not for the first time the thought of suicide lifted my spirits! The only thing more befitting the situation would have been rain, which had a likelihood of 60% - and of course of actually getting the job...

We chatted. Duties were reflective of the pay. I didn't sell myself because as usual, I was reluctant to commit – and I'm sure a psychiatrist could tell me other reasons for my reticence. I felt that I could still fire off a missive and seal the deal, either way of course.

My interviewer and proprietress told me that, “Sometimes drunk people come into the store” – the irony of that statement! I would have to deal with obnoxious crazies and book thieves as well and vacuum.

“So where do you live?” she enquired while staring at my C.V. In the spot where a prospective supplicant for employment usually puts their address, I had written CANADA.

“Well, right now I'm travelling”

“So, no fixed address actually”

“Well, yes, ..I'm just staying a couple of streets away from here now.”

“Right” She continued, “The only thing that concerns me is that you've done a lot, seen a lot and I'm just wondering why Winnipeg?”

“Why not. It's just as good as any place else.”

“But how do I know you won't feel like leaving, while I'm on maternity leave?”

“Oh, I can commit. And, like I said, I've been travelling for almost a year now and it can be a lonely business and there are times when you say to yourself, I want to go home and then you realize there is no home – only a (meaningless) next destination – you point to a map and say, there...”

“Yes, I know what you mean I travelled too”

We chatted a bit more, and then she looks at her watch and says, “Well times almost up, I just want to mention.. – I interrupt her. “Let me ask you, what - aside from meeting interesting people are the benefits of working here, in your opinion?” She answers as best as she can in platitudes that reflect her disconnect. “Well if you like nautica for instance you get the opportunity to build the section and see it grow.”

“What is the cost of a bachelor or a 1 bedroom flat in the centre because I want to be able to walk to work”

“I don't know, when my husband and I came back from travelling we just bought a place, I've never rented so I don't know, $500 maybe. Assinibonne is a nice street”

“Yes, I was there on the weekend and I asked about a one bedroom there, it was $910.”

“Well, there river is there of course...Just don't rent on the north side of Portage street.”

“Why?”

“It's rough.”

We smiled traditional departures and I went back to the hostel, via the brown bag store...

Later, in the empty common room, I sat between reading and staring out the window into the street beside me. I sliped into a catatonic fixation on a flux of swirling leaves being energized by the incessant passing of vehicles – under a sunless, darkening sky. An ethereal feeling warms me from the inside..

By 17:00 it had started to rain. Typical unavoidable autumn rain. Real life is complex and behaviour is multiply determined. Eventually, predictably, the leaves are glued by their added weight and meniscus, stuck to the paving stones and the other dancing swirling leaves have disappeared, 'the show's over now' I could hear Michael Cain say. And it was, the headlights were on as the vehicles continued their abusive passing, the rain had changed direction, with no effect on it's ultimate destination.

Another day. Equinox. Sunless. Sharp wind pushes past passing pedestrians, on their way to urban factory cubicles under the humm of pallid florescent lights. I staked out potential domiciles within a 15 Min radius – cheaper than the $910 of Assinibonne. After tax and rent I'd be left with $6 a day, for food, electricity and other sundry elixirs – it would leap to $12 a day, once I was on full time.

I wander and find myself at The Garrick Hotel Bar. A dwarf staggers over to a table with two very sloshed Indian girls, then he staggers over to sit at the table next to me.

“OK, I'll juss sit here by myself” He says to himself. Again addressing no one in particular and in a somewhat deprecating tone, he says, “Ten to one and everyone's juiced.”
As I make a practised scan of the room, making sure not to make eye contact with anyone, I realize that the dwarf is correct and aside from yours truly and the large bar keeper, (large enough to be two people), I concur with the Indian dwarf, that all 'present' are indeed - juiced.

I've never been any place at such an early afternoon hour, where there were so many screaming, bickering, bottle slamming, spilling, hugging drunks in all my life. The entire patronage of the Garrick Hotel bar on that day, aside from me and aforementioned barkeep, were all Indians. I finished my ale and silently bid them adeu...

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2010-09-18T07:37:00.000-07:00

Honey bee larvae at different stages of development.

Circling The Drain - 122

2010-09-17T13:09:00.001-07:00

In search of a palliate, something to be effective as a remedy. It begins by returning to the Ethiopian restaurant for lamb and more of the spongy bread called injera – then for multiple cups of steaming tea. Reconstituted indecision is back on the existential menu – yet again – indeed was it ever removed!

I tendered my resume and services in response to a Help Wanted A4 sheet of standard issue white paper taped to the window of a used book store. Minimum wage, 7.5 hours per day 4 days per week to start then 5 days. This would still leave me circling the drain as it would anyone but with reduced force. The bonus of course is that it's a book store. Naturally I spoke to my potential future boss - told her that I'm homeless and that I've got a one way ticket to Florida but that it didn't matter – I could commit to a long term employment – which was requirement of the A4 window sign. A covering letter, I did not have – which was also a requirement, to see I was told, if applicants can follow instructions and write. I mentioned that “I knew the alphabet" and that I had a blog (me and 135 million others) which I pointed out. Then I remembered my silly sock prose and cringed. From the proprietors perspective: A smelly socked, homeless man applied to my sign – she would and should be granted one free inner sigh for that. Then to seal the deal, I told her apologetically that I “had money” - so the minimum wage ordinarily discouraging to any applicant being asked for a long-term commitment, (“at least until next summer or...5, 10, 15 years” I was told.) did not really bother me – which it doesn't.

Hoping that there may be a chance to snatch an opportunity from the flames, I dropped my gas canister and matches and composed a covering letter in the form of an email – bringing us back to the aforementioned menu.

P.S. As I readied this entry for the abyss, I check my mail, as is a habit of mine and found this:

Hi Glen:

Can you come in on Monday afternoon for an interview, say at 1:30 or 2?

Life is not linear.

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2010-09-17T09:29:00.000-07:00

Human all too human... Nietzsche - the opening line of Ecce Homo, keeps repeating in my mind. One blody number missing as per previous post and Carribic resolve is shaken - like a house built on sand...

Time to wander blustery Winnipeg streets dodging wind whipped leaves and scowl.

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2010-09-16T16:48:00.000-07:00

As I was planning the details of my current engagement something came to my attention that I was already aware of but ignoring. It came to my nose – from my socks. Thankfully the woman beside me was French so doubtless she thought that the man beside her must have had some delicious cheese on his person. I felt good that I could give her happy memories of rural France. Once I was finished charting a course, using Google Earth, I changed some money and then went to The Bison used book store.

“Do you have any books on sailing or perhaps a travel section, I want sailing books”

“We have a nautical section”

“Wow, really? Great”

I did peruse. Me selections, not in any order were Bluff your way to Sea, This is Cruising and Demon of The Waters an account of the mutiny of the whale ship GLOBE. Which triggered a title in my mind, Mutiny of Reason.

16:00 the phone rings and it's the broker in Florida. The wire did not arrive and it's unusual. I'd called him earlier in the day as well. So I call the bank up north. The woman “remembered something about that transfer” She'd call me back. In the meantime I decide on some food at the Ethiopian restaurant. Phone rings, - wire rejected – no such escrow acct matches – the magic of the wire has failed it was sent back – set back. We check the numbers, we check the alphanumeric codes, we say goodbye. I call Florida – we check the numbers we check the alphanumeric codes everything matches up – they most certainly exist. I'm promised a call tomorrow. It's all going south in a metaphorical way – what poetry. I've a one way flight paid for, cancellation insurance – nope. Am I angry? Not really, more curious than anything – for the moment.

And what serendipity jumped from the page of the simple menu? Steak Tatar! Wow. It was under10$ to boot! It was fantastic. Unlike the Czech version it was served warm, not cooked in anyway and with soft crepe like flat bread – soft. Large portion like in Cz, enough for two I suppose, but I gobbled it down and the raw meat landed with a thud in my happy belly.

Despite the recent news I feel happy ex cathedra, 'from the chair' and after a cursory glance for alcohol which I didn't expect to see given the prohibition under Ethiopian metaphysics, I order tea. It was the colour of a dark single malt, with the aroma of cloves - with a touch of lint. The flavour was muted pepper with a clove finish.

Based on the swish of vehicles, passing behind traditionally decorated drapes, I suspected that it had begun to rain in earnest. An hour and a half had passed since the call. Time for another tea as my mind struggled with buggered belief. Then the spirit of Tolstoy's second epilogue of War and Peace consoles me, as it has before. I'd even flipped another coin last night, prior to blackness and again the royal head of affirmation did appear – did I flip again in the darkness?...

Circling The Drain - 119

2010-09-15T12:01:00.000-07:00

Took the greyhound from The Pas to Winnipeg, the following is a true account.

I sat sadly at the Grey goose station waiting for the bus to take me to Winnipeg, another false dawn began to fade in an otherwise beautiful fall day. The frost had melted. Luckily and as it turned out my last night in The Pas I was treated to the most spectacular display of Northern Lights I'd ever seen. Pale blue/grey plumes, undulating vaporous and magnetic across a cloudless sky.

Did I really do it? Ya, 19,500 lb, 37ft long and 11.9 ft wide, with a 50 Hp re-built Perkins... It's not even my dream – undoubtedly it's someone's dream but not really mine. I flipped a coin and it affirmed the yes. I flipped it once more, slowly lifted my hand and again the yes was affirmed. Tempting fate but wanting my decision to be sound, I flipped an altogether different coin, just to be certain and it to affirmed the yes. I walked. I went to the Cognitive Research Centre – Branch 19, aka The Royal Canadian Legion. I looked for confirmation in the bottom of a mug. I looked in about 4 of them. Then I went to the financial centre and began the conversion process of one fiat currency into another – I was told such alchemy takes a bit of time and to return in 30 Min - which was more than enough time to head back to the Cognitive Research Centre for a quick one. When I returned to the financial centre it was done. A 'wire' was on its way south. I took out more cash than an honest person is allowed to carry across the longest unprotected border – the necessity of survival had forced me to become a smuggler, I'd deal with that latter, somehow.

In ten hours I'd be in Winnipeg, five hours north of Fargo North Dakota, which was a potential destination along with Los Anegles, Thunder Bay, Montreal and of course Ft Myers which is where I'm now bound. It's a way-point on a voyage of absurdity towards the tropic of Cancer. What makes a man go into battle with overwhelming odds..

The bus left “The Gateway to the North” heading south. The larch and poplar leaves were bright yellow. I looked out to my right and as if to punctuate the the rhetorical question above I saw the cemetery, polished stones, black grey and white reflecting the roaring sunshine of Ra. I nibbled on Vegetable thins and strong cheddar cheese, wishing I'd taken an Advil which now lay squished among other bags down below. Self imposed exile. I'd teach myself scuba diving – how difficult can it be? I'd pass myself as some modern day Jacques Cousteau---or Tom Hanks talking to a volleyball under delusionally oppressive tropical heat – drooling on a seaweed beard.

Life's not linear, I'm counting on that fact to save me, if not provide me with a means to feed myself. Note: get fishing rod. Delusion – the first among pleasures? Only until they're acted upon!

The bus hits a large bird and the upper wind screen is cracked. The bus driver makes a joke to the lady sitting two rows in front of me.

“What was the last thing that went through that birds mind?... His rear end!”

Nervous giggle - “It scared me” she said.

“This time of year the birds are migrating and they get confused and sometimes they fly in front of the bus, what can you do?”...

At 12:30 exactly the greyhound passes the 53^rd parallel, eight point five hours to go. I try not to think of what I've done and cover it with a blanket in my mind and move it to a room around a corner. Occasionally I peek in and then shiver. Thankfully, I've got a headache which gives me something to focus on. We pass through Mafeking, nope we stop and the driver opens the door and talks to the flagman on the road about a recent flood on the highway. Two feet of water and logs all across the road. The bus driver tells the flagman what needs to be done to fix it, which is apparently to dig out more earth around something – a bridge? Culverts? Anyhow, the flagman says it can't be done and then they talk about an accident and finally after about 5 Min they say good bye and we move south again. Further along the highway I note obvious signs of recent flooding. The time passes.

Later after mindless mental wandering a familiar blast of anxiety sends my heart palpitating. I smother the fearsome thought of a grim future made worse, with the consoling line that maybe death will save me. I look out and watch multiple harvesters kicking up dust in fields of canola and a voice says, you reap what you've sown. Oh boy, oh shit, I close my eyes and repeat a mantra that never works, don't think, don't think, don't think..I wish I had a book or a magazine to read. Then before the wish has a chance to dry the bus slows and we pull into a place that sells used books and drinks. I peruse the spines and descend on 'Empty Saddles' by Burt Arthur copyright 1962. “The desperate young men had fought savagely in one war. Now they must fight again for their place on the range” - Perfect cheesy. I look up from my seat and directly in front of me across they way is a Hearse. Nothing like a little cheer for my thoughts, I mentally rock back and forth like Dustin Hoffman Rain Man style, don't think, don't think. Back to 'Empty Saddles' The book's working I'm not thinking of that thing under the blanket around the corner in my mind....

Circling The Drain Whatever

2010-09-13T14:08:00.000-07:00

From a reader. A friend. From a ~~com~~m~~rade~~...

Does it ever occur to you that some of us rather depend on the timely

publication of your blog, charting as it does, so entertainingly, the

entirely imaginary ups and downs of sexsmith, inc? There is a built-in

tension, too, since savvy viewers are aware of the Drain's

fundamentally unsound (un-existent, if I may) business model.

I may be ready to get up soon. At least within a year perhaps. Its

your happy season (ie the gloom is official) so below is a poem Rilke

penned for you. Cheerio. Write! - d

Autumn Day

Lord: it is time. The summer was immense.

Lay your shadow on the sundials

and let loose the wind in the fields.

Bid the last fruits to be full;

give them another two more southerly days,

press them to ripeness, and chase

the last sweetness into the heavy wine.

Whoever has no house now will not build one

anymore.

Whoever is alone now will remain so for a long

time,

will stay up, read, write long letters,

and wander the avenues, up and down,

restlessly, while the leaves are blowing.

Circling The Drain -117

2010-09-02T08:34:00.000-07:00

Full Sail

Circling The Drain - 116

2010-08-27T08:27:00.001-07:00

Reality TV, however minor, is about waiting and watching for a “derailment” of some kind. Waiting for someone to go off the rails, something uncommon.

Extemporize furiously – I recall that from somewhere. I ambled past a tin McDonald's today realizing yet again that all's been done and thinking again about the inherent violence of states. Intimidation is an act of violence, even if it's for our own protection...

A Hobbit from Tolkein/Hollywood says; “I don't want to fight in a war, but waiting on the edge of one that's inevitable is even worse.” Easy to get ones' head around.

I did something for the first time today, the first time in about 18 years. I bought a Dairy Queen ice cream cone, a medium sized cone. The alternate decision was to go to the Royal Canadian Legion, Branch 19 and contemplate. A medium middle of the road kind of decision, half and half kind-of-a-thing. I was none the less - contemplating, floating, warm, contemplating perfect days – of course I knew it wasn't reality but again, none the less, it was serious contemplation. Gliding on three or was it four ampoules? Gliding. It was the same day my passport arrived, my machine readable Mississauga issued passport – property of The Canadian Government passport. I signed it.

While I was walking, licking my Dairy Queen, medium, plain vanilla ice cream cone I was unaware of the arrival of the passport, although as a cynic and sceptic I had my suspicions - that it was on its way.

I'm not the best negotiator. Not a good one at all actually and I suffer from buyers regret. Buyers regret is not offering even less than what one did offer for a desired object. I made an offer today, over the telephone, August 25 - a Wednesday – middle of the week kind of a day but it was sunny, blue and white. Now, latter - I listen to Miles Davis, sofa sitting - staring West, soaking in splendour, watching a common dusk, majesty, magnificent majesty without the sense of power and awesome force of the painted canvas unfurled before me...thinking about the turns we make on the course of life...something flickers behind my eyes, a recollection on the cusp of a forgotten dream – reach, the synapse fire in vain – it's gone, a spark, primal, slithers upwards in the inner night and out of sight...sigh. We've all had those moments, deja-a-vu like, which is now understood to be a mild form of epilepsy – it was beautiful, common and primal.

...Has Been Continued...

Circling The Drain - 115

2010-08-27T08:24:00.000-07:00

Circling The Drain - 114

2010-08-27T08:19:00.000-07:00

Wednesday August 11th the day before the Kelsey Municipal annual Pit Roast. The aforementioned pit was generously dug by 'guy with back hoe' and was slowly filling with rain. Organizer and fire starter Shawn Sexsmith drove towards the Carrot Valley Community Hall with two packs of matches and more than a few issues of the local newspaper – he peered up between the slapping wind-shield wipers at the heavy dark clouds – the very same clouds being viewed with dismay by local farmers already behind in getting hay off their wet fields..

The wind blew hard out of the west. The pit had only a minimal amount of precipitation and needed to be filled in a bit in order to bring it to the correct cooking depth. A bit of levelling and then suitably laid out with kindling and a struck match to paper – fire - to be followed with eight hours of feeding dry elm to insatiability. The wood came from tree lines that had expired dried and been windfalls in fields of canola. People arrived, the flames flickered the wind blew. It could have been an ancient scene on a Mesopotamian plain. Somehow Ishkur the Sumarian god of storms and rain had been propitiated and the deluge never fell. The clouds were banished and the blue dome shone from above watching the primal scene abundantly enjoyed and difficult to describe as more people were drawn in by the leaping flames. At 21:30 the coal bed was ready for the yearling kindly donated by X. The meat was anointed in oil and spice, wrapped in aluminium foil a bed-sheet and then chicken wire to hold the tender feast in place once it's removed 20 hours latter...

On the day of the feast Ishkur, the aforementioned Sumarian star of rain and thunder would net be propitiated. You can actually see his face in the cloud to the right. At 15:00 the horizon in the west south and east had turned to dark blue bruises creeping towards Carrot Valley Hall. The drums of thunder approached and a war of rain and mud threatened. No ambassador could negotiate with the approaching army. Inside the hall it was quiet calm and cool. At 16:00 Carrot Hall was surrounded on three sides and a fierce attack was approaching, blitzkrieg from the south. At 16:13 the initial attack began and by 16:20 we were under full attack by lightning, thunder explosions and a barrage of whipping rain and a galloping cold wind. The tin roof howled, rivulets trickled across the sodden ground. Prairie gumbo - guaranteed to stick to boots and the shoes of those unprepared for war adding weight to each and every trodden step. The rivulets had turned into ponds. Three brave volunteers were out in bright yellow slicker's and boots (obviously anticipating the eventuality) stoking the fire under two steaming barrels that held 100 cobs of corn, which they had donated to the annual event.

The fire starter made a call. A backhoe would come and dig up the steer. It came up and out of the pit smelling good. The crowd gathered. The meal was well prepared and greatly enjoyed. We were the last to leave, the fire starter and I - the Wisers Deluxe was long gone and I was doing the best I could with the Ballantines...fade to black.

Circling The Drain 113

2010-08-20T09:09:00.000-07:00

Upon waking I recall a passing dream. I'm on a bus and a fellow traveller that I know is sitting in another seat on the other side of a full bus. We arrive at a stop and the sign is marked HW. The letters are written in an important font, for the benefit of somnolent wayfarers – it's pronounced Hew. I ask the person whom I know, if she's getting off – here, at this destination - to England as it turns out. She is. There is stuffed, overstuffed baggage. It's a sad goodbye as some goodbye's are – and I awake to yet another day – with the word Hew sown in my mind. To rend violently - I recall, or to chop. I look the word up. Cut down, strike, hew an Oak...

Another Tête-a-Tete with 'the divided self' and rationality speaks first and abstractly pressures me to - get an income. The same rationality immediately lets me know that I'm no longer in possession of qualifications to obtain an income.

The monolingual spy whispers that "the best thing to do - is to go south, winter's coming" Then the old(er) tired, out of shape body - threatens, "I'm not doing manual labour! I can't do manual labour" I agree with everyone and so the strife continues in the divided home.

A gambler type walks into the inner scene and naturally says - "leave it to chance, life is not linear and something decent and unexpected may happen" He draws the attention of everyone and there's silence and much blinking going on. The rationalist is of course the first to speak and contributes - as usual- nothing useful into the mix by agreeing and immediately withdrawing the agreement in the manner of a rationalist/sophist by inserting the typical caveat "but maybe not!"'

The binding forces, the cement, the bonding agents of Motivation and Will died anonymously, drowned we suspect. Sadly missed and needed now but it seems that the extreme characters will have to learn to get along or the house will tumble. The rationalist is shaking his head in a way to indicate that he knows - mumbling to himself, so that everyone can hear – "it will fall.." He's despised by everyone.

The dreamer wanders absent-mindedly into the scene and asks "why all the long and furrowed faces?" He's holding leaflets - filled with images of Bahamas blue, white sand and elysian dreams of wind and tranquillity, happiness. He's liked by all - but considered retarded – yet strangely influential like the way a medieval village might consider the village idiot to occasionally speak an annual profound truth - accidentally of course and so they tolerate him – up to a point and don't beat him up.

On occasion the rationalist would be seen conversing with the village idiot, trying to see if he might be a real genius – concluding each time, with a scoff of - idiot! The Nihilist walked in and sat with the village idiot and shrugged his shoulders and said rhetorically - "it doesn't matter, what difference will it make." The Misanthrope, who no one knew was even in the room – agreed with the Nihilist - saying that he would "hate everyone no matter what happened". He attempted to continue with the words, "in fact you are all stupid despic.." - but he was cut off by a chorus of chatter that was unintelligible above or below the din...

CXII

2010-08-20T08:48:00.000-07:00

Kelsey the dog. A chocolate lab. She's perpetually happy, effusive in fact. An animistic tribute to her would would begin with the notation that the eager to please dog - has no shame.

As far as the shame or rather the lack of it is concerned – will be evidenced by the following photo documents. Kelsey will gladly submit to feats of embarrassing tricks that no self respecting dog – with any sense of pride would consent to perform for as little as an accolade, a laugh from any audience as little as one! At any party she's the first to dawn the lampshade and bound around the room – without so much as a drop...

Kelsey has made it part of her routine to check on me in the morning – usually after her breakfast of kibbles and bits. Half quietly she'll bound down the carpeted steps to my basement abode and propel herself via a whipping tail up to the edge of my lumpy bed. I know she's staring at the back of my head as I hear her breathing through a dumb smile and beaming brown eyes. Waiting for eye contact at which time her joy bursts into overdrive and she can hardy stand upright. Her body language says clearly -“Wow, what a nice surprise to see you here” As she starts to lick my elbow, which is the extent of morning kisses I wish to receive. “OK” I say, I'm awake” and I nod towards the door and point a lazy arm and she bounds out and upwards in ecstasy, pleased beyond description with the importance of her latest self taught task.

She balances a pen on her nose and then an orange holding the position until commanded to stop..

CXI

2010-08-09T08:46:00.001-07:00

The art & science of distillation is obviously and fairly described as a medieval craft. In certain contemporary northern democracies it's frowned upon - to a certain extent. Yet even the trampling feet of Democracy cannot crush all the dreams and aspirations of man. Freedom of conscience cannot be repressed or legislated into submission – the fresh air of liberty fuels the will that no amount of sulphurous legislative gas, emanating from the corrosive bowels of milk sop vegitarian wind bags can stifle! Excelsior! Excelsior, we shout!

It is hence that dreamers and visionaries have given so much to humanity; Icarus for instance gave us a powerful parable. Giants like DaVinci, Goddard and the Wright Brothers cradled the will for heavier than air flight & rocketry - which has taken us, like Icarus, towards the Sun. It has landed Homo Sapians on the moon, it carries us, our duty free and our cargo through the air and lands us safely on the other side of this planet, all in less than 24 hours from anywhere, admittedly slightly worse for wear - but thus is the nature of will, engineering and the imagination of thirst!

It's with the self same will that allows us to momentarily dodge the trampling feet of Democracy and replicate the medieval art of distillation - from ...Oh, lets say, ..the security of a garage - So that we too may soar towards the Dionysian constellations; Soar to the Bacchanalian zodiac in the unseen ether of inner space, to feel the powerful thrust as ethanol spirituous blasts through the blood brain barrier...and we sup with the gods yet again, with those who've shaken the earth and staggered before us, on this great blue planet...

A 20 litre plastic pail – sterilization powder & water to kill unwanted yeast. A lid with a hole incised and a fitted with stopper and air-lock. Tap water, warm. Eight Kilograms of sugar. Rocket yeast – liquor quicker! A bathroom with the baseboard heater turned on and the patience of 10 days produces a bucket of mash of 20%. Hell, no use in letting a warm fermentation room go to waste. Retrieve another white plastic bucket, sterilization powder, lid, airlock...

Mead, 15 pounds of honey, tap water, maybe a quartered orange or two, bring to a boil – remove foam. Add to aforementioned bucket – add yeast at 40-43 C...Stir both buckets daily to infuse the life giving oxygen into the tiny organisms so loved by man and other animals for thousands of years. Wait, reflect, anticipate...

CXa

2010-08-05T13:37:00.000-07:00

Up coming blurbs.

The Still
The Cow Roast
Kelsey The Dog
Blue Berry Picking

Circling The Drain - CX

2010-08-05T08:48:00.000-07:00

Circling The Drain - CIX

2010-08-05T08:45:00.000-07:00

Circling The Drain - CVIII

2010-08-05T08:39:00.000-07:00

Circling The Drain - CVII

2010-08-05T08:35:00.000-07:00

Circling The Drain - CVI

2010-08-05T08:32:00.000-07:00

I was in the mid morning garden, puttering about - pulling weeds. I heard what at first sounded like an accident in the alley beside the garage. It couldn't be an accident in the alley – it had to be a dump truck dumping a load of gravel. It couldn't have been a dump truck, the alley was too small and I would have noticed a dump truck pass. I walked around the garage and then walked slower. The garage was leaning in an unhealthy way. I walked my wide eyes to the front of the structure and slowly, slowly rounded the corner to see a white car parked in the well manicured lawn. An elderly lady emerged much more shocked than I. She was saying “I stepped on the brake.” A ha, I thought.

I'm guessing it was her husband that was asking her if she was OK and she was. She mumbled “But I just stepped on the brake, Oh my goodness” as she surveyed the destruction caused by driving her car through the right side/end of her garage and out onto the lawn. I too asked if she was all-right. “Yes, I'm fine” she said. “It happens in the best of families” I assured her.
“Oh yes, in the best of families” she parroted.
“Are you Shawn's brother?”
“Yes, I'm Glen, it's a hell of a way to meet isn't it?”
“Oh, hell of a way yes, I'm Edna” I shook her shaking hand.
“Nice to meet you Edna”
“How long will you be staying?” She asked and I rambled out a brief history.

The RCMP were on the scene in a few minutes and then another one and then another one and then another one and then a Fire Rescue pick up truck and then another one. They huddled and then formed a semi circle of sorts on the well tended lawn - and gawked at Edna's footwork. They chatted and joked and laughed, hung out for an hour or so and then the 'City of The Pas' articulated Front end loader arrived on the scene of destruction - to finish off the job and bring Edna's garage down to the level safety - ground level – it was done.

Later that evening I insisted on having my picture taken with Edna, and her husband Walter latter came over and asked if he could get the only photographs in existence of the Garage. "I'm going hang them in my new garage!" Walter had an obvious sence of humour.

Circling The Drain - CV

2010-08-05T08:28:00.000-07:00

Bears. Black fat big bears. One was a magnificent cinnamon colour and a count and double count confirmed 14 in total rummaging through rolling mounds of garbage. There was no organisation to the dump, mostly it looked like a hurricane made mosaic of plastic, whereas in truth it was just human chaos that laid out the smorgasbord of calories for the continual feast. The natives obviously don't believe in re-cycling – anything.

They would eat laying down. They would eat sitting on their haunches. The would eat standing up. When an alpha approached another 'less than alpha' fellow dinner, there would be no pleasantries exchanged – it was guttural grunting that grew louder if the sub alpha didn't move from his place right away. There would be jaw popping, if grunting failed to convince. I was the recipient of jaw popping episode which I have on tape, I'd moved in on one alpha, within about 3 meters of him and his meal, I wanted to get the 'money shot'. Jaw popping is a warning sign akin to - I'm gonna slap you to the ground unless you get the F@*% back pal – I did. As far as the money shot? I would have been the money shot had I continued to press forward towards the guest.

The Native garbage dump attendant shouted out, from the other side of the dump, “Hee, dough go near dat one eh, eee's aggressive eh”

He was referring to the cinnamon bear. It had something wrapped tightly around it's neck, it had been coming to the dump for 3 years he later informed me. The choker around it's neck was not a radio collar and deduction had concluded that at some stage in cinnamon's development it stuck its head through something plastic or metal - like a wire for instance and was inadvertently fitted with an annoying, very tight, unsightly collar – I guess that would make me grumpy to.

I clicked and had my photo clicked and felt a little like Grizzly Man (RIP). “Back up a bit more” my brother said with a grin. I'd hear shuffling a few meters behind me and throw a cautionary glance over a nervous shoulder. “Hurray up, press the button” Some people take a long time framing their shots... Was he waiting for the money shot? We left the bon-vivants to themselves as the dump closed for the night at 21:45 it was still light. It stays light longer near this 54^th parallel...

Circling The Drain - CIV

2010-08-05T08:22:00.000-07:00

August 3rd. Passport renewal, take 2.

After some minor corrections, additions, and initialled corrections my application was checked and stamped and dispatched to the authorities. It went off in a clear Government plastic bag along with my still valid International travel document, not suitable for simplified renewal by the issuing Government, along with my original birth certificate, along with a photocopy of my permanent foreign residency permit, issued by a foreign government far away. Which will not be understood. I do not feel confident that all will go well. It's too much information. Too much information always opens up silly unnecessary obstacles known as curiosity, disguised as questions by people that don't need to ask them but can - for our own protection.

I was told three weeks. I was told to call after three weeks the 1-800 number when it does not show up because it was “unusual” Admittedly yes, but not criminal and not terrorist – yet... You know as I do that the government is just waiting to simplify the whole process by a simple retina scan and finger print and be able to issue passports while you wait - a 10 minute process that would eliminate about 100,000 jobs around the water cooler at The Bureau of Passport Issuing - somewhere far away.

In the interim I hope that I no longer look like the guy the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) are looking for...

I'm not fond of the process. But maybe it will go perfectly smooth.

Circling The Drain - CIII

2010-08-05T08:19:00.000-07:00

Winnipeg departure at 10:00 destination - north. Six hundred kilometres north. Sun, clouds, rain, plains, sun, more rain, more plains, more sun.

A bee flew into the bus at one of the many stops. It caused some minor excitement and sent at least two women into peels of laugher when the driver tried to kill the bug. Heroically it escaped the first assassination attempt and brought out screams of stinging fear and sent the driver stumbling into a slapstick pantomime at the front of the bus. The theme of the eventual requiem was Tittering and Giggles and with the flick of a glove, the funeral was over, somewhere just north of Birch River Manitoba... Destination The Pas. (Pronounced Paw).

Under cumulus skies, I along with Dave, Shawn and Gary (at the helm) raced down the river in flight from mosquito's, towards a sure-fire spot to catch Walleye. Meandering at high speed around the elysian folds of the Saskatchewan River – gliding past Bald Eagles, Sand-hill Cranes, Kingfishers and dragon flys - we sipped the nectar of the gods. To test the obvious strength of the current and multiple undertows Gary killed the engine and let drift our craft and we twirled 360 degrees - gently, softly under the silent sun. Inhale, exhale the grandeur. The captain Ignites the engine and we speed down the heavily silted river - past Islands - towards our destination.

We tied up on shore and all of us disembarked to pay our respects to nature...

On my first cast I tangled the line with that of a second line in the water. Remarkable how effortless it is in life to create an unintended knot! I let my brother untangle the mess - since his line should not have been there anyway - as I held my fishing gear motionless.

“This is embarrassing – hold it still”

“Just hurry, before they come back to the boat and see this”

Left alone to fish, I was to watch the second line in the water. Dave, at the front of the boat had no idea of the danger he was in, as I swung with all my might the hook and lead jig, as far as I could, above his hatted head and into the Saskatchewan River. Clang! Splunk! The mono-filament line somehow got caught in the spinning real and the jig came hurtling back to hit the side of the boat. That scene I must say played more than a few times. The guest did not seem to notice - as he struggled with the 21^st century – trying to send a text message of our safe arrival (which never did arrive) - to Cathy, Gary's partner - who was busy making us dinner and sipping wine back at the house...

I was given the wrong lure because nothing was tempted to attack it. However, the line I was instructed to watch apparently already had a fish on it - for some time, since - when I was instructed as to the possibility and I reeled it in - there was some tired weight to it – a fish! Gary removed the fish carefully as I tried not to jab him with the hook – as that too would also be embarrassing. He replaced the minnow artfully back on the hook for me to wreak my havoc with the Walleye population below. Another one! Set the hook! Dramatically. Bigger by a centimetre than the first! Replay last scene and again I plunk the bait in the water. Again a bite, I set the hook with a big pull. Too small this time but the little guy is bleeding heavily and would not survive a catch and release - so it too is some future dinner.

I was treated like an esteemed guest. Democratically we determined that Cathy had told us to get back. The elysian scene that unfolded around us on our way to the fishing hole was played back in reverse with the same cast of avian characters - and we returned safely to our dock, paying homage to the gods as we sipped the last of the nectar.

Back at the dock point a snake was thrust into my hands as a photo op. It managed to make my hand smell quite awful - that no amount of grass rubbing could eliminate. No matter, we were all going back to the house for food. We ate our fill, hunger satiated and tales told we bid our hosts good by – and I was invited back – I think. Maybe, it was 'hope to see you again'. We drove out the trail too impossible to be called a driveway and made our way to another story – Bears.

Circling The Drain - CII

2010-07-29T13:31:00.000-07:00

Circling The Drain - CI

2010-07-29T13:26:00.000-07:00

Passport renewal. Attempt 1. Be careful how you think because your life is shaped by your thoughts... I thought I was going to re-new my passport – I honestly believed it was going to happen. My hopes were lifted when the security lady told me all I needed was my old passport and the simplified passport form – a one page document. So smooth, so easy, the line even moved quickly. I get to the window - “Oh this passport does not qualify for the simplified renewal form, you'll have to re-apply.” Thwarted. My mood changed. I mentioned that most countries passports last for 10 years. He says, “Some countries have that.” I listed them, America, Australia, New Zealand, United Kingdom, The European Union countries (over 20) and mentioned that it covered about a Billion people – which it does. That didn't help. We both knew it was pointless. I took my complicated, extended, bureaucratic form PPTC 153(09-04)M02 along with my prickly mood down to the shores of the very muddy looking Red River to throw myself in - just as an act of silent exasperation. Entropy – now that is simple – simplified.

The Canadian Passport computer system was not attached to passport offices / embassy's out side of Canada as of 5 years ago. I make a mental calculation and it's confirmed that 5 years ago was actually the 21^st century. Computers and telephone lines did exist. There's no point.

I walk to a government issued sign beside the Red River. Among other things it mentions the Red River Resistance led by Louis Riel – I'll look into joining that I tell myself.

Later I get an idea - from a sign painted on the backside of a Legion building. I first locate and then walk into The Canadian Forces Recruiting office. I can't find Rm 465, which is quite important because that is where I need to go to sign up. So I open a door and walk to the desk where equal employment opportunity is manifest.Two Canadian forces personnel, Male and Female are standing behind an information desk. “I'm looking for Rm 465” I'm greeted with a confused stare that gives me the impression that no such office exists. How Kafkaesque! The Lady officer looks at her male co-worker for an answer and again the impression that such a room is unknown. She looks at the business cards on the counter..."This is it here! No one ever asks for a room number.” she says. Anyhow, to make a long story short - they are all full. There was a MARS opening she said. I ask. “What's mars stand for?”

“Marine...” she hesitates. “Oh I can never remember these things" she says "I need a cheat sheet” She asked her colleague, who by now had walked to a wall of National Defence forms and he reads it out loud from across the room. “Maritime Surface and Sub-Surface” He comes back and reads the information circular, tells me I can work my way up after a few years to command a ship. I didn't mention my sailing experience. I'm given the A4 MARS paper – RIA 71E-0105 and a photocopy of another A4 form RIA970E-1105 and directed to the website. I can submit an application but they may not have any opening for a year...

Circling The Drain - C

2010-07-27T19:05:00.000-07:00

A bird must have shit on me. (Fact) I must have still been receiving the good luck from the plate that was broken at the Dancing Bear Inn by the Romanian girl. In Romanian lore if a plate gets broken then everyone in the room gets a dose of good luck – at least that's what she indicated.

It blew into my mind on a strong Prairie wind under sunny Saskatchewan skies. I had mixed up a soothing balm as artfully as an Alchemist – it was a new plan. A salve to rub on the bruises from the unseen existential blows. Actually it wasn't a very good plan. I was more pleased with it's novelty over the idea itself. Besides it would have only netted me $5000 profit, a figure not derived from careful research or consideration but plucked from the thin air as an acceptable and modest profit which I had already decided was tax free...

I've actually made close to a million dollars that way. The biggest ever single idea was not mine alone however. It was incubated at the U Templar in Prague. It was brilliant and would net as a non-profit a annual salary of $100,000 dollars plus a vehicle and other sundry expenses. The money was coming from the secret service as well as private and public Co's involved in security systems – Siemens was short-listed as a top sponsor. It was of course The Museum of Terrorism – At one point in the extensive formal planning Pieter and I realized that the building itself was a target of disgruntled freedom fighting groups from around the world – a lightning rod of controversy. No city would host it due to the obvious threat it represented and sadly we had to decline the half million dollar start up capital and leave the plan on the shelf of good ideas.

None the less there is good fortune waiting to pounce on me. I also know this from the fortune cookie I got for lunch yesterday.

Circling The Drain - XCIX

2010-07-26T20:48:00.000-07:00

Circling The Drain - XCVIII

2010-07-25T11:41:00.000-07:00

Circling The Drain - XCVII

2010-07-25T11:32:00.000-07:00

“Some people are going all the way to Toronto on that bus” The security guard tells a fellow passenger. He said it with a tone of awe, perhaps knowing the suffering they were about to endure.

The drive out of Medicine Hat Alberta was beautiful. The sky blue, cerulean blue and the clouds white with shadows that held no threat of rain to dampen this wayfarers manic mood. The famous, renowned undulating hills sculpted by melting glaciers passed by. Beautiful vermiculated grass covered geology. Cattle, burgers and steaks to be - dotted the Albertian picture dappled around the grassy knolls and ultramarine watering holes. Feeling great in the Alberta badlands.

Hay bales strewn about in freshly cut fields looking like a Giant child has dropped a bag of old wooden thread spools. Pump Jacks here and there subsidises a ranchers income.

Swift Current. Last chance for food before Regina 19:15. I finished my soup and went out to snap some photos of the little town. An RCMP lady drives past and watches me take a photo of a John Deer Ad. I trundle on. Then I could feel the creep of a car behind me – another RCMP rolls beside me and blocks my path across the street his window is down and he asks,
“How ya do'en?”
“Fine”
“What are ya do'en, just passen through?”
“Yes”
“Where ya go'en?”
I think for a second and say “Regina”
“I'm looken for a guy and you look like him”
Oh great! Here we go again.
“What's your name?” So I tell him my name.
“Got any ID on ya?”
Thankfully, I had my passport in by back pocket. And I hand it over. “What did the guy do?” I enquire.
“I don't want to say” The RCMP studies the Canadian Passport issued by Prague office not machine readable he runs his thumb over and over that part.
“Got any other ID on ya?”

“Nope,...A passport is a pretty good piece of ID isn't it?” I ask in a slightly incredulous tone. It is the King of Documents.
“Sometimes it is” he says. I know what's coming next and I answer before he finishes asking the question
“Do you have a Drivers Li..”
“Nope, I don't have any licences” I hand him my International Hostelling card which has no photo and is filled out by yours truly in wobbley black ink.
“Ah, you live in Ontario, that's where your from?”
“Yep”
“Well hang in there and thanks for the co-operation, if you haven't done anything wrong then you got nothin to worry about and you'll be all right. I'm just going to run your name, Joseph is that your first name?”
“Yep, but I go by Glen”
Then I move closer to the window to see if I'm wanted for murder or crossing international borders by sail boat without clearing customs for instance! I snap his picture for my album. He points to the screen and says, “that's what we want to see - NO HIT. You gett'en back on that Bus?”
“Yep”
“Have a nice Trip” and he drives off slowly in pursuit of the man he's 'look'en fir'. And I think, Bullshit. It was just a random check on a guy gett'en off a bus and go'en for a walk around a little town. I'm delighted by the encounter of course so that I can relate the story. I wander for a bit more snapping shots here and there and head back to the bus which upon my arrival is fully loaded again and actually driving away. The driver pulls up to me as I wave a smiley hello. The driver greets me with a reprimand, “Your quite the guy, he wants to get on the bus when it's refuelling(prohibited) and then doesn't show up when it's time to go” - laughter by some nervous passengers.
“I was stopped by the cops”
“I don't give a shit” he mumbles as I pass. I don't like that driver.

Eighty one km outside of Moose Jaw – the moon rose full – from the plains of Saskatchewan, it could have been the plains of an African Serengeti from the bumpy confines of the air-conditioned bus. The deer could have been Gemsbok I told myself and I'm pretty sure I saw one. In a single act of Solopsism I made the other passengers disappear. I was glad that the seat beside me was only occupied for the first 2 of the 10.5 hour ride. I surveyed the vast expanse of a Mesozoic ocean bed whose waves have long since vanished and whose creatures have long since been banished to the fossil record of prehistory. The suns setting had airbrushed pink candy floss across the western horizon - as this solopsist rolls towards Regina.