Letter from Noranda!

A dear friend suggested I post this letter I cooked up and sent to a few friends...

Dear Friend;
I am seeking from a persons which receives monies to help aid one transfer to accounts balanced in your country. Simple fact for consideration as country mine will release funs only to foreign bank or money instituted in foreign name of same country.
Will you help this?
I will Euro many dollars to any currency in your country and leave you a fondling fee of 36% which is considerable next to 64% for me.
Tell me of accounts numbers and I will submit much of balance in one accounts number and allow you to keep 36% once I have cleaned affair in home city which lives with me.
This is a serious argument! One Urgency!
Forgive you for most of your help.
Please send acountings soon.

Mssr. Nibbling A. Coalcut
Station A, West Zibrian East
Noranda

Love breaks out in Europe!

All along the infamous Western Front, the bodies are piling up like cordwood once again. From the Belgium border to the vineyards of Southern France, it's young Germans and youthful French rushing headlong into each other in scenes reminiscent of the numbers involved in the infamous battlefields of the Somme or at Ypres. The cross border taunting, which until now had consisted mainly of bountiful wet tee-shirts and tight Speedos on the women and men respectivelyb, has given way to full blown hugging and rapturous kissing, with tangles of bodies twisting and writhing like some mutant creature as the participants attempt to buss and touch one another in ever increasing numbers.
Reached by telephone, our correspondant Lisa Listoil had this to say...

"Lisa, can you describe the scene over there this morning, and are you safe?"
"I'm fine Frank, and I have to tell you the situation is confused and extremely fluid. There are piles of discarded clothing everywhere and groups of triumphant lovers are roaming in large bands about the city's downtown, stopping now and then for what appears to be a quick hump, some of the more adventurous still coupling as they march with their arms defiantly in the air. It's been like this for hours, and there is no sign of it letting up!"
"Have you managed to keep your clothing on, Lisa?"
"In the main Frank. Lovers on both sides seem to be letting the foreign press alone hoping for this incredible development to be broadcast to the world. I can't go into too much detail, but I can tell you that I am running low on lipstick."
"Lisa...the whole gang here back in the newsroom is filled with admiration for your bravery in the face of all this. Do you know what set all this off?
"It started innocently enough Frank. German girls were lifting their shirts and exposing their breasts to male students on a day trip from Paris to the border, and somehow it got out of hand."
"Do you have sense of what escalated the familiarity? We have heard reports that it was the French boys with their Speedos. Why would they be wearing such provocative underwear in the first place? It almost seems organized."
"In fact the Speedos were required for the French boys Frank, and I have seen documents first hand which will attest to this. It was clearly stated that each boy must have a Speedo as well as a sleeping bag, toothpaste and condoms."
"Condoms, Lisa! That seems highly provocative...does it speak volumes as to their intent?"
"Be that as it may, Frank. It was the German girls who rushed across the border flinging their tee shirts in the air shouting "I love your Speedos!"
"What was the French reaction?"
"I have been told it was pretty muffled. Most of the boys had never seen German breasts and immediately buried their faces in them, so it was hard to decipher their exact responses. The Speedos really told the tale tho, Frank. The German girls certainly had their hands full dealing with them."
"We seem to be losing you Lisa, are you alright? You seem to be breaking up."
"Not to worry, I'm fine. I'm ticklish and well, you know those Frenchmen. Can I get back to you in a half hour or so?"
"Absolutely Lisa. You do whatever you have to and we'll check back in at the bottom of the hour."
"Right Frank...Can you get some lipstick out here on a chopper? Ooooooh! Merde!"

Under the Sad Sombrero

Juan Tew crouched on his haunches, his back braced against the outside wall of the theatre, his sombrero pulled down low in the front to shield his face from the midday sun. A bulldog trotted by on the dusty roadside. It was panting furiously, almost out of drool. Even if Juan had any water he wouldn't have offered it and the dog knew this to be true. Bulldogs were a breed that for some unknown reason made him want to chew tobacco and Juan had left that filthy habit far behind him and he resented the temptation the dog revived. He would have spit at the dog in contempt, but without the viscosity & brown weight of a good chaw, he knew he could never reach it.

This was not Juan's hometown but he wished it was. Nothing ever seemed to happen and that suited him perfectly. Juan Tew's biggest decision day to day was whether to dip his burger in ketchup...or not. Was it enough to make him appear local? He still wasn't sure. He desired to fit in and knew the sombrero wasn't helping. He had quit wearing his serape during the day and that seemed to help, although it was hard to tell. He wished with all his heart that he was Mexican. Maybe then he would know what to do.

For the first time in minutes he thought about the woman. He could feel the sadness seep down from the sombrero dampening his long blonde hair, creating teary beads of shame & sweat that rolled down his face. They rolled like slugs of quiet desperation until they inevitably slipped off his jawline onto the dusty floorboards, leaving their liquid skid trails to mark their passing. The damn dog trotted back and he unconsciously patted his breast pocket for the tin he no longer carried.
He wondered if the woman still liked to chew. He hoped she did. It made her unattractive to some men. He wondered if she had a man. Did the woman think of him?

Two kids rode up on their bicycles, stopped to read the theatre poster and pedaled away. Juan Tew wondered if he had any kids, the thought making the sadness splash down from his face. He was beginning to feel dehydrated although he knew it wasn't true.
It was the sombrero leaking, not Juan.
Many times he had tried to tell the woman this but she always laughed and spat. But never at me, Juan mused, not so much as a freckled splattering on my boots. She must have cared for me. Sure she left but she did leave me the serape. And since she took his bulldog he had saved a small fortune on tobacco.
Juan glanced around the town with it's single dirt street and falsefronted buildings and wondered what tonight's movie would. He realized he should have asked the kids on their bicycles, and it made him sad.

Musical Biohazards...

I have long been amused by the "bios" which are common to musical acts or artists for promotional purposes. Aside from the confusing pigeon-holing comments such as "A cross between Dan Fogelberg and Tim Robbins" or "Reminiscent of early Doorstops or late Sweater Kittens"....the thing that makes me smile the most is the inevitable 'has opened for such artists as' section.
This is where the name dropping gets downright ludicrous. A festival appearance where a local act played Thursday's opening afternoon will be linked to an international headliner who packed them in on Saturday night. Or a gig twenty years before with someone who has gone on to celebrity will be hauled out as an indication of the standing of the act in the bio. Using these as guidelines, I guess I could say I opened for Stevie Ray Vaughn,(two days before)...played with the Barenaked Ladies,(songwriting workshop at the Peg Folk Fest as a sideman for Bob King) I could claim that Lyle Lovatt opened for me once, tho he nearly shut me down forever with his show.
So what is to be done about this burning issue?
Frankly Scarlett, I don't give a damn...
It's five am on a Sunday morning and I have nothing better to do.
Oh, I suppose I could do my own bio as an honest example.

A one time mid-level regional celebrity of sorts, Byron has been successfully confusing audiences for over thirty years with his combination of mediocre guitar work, suspect songwriting, and often drunken vocal performances. His work has been deeply influenced by drugs & alcohol, shaped by a total indifference to practicing and the attention span of a two year old. He finds inspiration when he trips over it, often calling upon his penchant for ruining relationships and aggravating women to supply the fodder for his canons. His latest efforts show a pronounced deterioration in his work ethic and professionalism to the point where he will not even get fully clothed for video shoots.
Throughout his tedious and unsuccessful career he has listened to such great artists as Ray Charles, Leonard Cohen and Bonnie Raitt, but it didn't help.
He now resides in Drydock Ontario, where he has found that no one will pay a dime to hear him.

And so it goes....

Do you argue with food?

I have to point out that I didn't start the argument. It was food. I'm not sure when it began to speak to me or why I wasn't at all perturbed at the voices, but I am sure they did indeed start the debate.
Oh, I suppose it's not all debate. It encompasses discussion and discourse and even prolonged silences wherein we both seem to understand that anything we say is going to be exactly the wrong thing and will surely lead us into a heated argument.
Yes, there is a hint of marriage to all this, and like marriage sometimes one of us will natter on and on while the other cools to the conversation and is distracted by anything else handy such as rearranging the dinnerware or straightening the place setting. Well that's what I do when the meatloaf waxes poetic about it's ancestry and how the combination of ketchup, dry mustard and brown sugar glaze topping changed the eating habits of children throughout the western world.
"I was forever finished being chokingly dry and inedible and achieved the highest status possible in household fare. I became a staple of the family diet! I had become beloved of children!" Like I didn't know this to be true...sigh.
I used to make about a half gallon of the sweet, slightly tart glaze topping as a fail safe guarantee that the sugar buzz would glaze the very eyes of the suspicious little vermin who would end up dipping green beans and potatoes and broccoli into the calorie soaked mixture, little realizing they were getting actual nutrition.

Forgive me dear reader, but this may show up in a shortened form as I accidentally hit post again as my war with technology continues unabated. I do not understand why they place these commands so close to each other. Damn little techno-f**ks, they're still mad about high school! (sorry M.H.)

Well, food is off the menu now, I've lost my appetite.
I'm gonna make more coffee and see what else I can bullsh*t about.
I got up to admire the first light of dawn, which turned out to be the monitor screen reflection in the top left corner of my living room window.

I am plowing through a selection of books from my priest, and haven't enjoyed this pastime so much since my Robin Hood days circa 1958. I know I did say I was 'done like dinner' with foodtalk today, but I just recalled how I came out of my basement bedroom for a Sunday beef dinner, my mind lost deep in Sherwood Forest, sawed off a great chunk of meat, tore one of my Mom's fresh baked loaves in half and sat down and began eating both with my hands. Violence can erupt so quickly in a situation like that, and I never did get a chance to say why I wanted to experience this forest primeval dining experience...the blows came that fast.
Hopefully these theological writings won't lead me to push some parson from his pulpit and shout my first 'Jee-ee-zus-ah!' in some crazed rapturous frenzy.
I'll keep you posted Jamie!

For those who wonder why I have burst back onto the blogging scene with such good humour I will tell you I am in mourning and this is how I handle it.
My Doctor says it's a healthy thing, but he's the same practitioner who insists I eat lard sandwiches to get more fat in my diet.
"Baloney & cheese is a poor substitute for something as natural as lard, Byron," he railed at me last checkup! "And use white bread dammit! Who knows where these ancient grains have been hiding all these years?"
I asked him about stopping smoking and he yelled, "What are you? Some sort of quitter?"
Yes, I am deep in mourning.

Can you hummus a few bars?

A dear lady friend of mine often said she couldn't wait to be a senior so she could 'wear purple and spit on the sidewalk'. It is good to have a clearly defined goal in life. To me, the statement meant she wanted freedom from the constraints of everyday civility and desired to reject acceptable social behaviour, so I married her, we bought a bolt of cloth, and instantly became the shame of the neighbourhood.
I felt like...why wait? Let's do it now while we still have our health.

As for my goal in life, I am still being shut out, although I have hit two posts and a crossbar. I should have seen this coming. As a child my siblings and I would whine about how much we would like to have a fishbowl. Mom gave us salmonella and we all lined up at the bowl. I suspect she wanted to spit on the sidewalk too.

I had actually hoped to die young, but that hasn't happened, despite the residents of the seniors' complex I live in calling me 'the new kid.' The obvious reasoning behind the ubiquitous handrails in the building is to give a fella a fighting chance of navigating a hallway without slipping & falling, either cracking a skull or drowning in spittle. I broke my eyeglasses a couple of weeks back and have been living in a purple haze ever since. (Sorry...I hate that kind of cheap humour)

I once dreamed I was the last porkchop on a platter at a Bar Mitzvah. A study in complete failure if there ever was one. Rodney Dangerfield wanted to buy that one from me and when I said no because I thought he was a rotten comic, he said "I tell yuh, I don't get no respect!" and the rest is history. He got 'Caddyshack' and I got a one way ticket to Palookaville.

Never carry meat home in your pants pockets. The one time I was walking home with my pockets stuffed I had a life changing encounter with a ravenous dog that had either really bad aim or trouble making a decision. He was obviously a Canadian dog, because he went straight to the middle of the load. I prefer not to talk about that too much, other than to tell you that ever since I have no real good answer for a tailor when he is measuring pants.
I guess I could say I dress with what's left, right?
(Please see my previous apology.)

I put 2 1/2 lbs of cut up stewing beef in my slow cooker in the middle of the night to avoid contributing to the intense daytime heat in my apartment only to find (after 4 hours) I had it on the 'warm' setting. It would have cooked faster sitting on the counter. Also turned out that the only veggie in the house was a carrot with a deep gash down it's length looking like it had been grazed by a heavy calibre bullet.
Time to buy another can of potatoes.

At this point I have totally forgotten the theme for this blog. Hummus a few bars?
What the hell does that mean? I shouldn't start these things until I have thrown up at least a pot of coffee.
Cheers everyone!
I love Lois.