ALTERNATE NAMES FOR " I C A N ' T B E L I E V E I T ' S N O T B U T T E R "
By Bob Shea
"Not butter? Then what the hell did I just eat?" Spread.
"I still say it's butter" Spread.
After all the damage you've done to this family with your habitual lying and deceit, you have the nerve to sit there with a straight face and tell me that this isn't butter?" Spread.
"I'm pretty sure that was butter" Spread.
"I'm comfortable calling this butter" Spread.
"This challenges everything I've come to believe about butter" Spread.
"I'm not Entirely Sure it's Edible" Spread.
"I'm willing to suspend disbelief about this being butter for about as long as it takes me to eat this toast" Spread.
"In the absence of actual butter, sure, I'll play along" Spread
"I guess you could call it butter. If you don't put any in your mouth" Spread.
"From a distance, you'd swear it's butter!" Spread.
"I can't believe it's so flammable" Spread.
"I have no reason to believe this isn't butter" Spread.
"Am I wrong about God too?" Spread.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Hehehe...
"That was better than sex."
-Rock sphincter Tommy Lee explains to Radio1 in England that a near-death experience while parachuting was jolly good fun. Eyewitnesses reported the same euphoria.
Liz Braun, The Toronto Sun
-Rock sphincter Tommy Lee explains to Radio1 in England that a near-death experience while parachuting was jolly good fun. Eyewitnesses reported the same euphoria.
Liz Braun, The Toronto Sun
Friday, November 11, 2005
Some words I wrote a while ago that I just found this morning under a pile of stuff on a shelf:
Untitled(random thoughts):
I think I'm full of shit but I'm going to talk to you anyway. I move from city to city...Victoria, Saskatoon, Cleveland, Brisbane, St. Johns, Christchurch, Leeds, Phoenix, Galway and I walk around with my discman on, the volume turned up, trailing the streets looking, observing, feeling lost and confused and fantastic and lonely. Watching the faces of the people passing by in the silence of my head,scattered songs covering the sounds of their footsteps, of their coughs and quiet words. I see people walking their dogs and I always make eye contact with those brown canine eyes. It feels like the dog and I share a secret, the key to this unsentimental world, but that this secret sits just outside the reach of my conscious mind. I always have my camera with me and every now and then I stop to take a picture. An empty street corner...an old brickwall covered in graffiti and punk rock concert posters...a smiling old man...a child running across a street blurry and unrecognisable...an old dog lying outside a delapidated building that at one point was a bustling Irish pub.
I used to listen to a lot of music that was all screaming, angry noise. Music that was full of violence and mistrust. That was when I was a teenager. That was a long time ago. Now I listen to music that moves me. Singers with voices that teem with emotion and pain and experience and honesty and hope. Singers that play a lot of acoustic guitar. You grow tired of yelling, and being angry and thrashing your head about. I used to love putting on an album and thrashing my head around. I tried it the other day but all I got was a headache. I still carry that mistrust though.
I watch a lot of movies. Comedies, horror films, action films, dramas, westerns, it doesn't matter. I love movies with lots of dialogue. I watch a lot of Richard Linklater movies and get jealous of all the great dialogue. It sounds so natural and effortless. I've never been able to write dialogue that sounded real. When I was a kid all I watched were martial arts movies. Chuck Norris movies like Good guys wear black, Missing in action, Lonewolf McQuade and Code of Silence. Sho Kasuki movies like Revenge of the ninja,Prey for death and Nine deaths of a ninja. I loved Van Damme. I religiously watched movies like Kickboxer,Cyborg,Double impact and death warrent. The same with Seagal and films like Above the law, Out for Justice and hard to kill. But these movies aren't the same now. They don't satisfy me like they did when I was eight or nine.
I've had a guitar for years but still can't play it. I kind of knew how to play Subterrainian homesick blues at one point and I did know how to play the opening chords of Metallicas Nothing else matters but thats as close as I ever got to playing anything. I have trouble sticking to things. Or is that sticking with things? At the sametime I'm tired of consuming other peoples art. I'm tired of listening to other peoples music,watching other peoples movies,reading other peoples books,looking at other peoples paintings. All I've ever done is observe others. In the end where does that get you if thats all you ever do?
I'm tired of roaming these city streets. Tired of being lifes observer. Looking in from the outside. You want to know the worst thing about moving from city to city,country to country,town to town? You can't own a dog or a cat. Your never in one place long enough and it wouldn't be fair to them if you took them with you. dragged them all over the globe on the end of a worn leather leash. Dogs and cats, all animals for that matter, require stability and routine. I had a dog when I was a child and I miss that companionship dearly. That unerring loyalty.
I have a bike locked up in the backyard that I ride everyday. I love the wind in my face,riding until your lungs burn. When I ride that hard I always have to spit a lot. In England you have to ride on the opposite side of the road. English drivers pass by in their little cars uncomfortably close to you. English drivers have very little respect for anyone but themselves and least of all for pedestrians. I should wear a bicycle helmet when I ride but I don't. Humans do a lot of stupid things. Not wearing a bicycle helmet when they ride sits pretty low on the stupid ladder.
I have a lot of stories I want to tell but that moment when you sit down to write one of them scares the shit out of me. Doubts swarm my mind, the old fear sets in and I get sweaty. And time gets shorter and shorter,moving ever faster. And I have no excuses.
I want to set up a dark room. Just a small room. Somewhere I can develop and print my own black and white photographs. I don't think anybody can truly call themselves a photographer, not even an amatuer photographer, until they are developing and printing their own photographs. I registered for a three day course in dark room techniques and I had the chance to develop one photograph. It was a picture I took when I was in Victoria, British Columbia. I was wandering around town one day and while passing through Beacon Hill park I snapped a picture of an oak tree with a bench just behind it a ways. On this bench sat an elderly couple. The bench is just to the left of the tree. The sun is hitting them from behind. On the oak tree kind of out focus you can make out some carvings someone left in the tree. And a heart with an arrow through it sits in the center. When I printed this photograph it accidentally took on this nice sepia tone. I think the photograph is beautiful. It now hangs on a wall in my Nans house and that makes me so proud. That makes me prouder then if it was hanging in the Louvre or the AGO. One of my biggest fears is my Nan not being proud of me. Disappointing her haunts my dreams. Her and my Mom. That fear sits on my shoulders all day long like a great weight.
I love listening to blues and soul. I've spent so long listening to loud ugly music completely unaware that this raw honest gorgeous music existed. Artists like Howlin Wolf,Muddy Waters, Robert Johnson and John Lee Hooker.Nina Simone, Aretha Franklin and Dusty Springfield. Etta James and Billie Holiday. Music that speaks directly to your heart. Directly to the center of your being. Songs and voices filled with love and pain and hurt and hope and strength.
Is there anything in this world more important to ones daily wellbeing then music? I don't think so.
Although I must say writing isn't far behind. :) J.H May 18,2005 4:26pm
A short tale of relief:
An old lady walked up to me today as I was crossing the street. She looked me deep in the eyes and asked if I had any spare change. My heart broke. Her eyes were sad and empty. She had dirt streaked across her face. The dress she had on was torn in several places. I had to tell her no. I looked away in shame. I had a head in my knapsack and the blood had soaked through the bottom. It was dripping slowly onto the street and I was afraid she'd take notice.
I finished crossing and turned down the next side street. I should have wrapped it in a plastic bag or something. Man, I'm stupid. There's no way I'm getting rid of it now, though. No way, it's too important. Everything depends on that head.
At the end of the side street I turned onto Queen Street and headed west. Luckily people were to caught up in their own shit to notice my soagy knapsack. I picked up the pace and passed a couple in front of me. I put my head down and pulled my cap over my eyes. Queen St West is the hipster center of Toronto and the shops and cafes were bustling with saturday afternoon shoppers. I have to get out of here, away from this crowd. Someone will notice eventually. Finally I reached Spadina Avenue and turned left down towards the Lakeshore, leaving the hipsters and panhandlers behind.
I've been here in Toronto for four years now. I rode the train in from Vancouver. It was either October or November. When I boarded that train for this unknown city I hadn't murdered anybody. Now look at me. My hands are stained red with the blood of strangers. People who did me no harm. People I didn't know. I remember that train ride so clearly. Stretched out across the seat gazing out at the lakes and trees. Everything was green. That surprised me. I had thought the land would be grey and dead that late in the year. Passing through the Rockie Mountains I was in awe. They towered over the train like ancient sentinels. I felt humbled and small. I remember the second night on the train, we were passing through the middle of the prairies when it began to rain. The rain turned into thunder and lightning and you could see the storm approaching from miles off in the distance. A small bright white glow in the black of night. I watched it for hours.
I don't know why I started collecting heads. I don't know how I got from that black night crossing the endless prairies to this sunny day with a damp knapsack on my back. Some nights I wake up covered in sweat. I can never remember what I had been dreaming but I'm always left
with this deep fear in my chest trying to figure out where these twisted desires had come from. On those nights I can never get back to sleep. And lately I've been having them more often. As a result I spend most days exhausted. But the odd thing is that along with the dreams and deep fear and sleepless nights, these twisted desires have been growing deeper as well. Like they realise my heads filling with guilt and self doubt and they're fighting against these forces.
When I'm in the moment, when the blade of my saw is cutting through skin and muscle and cartilage and bone and the screams of the dying fill my head I never feel anything. And then I black out. When I wake up I'm in bed and the mess is gone and all my tools are clean and back in their cupboard. The head I have now, the one thats sitting in my knapsack, dripping blood on the ground behind me is different. I remember collecting this one. I remember cleaning up. I remember everything.
"Hey friend."
Before I can look up to see the source of the voice I feel a hard crack on the side of my head and everything goes dark and blurry. When I open my eyes I'm looking at the ground. Cold cement and broken glass. I can feel it in the palms of my hands. Suddenly I get a hard jolt of pain through my ribs. I grimace and tears come to my eyes. Hands grab me and roll me over. And then I'm looking up into the eyes of five young men with joyless expressions on their faces. The hands of a sixth man are patting me down, running over my body. He takes my wallet and the change from my left jean pocket. I bring my hand up to the side of my head and feel a warm wetness. I look over at the ground next to my face and its red. Glancing around I have no idea where I am. I must have been too lost in thought to notice I was in strange surroundings
As my eyes regain their focus I glance around carefully. I'm sprawled out in an old parking lot. Tall desolate buildings surround it on three sides like a horse shoe. I had wandered in through the opening. i couldn't immediately see any other way out.
"Your not going any where, friend", one of the men said.
I think one of my ribs is broken.
"Whats in the bag?", the voice asks
I close my eyes and I can see the shores of the pacific. The waves rolling gently, softly. Giant, white capped mountains surround me in a horse shoe formation. The air is crisp and refreshing. Why did I leave here? Thats a good question. A hard pain jutts across my back and I open my eyes in a grimace.
"I said whats in the bag, if you keep stalling I don't think we will be able to remain friends."
The theif that stole my wallet grabs my knabsack and pulls it off me. I lay back on the hard cement and close my eyes again. The dirty glass from the ground is imbedded deep in my palms and the pain is deep, throbbing and soothing. i don't know why I killed all those innocent people. Honestly. I wasn't like this until I got here. You know what the worst part is? The blood. The blood never comes off your hands. Believe me. I've spent hours scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing. I tried hand soap, dish soap, floor cleaner, bleach, steel wool. But I still see it.
I hear the zipper of my soagy knapsack zip open slowly. I'm tired of having this secret anyway.
"What the fuck?Jesus christ!!"
The bag makes a dull thud as it hits the ground.
"What the fuck is that?!",the voice of my friend shrieks.
I open my eyes and sit up as one of them bends down, reaches into the bag and pulls it out by the hair. He stands up with his arm outstretched. Blood and gore drip to the cold cement. All six of their joyless faces stare at the head, horrified. In turn each of the six faces turns from the long haired head and looks at me. I wipe the dirt and blood from my face and look each man in the eyes. Deep,deep into their eyes. I don't feel the same heartbreak I did when I looked at the old lady. I don't see the same sadness and hope. I see hate and fear. And a smile spreads across my face. Not of joy but of relief. Finally the end has come.
J.H May 20,2005 5:25pm
I think I'm full of shit but I'm going to talk to you anyway. I move from city to city...Victoria, Saskatoon, Cleveland, Brisbane, St. Johns, Christchurch, Leeds, Phoenix, Galway and I walk around with my discman on, the volume turned up, trailing the streets looking, observing, feeling lost and confused and fantastic and lonely. Watching the faces of the people passing by in the silence of my head,scattered songs covering the sounds of their footsteps, of their coughs and quiet words. I see people walking their dogs and I always make eye contact with those brown canine eyes. It feels like the dog and I share a secret, the key to this unsentimental world, but that this secret sits just outside the reach of my conscious mind. I always have my camera with me and every now and then I stop to take a picture. An empty street corner...an old brickwall covered in graffiti and punk rock concert posters...a smiling old man...a child running across a street blurry and unrecognisable...an old dog lying outside a delapidated building that at one point was a bustling Irish pub.
I used to listen to a lot of music that was all screaming, angry noise. Music that was full of violence and mistrust. That was when I was a teenager. That was a long time ago. Now I listen to music that moves me. Singers with voices that teem with emotion and pain and experience and honesty and hope. Singers that play a lot of acoustic guitar. You grow tired of yelling, and being angry and thrashing your head about. I used to love putting on an album and thrashing my head around. I tried it the other day but all I got was a headache. I still carry that mistrust though.
I watch a lot of movies. Comedies, horror films, action films, dramas, westerns, it doesn't matter. I love movies with lots of dialogue. I watch a lot of Richard Linklater movies and get jealous of all the great dialogue. It sounds so natural and effortless. I've never been able to write dialogue that sounded real. When I was a kid all I watched were martial arts movies. Chuck Norris movies like Good guys wear black, Missing in action, Lonewolf McQuade and Code of Silence. Sho Kasuki movies like Revenge of the ninja,Prey for death and Nine deaths of a ninja. I loved Van Damme. I religiously watched movies like Kickboxer,Cyborg,Double impact and death warrent. The same with Seagal and films like Above the law, Out for Justice and hard to kill. But these movies aren't the same now. They don't satisfy me like they did when I was eight or nine.
I've had a guitar for years but still can't play it. I kind of knew how to play Subterrainian homesick blues at one point and I did know how to play the opening chords of Metallicas Nothing else matters but thats as close as I ever got to playing anything. I have trouble sticking to things. Or is that sticking with things? At the sametime I'm tired of consuming other peoples art. I'm tired of listening to other peoples music,watching other peoples movies,reading other peoples books,looking at other peoples paintings. All I've ever done is observe others. In the end where does that get you if thats all you ever do?
I'm tired of roaming these city streets. Tired of being lifes observer. Looking in from the outside. You want to know the worst thing about moving from city to city,country to country,town to town? You can't own a dog or a cat. Your never in one place long enough and it wouldn't be fair to them if you took them with you. dragged them all over the globe on the end of a worn leather leash. Dogs and cats, all animals for that matter, require stability and routine. I had a dog when I was a child and I miss that companionship dearly. That unerring loyalty.
I have a bike locked up in the backyard that I ride everyday. I love the wind in my face,riding until your lungs burn. When I ride that hard I always have to spit a lot. In England you have to ride on the opposite side of the road. English drivers pass by in their little cars uncomfortably close to you. English drivers have very little respect for anyone but themselves and least of all for pedestrians. I should wear a bicycle helmet when I ride but I don't. Humans do a lot of stupid things. Not wearing a bicycle helmet when they ride sits pretty low on the stupid ladder.
I have a lot of stories I want to tell but that moment when you sit down to write one of them scares the shit out of me. Doubts swarm my mind, the old fear sets in and I get sweaty. And time gets shorter and shorter,moving ever faster. And I have no excuses.
I want to set up a dark room. Just a small room. Somewhere I can develop and print my own black and white photographs. I don't think anybody can truly call themselves a photographer, not even an amatuer photographer, until they are developing and printing their own photographs. I registered for a three day course in dark room techniques and I had the chance to develop one photograph. It was a picture I took when I was in Victoria, British Columbia. I was wandering around town one day and while passing through Beacon Hill park I snapped a picture of an oak tree with a bench just behind it a ways. On this bench sat an elderly couple. The bench is just to the left of the tree. The sun is hitting them from behind. On the oak tree kind of out focus you can make out some carvings someone left in the tree. And a heart with an arrow through it sits in the center. When I printed this photograph it accidentally took on this nice sepia tone. I think the photograph is beautiful. It now hangs on a wall in my Nans house and that makes me so proud. That makes me prouder then if it was hanging in the Louvre or the AGO. One of my biggest fears is my Nan not being proud of me. Disappointing her haunts my dreams. Her and my Mom. That fear sits on my shoulders all day long like a great weight.
I love listening to blues and soul. I've spent so long listening to loud ugly music completely unaware that this raw honest gorgeous music existed. Artists like Howlin Wolf,Muddy Waters, Robert Johnson and John Lee Hooker.Nina Simone, Aretha Franklin and Dusty Springfield. Etta James and Billie Holiday. Music that speaks directly to your heart. Directly to the center of your being. Songs and voices filled with love and pain and hurt and hope and strength.
Is there anything in this world more important to ones daily wellbeing then music? I don't think so.
Although I must say writing isn't far behind. :) J.H May 18,2005 4:26pm
A short tale of relief:
An old lady walked up to me today as I was crossing the street. She looked me deep in the eyes and asked if I had any spare change. My heart broke. Her eyes were sad and empty. She had dirt streaked across her face. The dress she had on was torn in several places. I had to tell her no. I looked away in shame. I had a head in my knapsack and the blood had soaked through the bottom. It was dripping slowly onto the street and I was afraid she'd take notice.
I finished crossing and turned down the next side street. I should have wrapped it in a plastic bag or something. Man, I'm stupid. There's no way I'm getting rid of it now, though. No way, it's too important. Everything depends on that head.
At the end of the side street I turned onto Queen Street and headed west. Luckily people were to caught up in their own shit to notice my soagy knapsack. I picked up the pace and passed a couple in front of me. I put my head down and pulled my cap over my eyes. Queen St West is the hipster center of Toronto and the shops and cafes were bustling with saturday afternoon shoppers. I have to get out of here, away from this crowd. Someone will notice eventually. Finally I reached Spadina Avenue and turned left down towards the Lakeshore, leaving the hipsters and panhandlers behind.
I've been here in Toronto for four years now. I rode the train in from Vancouver. It was either October or November. When I boarded that train for this unknown city I hadn't murdered anybody. Now look at me. My hands are stained red with the blood of strangers. People who did me no harm. People I didn't know. I remember that train ride so clearly. Stretched out across the seat gazing out at the lakes and trees. Everything was green. That surprised me. I had thought the land would be grey and dead that late in the year. Passing through the Rockie Mountains I was in awe. They towered over the train like ancient sentinels. I felt humbled and small. I remember the second night on the train, we were passing through the middle of the prairies when it began to rain. The rain turned into thunder and lightning and you could see the storm approaching from miles off in the distance. A small bright white glow in the black of night. I watched it for hours.
I don't know why I started collecting heads. I don't know how I got from that black night crossing the endless prairies to this sunny day with a damp knapsack on my back. Some nights I wake up covered in sweat. I can never remember what I had been dreaming but I'm always left
with this deep fear in my chest trying to figure out where these twisted desires had come from. On those nights I can never get back to sleep. And lately I've been having them more often. As a result I spend most days exhausted. But the odd thing is that along with the dreams and deep fear and sleepless nights, these twisted desires have been growing deeper as well. Like they realise my heads filling with guilt and self doubt and they're fighting against these forces.
When I'm in the moment, when the blade of my saw is cutting through skin and muscle and cartilage and bone and the screams of the dying fill my head I never feel anything. And then I black out. When I wake up I'm in bed and the mess is gone and all my tools are clean and back in their cupboard. The head I have now, the one thats sitting in my knapsack, dripping blood on the ground behind me is different. I remember collecting this one. I remember cleaning up. I remember everything.
"Hey friend."
Before I can look up to see the source of the voice I feel a hard crack on the side of my head and everything goes dark and blurry. When I open my eyes I'm looking at the ground. Cold cement and broken glass. I can feel it in the palms of my hands. Suddenly I get a hard jolt of pain through my ribs. I grimace and tears come to my eyes. Hands grab me and roll me over. And then I'm looking up into the eyes of five young men with joyless expressions on their faces. The hands of a sixth man are patting me down, running over my body. He takes my wallet and the change from my left jean pocket. I bring my hand up to the side of my head and feel a warm wetness. I look over at the ground next to my face and its red. Glancing around I have no idea where I am. I must have been too lost in thought to notice I was in strange surroundings
As my eyes regain their focus I glance around carefully. I'm sprawled out in an old parking lot. Tall desolate buildings surround it on three sides like a horse shoe. I had wandered in through the opening. i couldn't immediately see any other way out.
"Your not going any where, friend", one of the men said.
I think one of my ribs is broken.
"Whats in the bag?", the voice asks
I close my eyes and I can see the shores of the pacific. The waves rolling gently, softly. Giant, white capped mountains surround me in a horse shoe formation. The air is crisp and refreshing. Why did I leave here? Thats a good question. A hard pain jutts across my back and I open my eyes in a grimace.
"I said whats in the bag, if you keep stalling I don't think we will be able to remain friends."
The theif that stole my wallet grabs my knabsack and pulls it off me. I lay back on the hard cement and close my eyes again. The dirty glass from the ground is imbedded deep in my palms and the pain is deep, throbbing and soothing. i don't know why I killed all those innocent people. Honestly. I wasn't like this until I got here. You know what the worst part is? The blood. The blood never comes off your hands. Believe me. I've spent hours scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing. I tried hand soap, dish soap, floor cleaner, bleach, steel wool. But I still see it.
I hear the zipper of my soagy knapsack zip open slowly. I'm tired of having this secret anyway.
"What the fuck?Jesus christ!!"
The bag makes a dull thud as it hits the ground.
"What the fuck is that?!",the voice of my friend shrieks.
I open my eyes and sit up as one of them bends down, reaches into the bag and pulls it out by the hair. He stands up with his arm outstretched. Blood and gore drip to the cold cement. All six of their joyless faces stare at the head, horrified. In turn each of the six faces turns from the long haired head and looks at me. I wipe the dirt and blood from my face and look each man in the eyes. Deep,deep into their eyes. I don't feel the same heartbreak I did when I looked at the old lady. I don't see the same sadness and hope. I see hate and fear. And a smile spreads across my face. Not of joy but of relief. Finally the end has come.
J.H May 20,2005 5:25pm
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes...
Being made redundant has given me the time to actually do some work on this thing, so I've spruced it up a little bit and added a photo of my dearest friend,the late,great and endlessly missed Fluffy Cat. Anyone who claims animals can't speak never had the opportunity to sit down and have a conversation with her. She was more like a human then some people I've met, and when I stop and listen I can still here her meeerrr-arrrr from the hallway at Cathys house, and the patter of her feet on the stairs. And I will always feel bad for leaving her when I moved out of our place on Myrtle. But maybe I'm just being silly. If I had emotions,right now my eyes would be welling up.
Anyway,hope you like what I've done with the place. Talk to you all soon;)
Anyway,hope you like what I've done with the place. Talk to you all soon;)
Happy halloween!!!
Hey guys,
So yeah apparently the english celebrate everything in the pub. I just finished a shift tonight,they had a childrens halloween party...thats right,in the pub. Dozens of children dressed up as witches and ghosts and undead brides and spiderman and skelotons and even more parents standing around watching from the bar,downing pints of stella and carlsberg and sucking on their cigarettes. Such a beautiful moment. They were talking about finally banning smoking in pubs here in the uk but Tony Blair,with his backbone made of jelly,backed down in fear of the backlash he might have received from the many smokers here. Instead he has given all pubs a choice,they can choose to serve food and ban smoking or cut out food and allow smoking. So now a pub that ordinarily would have banned smoking will have to reconsider if the pub down the street allows smoking. Tony Blair is such a tool. If your going to ban smoking as he definately should then it has to be a universal ban with no exceptions. Pub owners claim they lose customers. As the english say,thats a load of bollocks. I can't see any of the drunks I serve turning their backs on their local pub anytime soon,smoking or no smoking.
Anyway, it was an interesting way to celebrate halloween to say the least. It was cool being a witness to a proper english celebration. Right in the heart of small town Britain.
Then afterwards me and Nic went to see Saw 2. It was good, warped but good.
Oh and I came home friday night from my glamourous job at the soap factory,checked the mail then opened an envelope addressed to me and read a letter that told me that day had been my last day at the soap factory,that they no longer required my services. Nice. Nothing like getting a little advanced notice. The good news is I finally have a little time to relax. Cause honestly working seven days a week frigging sucks. I'm still working at the two pubs so I still have some cash comin in. I'm looking for another fulltime job now, and in the meantime I can catch up on my reading and work on my story. I appreciated all the comments and critisms about my two little stories I wrote for you. I realize I said that if you had nothing good to say about them not to say anything at all but in retrospect any comments are better then none. So read the friggin things and tell me what you thought. Pretty please with sugar on top. And yes once again I realize I've probably just finished setting up another of steves jokes.
Speaking of Steve,I hear you guys just got some cats. Fancy pure bred ones,I asked mom what the first cats name was but she couldn't remember. Congratulations,I'd love to see some pics of them.
Oh and I also managed to catch that 8-0 beating the leafs took from the senators saturday night...hehehehehehehehe! Man alive, Ottawa slapped them around like their red headed step child.
Anyway,Englands still treatin me good, I'm workin hard, enjoyin the short days,long nights and all the drizzle and rain and wind. Looking forward to New Years eve in Edinburgh. Theres about twenty-five of us going now.Get in! You can't beat Scottish hospitality. I think it consists of a handshake, a head butt, a plate of haggis and a cold pint? Doesn't it?
I gotta jet but I'll talk to you dudes soon:)
Book of the week: In Cold Blood by truman capote.
Record of the week: Public enemy-fear of a black planet.
So yeah apparently the english celebrate everything in the pub. I just finished a shift tonight,they had a childrens halloween party...thats right,in the pub. Dozens of children dressed up as witches and ghosts and undead brides and spiderman and skelotons and even more parents standing around watching from the bar,downing pints of stella and carlsberg and sucking on their cigarettes. Such a beautiful moment. They were talking about finally banning smoking in pubs here in the uk but Tony Blair,with his backbone made of jelly,backed down in fear of the backlash he might have received from the many smokers here. Instead he has given all pubs a choice,they can choose to serve food and ban smoking or cut out food and allow smoking. So now a pub that ordinarily would have banned smoking will have to reconsider if the pub down the street allows smoking. Tony Blair is such a tool. If your going to ban smoking as he definately should then it has to be a universal ban with no exceptions. Pub owners claim they lose customers. As the english say,thats a load of bollocks. I can't see any of the drunks I serve turning their backs on their local pub anytime soon,smoking or no smoking.
Anyway, it was an interesting way to celebrate halloween to say the least. It was cool being a witness to a proper english celebration. Right in the heart of small town Britain.
Then afterwards me and Nic went to see Saw 2. It was good, warped but good.
Oh and I came home friday night from my glamourous job at the soap factory,checked the mail then opened an envelope addressed to me and read a letter that told me that day had been my last day at the soap factory,that they no longer required my services. Nice. Nothing like getting a little advanced notice. The good news is I finally have a little time to relax. Cause honestly working seven days a week frigging sucks. I'm still working at the two pubs so I still have some cash comin in. I'm looking for another fulltime job now, and in the meantime I can catch up on my reading and work on my story. I appreciated all the comments and critisms about my two little stories I wrote for you. I realize I said that if you had nothing good to say about them not to say anything at all but in retrospect any comments are better then none. So read the friggin things and tell me what you thought. Pretty please with sugar on top. And yes once again I realize I've probably just finished setting up another of steves jokes.
Speaking of Steve,I hear you guys just got some cats. Fancy pure bred ones,I asked mom what the first cats name was but she couldn't remember. Congratulations,I'd love to see some pics of them.
Oh and I also managed to catch that 8-0 beating the leafs took from the senators saturday night...hehehehehehehehe! Man alive, Ottawa slapped them around like their red headed step child.
Anyway,Englands still treatin me good, I'm workin hard, enjoyin the short days,long nights and all the drizzle and rain and wind. Looking forward to New Years eve in Edinburgh. Theres about twenty-five of us going now.Get in! You can't beat Scottish hospitality. I think it consists of a handshake, a head butt, a plate of haggis and a cold pint? Doesn't it?
I gotta jet but I'll talk to you dudes soon:)
Book of the week: In Cold Blood by truman capote.
Record of the week: Public enemy-fear of a black planet.
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