Medic! Emergency Rescue Needed!

I finally called Kim, the owner of the Cheer's equivalent bar yesterday. The frustrated process prior to calling was reminiscent of a story Tim, a friend of Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend, had once told.

Tim has a cranium shaped not unlike a giant Mr. Potatohead. Balding. With the remaining dark strands, perhaps from wistful nostalgia, he's let it grow long-ish, a tad on the stringy side. He is sensitive and incredibly caring of the creatures near and dear to him. He has giant ET-like fingers, which he conjures stories from. Tim is one of the most hilarious people I've ever met.

Once upon a time Tim was a chronic pot smoker. He started over a decade ago. He had ingested one hit of acid that was laced with an unconscionable additional substance. I can't remember what that substance was. This substance placed a companion, he was on this particular trip with, into a coma. This substance made Tim prone to grande mal seizures. The only way he could stave off these terrifying bouts was if he smoked pot. The problem with chronic pot smoking is sometimes it leaves the user rather paranoid. Tim subsequently quit because of this, but during a time when he was a routine smoker, he ran with others who enjoyed the ritual.

Tim had a friend whom he lovingly refers to as 360˚Mike.

360˚Mike is autistic and happens to be a science genius. When Tim knew him, he was living in his mother's house. An entire floor of this expansive house was devoted to him. His mother had quite a lot of money. She spent some of this money having 360˚Mike's room professionally redecorated. New paint. New carpet. New wallpaper. New furnishings. New bar fridge. It became a luxury den in which to smoke the herbal remedy.

In a circle, within new lush environs, performing for 5 stringy haired, chortling invited guests, Tim was interspersing his usual banter with puffs from an Olympic-sized spliff. The roach had developed some ash at its end. A condition of autism often includes being a stickler for maintenance of a current condition or routine. In this case, 360˚Mike had a brand new room that he didn't want altered, abused nor sullied.

The joint had been passed to Tim. 360˚Mike shoved an ashtray directly under Tim's mouth, hitting his chin slightly, just as Tim had taken a deep inhale. With huge, bugged-out eyes and a dead-serious frenzy in his voice, 360˚Mike shrieked, "D-d-d-don't drop any cherries on the carpet!

Fact: Marijuana makes people laugh.

Cherries, or embers, ash and an upturned ashtray were spilled all over the new carpet.

360˚Mike went apeshit.

Full-Revolution Mike wanted nothing more than to hurt Tim. He looked around his room for something to throw at him.
A lamp! No... it was too new and it would break.
A chair! No... it was too new and the fabric could get torn.
He brought his hands close to everything that could physically be thrown at Tim, even his own fists. He realised, however, Tim was human. Humans shed blood. On carpets that now have little burn marks in it. He did the only thing he could without ruining anything.

With both hands, he grabbed his own balls, really, really hard and spun 360˚ on the spot.

360˚ Ball Grab.

The Comrade has no balls. Alas. I'll tell you what I'd do if I did have a penis, just for one day.

I would rent a minivan. I would get a very good friend to drive said minivan. Together we would travel the 400 series highways in this great expanse of Ontario. I would be in the back. There would be jugs and jugs of distilled water which I would force myself to drink. With a bendy straw. Sliding the side door open, while in constant motion, I would piss on all the cars running alongside us.

Good times!



It turned out that the conversation between Kim, the owner of the Cheer's equivalent bar and its companion sister restaurant, wasn't all that bad. Rarely is there anything anyone intensely dreads that is ever as bad as we imagine it. She has some ideas. She encourages ideas I might have. She's a very nice lady whom I like and respect very much. These are 2 essential qualities I look for in a boss. And she's very good to her staff.

Ian, my favourite wrestling buddy, whom I sometimes make-out with in public, works for Kim. Kim is notorious for giving outlandish Christmas presents to her staff. The first year Ian worked for her, he received a 16pc., 18/10 Lagostina pot set. Actual retail price: approximately $300. At the time, Ian didn't have a pot to piss in, let alone one to make spaghetti. Kim does it with all her staff. All different gifts catered to the individual. She has a scorching case of chicks rule.

On the phone, Kim asked about Kissy, my beautiful ex-work comrade who got her crotched grabbed by a Disgusting Pig of a Man. I once wrote about how my little neighbourhood feels like a small town infested with really cool people. What happens in every small town: There is a lot of talk. As I hate to repeat myself, I find it rather nice that people know about my circumstance of being fired for a lack of freedom of opinion. Most people in the neighbourhood know about Kissy's situation as well.

Kim, my soon to be new boss, told me a story of a young girl who had once worked for the Disgusting Pig of a Man. She was hired as a busgirl. Kim didn't fill me in on all the dirty details, but she did say the physical sentiment was quite redolent of the actions he performed on Kissy.

This young busgirl didn't go to the police. She didn't file charges. She simply enlisted one of the guideposts from childhood:
I'm telling my Dad!

Father's occupation: Fireman. Firemen work with other firemen. Firemen wield axes! These firemen paid a visit to the Disgusting Pig of a Man at the restaurant he owned at the time.

I said in a previous post that I don't like glory, but I like victory. Glory seems more personal, like there's only a small party affected. Victory seems to encompass all. Justice, the encapsulator. I get a strange sort of pleasure from Frontier Justice, particularly.

The firemen kicked the living snot out of the DPM. And, as Kim said, he got his face dragged all... over... the street. But, alas, the idiot still didn't learn his lesson.

I'd never really understood the appeal of firemen. Most of my girlfriends have a sexual fantasy involving at least one of these beefy charbroiled boys. I never got it. I understood the pants, though. I really like firemen's pants. I'd wear 'em. All the time.

Recently, I'd visited a local book and CD merchant along my neighbourhood's strip. I always like calling him to see if he has any of the books or albums I'm looking for. I prefer to give my money to small business owners rather than multinationals. It's a thing. In the last few months, everytime I've called, he always answers my requests the same way, I've never heard of them. Frustration on every level. The day I visited him I invited him to listen to the Arcade Fire.

After bobbing her head for a minute, the merchant's assistant had stepped outside. She looks not unlike Frida Kahlo. She thinks Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend is hot. Ack thinks she's nuts. I'm inclined to agree. She heard a strange sound on the street. There was a man in his 70's, stationary on the sidewalk, uttering a succession of grunts, in the middle of a seizure. His arm was spasming for a few minutes until he dropped onto the snow. Someone who was waiting for a streetcar across the street had noticed him as well. He ran over. I always find it fascinating how people deal with situations. Emergency situations, particularly.

Ack had told me about a bunch of girls who drove into a lake. I don't know how people drive into lakes. Anyway, they're encased in their SUV tomb, with cell phones, screaming. They dialed the entire contents of their cell phone's phone book, calling all their 17 year old friends for aid.

This happened to me once.

I knew this other girl Kim, not the new boss this time. Let's call her Kim2. Kim2 lived in a 2 storey apartment. She had just had a shower. The bathroom was located on the 2nd floor of her unit. After finishing her shower she walked down a painted wooden staircase towards her bedroom. Near the base of the staircase was a plate glass window. Kim2 had slipped on a stair. Her foot crashed through the glass, severing an artery.

With a new fountain springing from her ankle region, grabbing her cordless phone, she systematically went through her speed dial list. I was located at number 4.

She hysterically explained what happened.

The Comrade: Okay, Kim(2), you need to stop the flow of blood. Take your towel and apply a lot of pressure to the region.
Kim2: Okay.... Ugh! I can't! There's too much blood!
The Comrade: Okay... but, Sweetie, you have to try.... I'm going to hang up now and call 911.
Kim2: No! Don't go!
The Comrade: I'm going to call you right back. You have to hang up now. I'll call you right back. I promise.
Kim2: But the door's locked! I can't open it.
The Comrade: Don't worry. I'm sure there are very handsome men, who are very, very strong, who will use brute force to open your door. I'll call you right back, okay?
Kim2: [weakly] Okay.
911 Dispatcher: 911 Emergency.
The Comrade: [rapid fire] There's a girl. Here's her address. She's got a fountain for a leg. Door's locked. Fuck. Um... Really heavy door.
911 Dispatcher: We're sending people out.
The Comrade: Thank you.
The Comrade: Kim(2)?
Kim2: [delirious] Hi.
The Comrade: K, they're on their way.
Kim2: I'm naked!
The Comrade: I'm sure they've seen worse.
Kim2: I feel like an idiot.
The Comrade: You're fine.
After what seems like an eternity...
Kim2: Oh, I can hear them at the door! Wow, it's so loud!
The Comrade: It's a heavy door, young lady.
[ A male moaning in the background]
(I learned later that one of the gentlemen trying to bust in, tried earnestly with his shoulder. The shoulder was subsequently dislocated.)
Kim2: [crying hard]
Emergency Rescue: Hello?
The Comrade: Hi. Friend, here. I wanted to stay on the line until you guys came.
Emergency Rescue: Yeah, we're taking her out now. If you're her friend, you might want to do a little clean-up here.

I enlisted my old idiot friend Burt to help. Burt was mutually my friend and Kim2's. Really cute. Dumb as a stump. It was a horror scene. There was both runny and coagulated blood everywhere. The plasma was the worst. Gelatinous sacks grouped and pooled all over her hardwood floors. My stomach lurched several times at different intervals. Burt had taken a once sunny yellow towel, now completely crimson, asking if we should save it. I didn't think she'd miss it.

I now know what terror smells like. I wish I didn't.


The firemen were the first crew to arrive outside of the book and CD store. Though there was snow on the ground, a young fireman, very clean cut, wore only a standard firefighter's blue T-shirt and the aforementioned hot pants, suspended by broad shoulders. I never saw his face. He swept in knowing exactly what to do. He talked to the fallen man with dignity and respect. I liked the way he gently placed a thermal blanket on him. It seemed an action of endearment. It seemed like a young man caring for his sick, aged father. In the snow. Just for that instant, I understood what all the other girls saw.

Being saved.


It's my mother's birthday tomorrow. 3 out of 4 of her kids are taking her out for lunch. I called her today. I used to call her more often. I don't call her as much as I probably should.

Mom: Could I have one of your friend's phone number?
The Comrade: Why, Mom?
Mom: Well... just in case I don't know where you are.
The Comrade: So you want to call my friends to see if I'm still alive?
Mom: Something like that.
The Comrade: Do you want Ack's phone number?
Mom: Okay!

When I talked to her today, I confirmed plans for lunch tomorrow. She told me about a trip she and my father are planning to Cuba. They go annually. They've become friends with some of the natives there. Under a Communist rule, Cuba doesn't have many of the things we take for granted: decent razors, decent running shoes, workout gear, pretty party dresses for young girls. Mom is busy shopping for these items to take to these friends they only see once a year.

At the end of the conversation she said, "You know, sometimes a phone call can make me happy for the whole day."

I was on the phone with a friend today. No, you're not getting the name! I got another marriage proposal. It was the first marriage proposal that I'd received via phone and the only one I've actually considered accepting in many, many years.

As I've often said, my mother is always right.