To the nth Degree
Sometimes things grow exponentially.
The day after the escort home by Mark, someone Fatty had full knowledge of, Fatty came over to pick me up for dinner. I was so happy to see him but I sensed he was keeping things close to his chest and me at bay with extended fingertips at the end of a fully hyperextended arm. He kept things light. Surface. I wanted to pull him closer, but he didn't RSVP my invitation. My face registered disappointment. My eyes began to water even though my pride normally had a full time salaried bathroom attendant on duty armed at the ready with super absorbant towels. At that moment I realised my pride has nothing on my heart. My heart would always win the thumb wrestle.
"I feel I'm happier to see you than you are me," she said through a salt water fisheyed distortion.
I learned that Fatty was exhausted from not being able to sleep the night before. He had lay in bed, wide awake, continuously churning the possibility of another man taking me away from him. In the moment of realising that it didn't happen there was a seismic shift in Fatty's expression with me. And in that same moment there was a similar shift in me. All the fear of exposing too quickly went by the wayside. In an instant, Fatty was a great, big fine meshed net in which a little girl in a pink tutu could fall from great heights, at oblique angles and always be safely caught. Home.
He said: "Everything you feel, I feel. It's just been harder for me to express it."
My eyes are burning. I don't know exactly why but I'm looking suspiciously at a new 70% organic face cream I bought at my favourite health food store in the Beaches. Why would they put only 70% as a selling feature? What about the other 30%?Reading the box it states:
100% Vegetarian Ingredients
We have not tested this product or its ingredients on animals, nor have we asked others to do so.
Nor... have we asked... others to do so.
What the hell does that mean? Does that mean that when I've purchased materials specifically because they've promoted a no test pledge, they surreptitiously sent it off to other labs to have it tested? The bastards?!
It reminds me of the ad exec I'd dated once.
Though he was a great cuddler, I couldn't imagine a worse way of earning a buck. Advertising. And I told him every chance I got. He gave me the advertising skinny on Stella Artois, my preferred pour while saddled up to a 2' depth of shellacked hardwood or any other flat surface full of rings and misplaced coasters. His version was that the date inscribed on the bottle suggested that masters have been brewing this golden delight since 1366. His version stated that it was a random number the company came up with, a selling creature feature. My golden elixir, this latin star, was no different than the mass produced swill he chose to pour down his throat.
How could they put a number, any random number on a label and get away with it? Well, it turns out, and if anyone's interested in the history of the stuff it can be found on their website, that 1366 has a modicum of significance, but really... it's stretching it. This ad exec is the same dude who tried to defend his chosen industry by stating that advertising was a form of information.
Fear not, between myself and Bill Hicks, he was set straight.
For God's sakes, tell us the truth.
I feel slightly better about the face cream.
Continental marketing is an interesting beast though. In Canada, Stella is marketed towards those who feel they have distinguished taste. In England, England, Stella Artois is only drunk by belligerent thugs wearing stained wife beaters. This belligerent thug has taken to wearing bibs.
Fatty's up at his family's cottage with his guy pals, a handful of fellas whom I adore. He and his buddy Jeff wanted me to come up because I'm just as much a guy in thought, if not more crude, as any guy they know. Even though I received an open invitation to go anytime by his mother and an earnest and loving request by Fatty, I opted out for 2 reasons:
1. It's nice to miss them.
2. His dad couldn't go. The Comrade has a slight crush on the dad. Even though he was the fella who cracked open a conspiracy not unlike Russell Crowe's character had in the Insider, and we're talking proportions of the magnitude that tears families apart, I still managed to shove my size 10 foot in my mouth when I gently patted his stomach at lunch the other day and said, "Well, you've got a lot more room in there than I have."
Way to score points with the family.
God, I'm an idiot.
Fatty is the King of Stupid Hats. Luckily this is something he pulls off well. He has a massive cranium. At his family's cottage there was left an inheritance of previously loved, if not ridiculous looking, hats from bygone eras preceding the Paris Riots, the year the Comrade was born. In the summer, with a becoming royal purple velveteen track suit, Fatty will often don one of these caps to finish off whatever effect he is trying to create. He then goes to local northern bars befriending the yokels. Successfully.
Thursday was his birthday. During the day I went to Value Village, the second hand boutique, and purchased a canary yellow visor which had been once given to all the bluehaired shuffleboard-on-the-Lido-deck players on a Royal Caribean Cruiseline cruise. Above the cruiseline's logo read: I'M SHIP-SHAPE
The best $1.50 I've spent in a long time.
Fatty promised to wear the visor all weekend.
In the evening I took him to my buddy Harrington's restaurant in Kensington Market, the area once inhabited by Jewish street sellers of live chickens et al but the cloven hooved oinking varietal. Back then all the Little Piggies were able to go wee, wee, wee, all the way home. La Palette is a french inspired bistro that has a lovely consignment beer menu as large as any decent wine list. It's broken up into categories of origin and style. I love the idea of sharing a bottle of something. Wine is, to me, often over-rated, certainly overdone and often overpriced. Sharing a selection of beers while ordering off the regular menu seems a little espionage and extra delicious to me.
La Palette is home to Quack and Track.
Surf and Turf= lobster tail and filet mignon, say.
Quack and Track= duck confit and grilled horse
Paired with Unibroue's 10th anniversary commemorative ale in a lovely sharable 750mL bottle, it was quite quite.
I spent the weekend without him. I spent most of the weekend with Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend. He was supposed to be hanging out with his new young lady, a grade 5 teacher in a special languages school. Unfortunately she was down for the count with a travelling bug that snotnosed kids pass onto each other. Transluscent, infectious viral matter smeared onto written assignments, scrutinised and marred (graded) with red ink, the young teacher had an induced weakened immune system by the combination of being overworked both by the school's and Ack's I-haven't-had-it-in-a-long-time demands. Or is that worked over?
She is tattooed, but they remain hidden under the concealment of an educator's traditional drab garb. She is French Canadian. Latin based. Ah! A freeing type he could benefit from. She has a sweet face and a written profile that I liked instantly. I have never met her, but was shown all her accoutrements on the mega online dating site, the shopping centre where they'd met. Ack had thrown her in the shopping cart as he proceeded to the check-out lane restricting one to 8 items.
He's fond of her, but he's not ga-ga.
The Comrade: I don't think we're going to feel what we felt when we first met. I don't think it's possible again.
Ack: But isn't that what we're supposed to feel?
The Comrade: It makes sense to, since that's how it's been, but I don't know anymore. It's not really real, is it? And boy, does that not last.
Ack: But you should be able to know right away.
The Comrade: But what if you don't know. What if love and ardor grow, as someone once said, like a fungus? Its root system, its clinging device being trust, something that's only gained through time.
I didn't feel ga ga when I first met Fatty. I didn't feel it when we first started seeing each other. Shock was more apropos. Strangely I'm feeling it now. Ga ga. And it feels like it's grown exponentially.
The day after the escort home by Mark, someone Fatty had full knowledge of, Fatty came over to pick me up for dinner. I was so happy to see him but I sensed he was keeping things close to his chest and me at bay with extended fingertips at the end of a fully hyperextended arm. He kept things light. Surface. I wanted to pull him closer, but he didn't RSVP my invitation. My face registered disappointment. My eyes began to water even though my pride normally had a full time salaried bathroom attendant on duty armed at the ready with super absorbant towels. At that moment I realised my pride has nothing on my heart. My heart would always win the thumb wrestle.
"I feel I'm happier to see you than you are me," she said through a salt water fisheyed distortion.
I learned that Fatty was exhausted from not being able to sleep the night before. He had lay in bed, wide awake, continuously churning the possibility of another man taking me away from him. In the moment of realising that it didn't happen there was a seismic shift in Fatty's expression with me. And in that same moment there was a similar shift in me. All the fear of exposing too quickly went by the wayside. In an instant, Fatty was a great, big fine meshed net in which a little girl in a pink tutu could fall from great heights, at oblique angles and always be safely caught. Home.
He said: "Everything you feel, I feel. It's just been harder for me to express it."
My eyes are burning. I don't know exactly why but I'm looking suspiciously at a new 70% organic face cream I bought at my favourite health food store in the Beaches. Why would they put only 70% as a selling feature? What about the other 30%?Reading the box it states:
100% Vegetarian Ingredients
We have not tested this product or its ingredients on animals, nor have we asked others to do so.
Nor... have we asked... others to do so.
What the hell does that mean? Does that mean that when I've purchased materials specifically because they've promoted a no test pledge, they surreptitiously sent it off to other labs to have it tested? The bastards?!
It reminds me of the ad exec I'd dated once.
Though he was a great cuddler, I couldn't imagine a worse way of earning a buck. Advertising. And I told him every chance I got. He gave me the advertising skinny on Stella Artois, my preferred pour while saddled up to a 2' depth of shellacked hardwood or any other flat surface full of rings and misplaced coasters. His version was that the date inscribed on the bottle suggested that masters have been brewing this golden delight since 1366. His version stated that it was a random number the company came up with, a selling creature feature. My golden elixir, this latin star, was no different than the mass produced swill he chose to pour down his throat.
How could they put a number, any random number on a label and get away with it? Well, it turns out, and if anyone's interested in the history of the stuff it can be found on their website, that 1366 has a modicum of significance, but really... it's stretching it. This ad exec is the same dude who tried to defend his chosen industry by stating that advertising was a form of information.
Fear not, between myself and Bill Hicks, he was set straight.
For God's sakes, tell us the truth.
I feel slightly better about the face cream.
Continental marketing is an interesting beast though. In Canada, Stella is marketed towards those who feel they have distinguished taste. In England, England, Stella Artois is only drunk by belligerent thugs wearing stained wife beaters. This belligerent thug has taken to wearing bibs.
Fatty's up at his family's cottage with his guy pals, a handful of fellas whom I adore. He and his buddy Jeff wanted me to come up because I'm just as much a guy in thought, if not more crude, as any guy they know. Even though I received an open invitation to go anytime by his mother and an earnest and loving request by Fatty, I opted out for 2 reasons:
1. It's nice to miss them.
2. His dad couldn't go. The Comrade has a slight crush on the dad. Even though he was the fella who cracked open a conspiracy not unlike Russell Crowe's character had in the Insider, and we're talking proportions of the magnitude that tears families apart, I still managed to shove my size 10 foot in my mouth when I gently patted his stomach at lunch the other day and said, "Well, you've got a lot more room in there than I have."
Way to score points with the family.
God, I'm an idiot.
Fatty is the King of Stupid Hats. Luckily this is something he pulls off well. He has a massive cranium. At his family's cottage there was left an inheritance of previously loved, if not ridiculous looking, hats from bygone eras preceding the Paris Riots, the year the Comrade was born. In the summer, with a becoming royal purple velveteen track suit, Fatty will often don one of these caps to finish off whatever effect he is trying to create. He then goes to local northern bars befriending the yokels. Successfully.
Thursday was his birthday. During the day I went to Value Village, the second hand boutique, and purchased a canary yellow visor which had been once given to all the bluehaired shuffleboard-on-the-Lido-deck players on a Royal Caribean Cruiseline cruise. Above the cruiseline's logo read: I'M SHIP-SHAPE
The best $1.50 I've spent in a long time.
Fatty promised to wear the visor all weekend.
In the evening I took him to my buddy Harrington's restaurant in Kensington Market, the area once inhabited by Jewish street sellers of live chickens et al but the cloven hooved oinking varietal. Back then all the Little Piggies were able to go wee, wee, wee, all the way home. La Palette is a french inspired bistro that has a lovely consignment beer menu as large as any decent wine list. It's broken up into categories of origin and style. I love the idea of sharing a bottle of something. Wine is, to me, often over-rated, certainly overdone and often overpriced. Sharing a selection of beers while ordering off the regular menu seems a little espionage and extra delicious to me.
La Palette is home to Quack and Track.
Surf and Turf= lobster tail and filet mignon, say.
Quack and Track= duck confit and grilled horse
Paired with Unibroue's 10th anniversary commemorative ale in a lovely sharable 750mL bottle, it was quite quite.
I spent the weekend without him. I spent most of the weekend with Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend. He was supposed to be hanging out with his new young lady, a grade 5 teacher in a special languages school. Unfortunately she was down for the count with a travelling bug that snotnosed kids pass onto each other. Transluscent, infectious viral matter smeared onto written assignments, scrutinised and marred (graded) with red ink, the young teacher had an induced weakened immune system by the combination of being overworked both by the school's and Ack's I-haven't-had-it-in-a-long-time demands. Or is that worked over?
She is tattooed, but they remain hidden under the concealment of an educator's traditional drab garb. She is French Canadian. Latin based. Ah! A freeing type he could benefit from. She has a sweet face and a written profile that I liked instantly. I have never met her, but was shown all her accoutrements on the mega online dating site, the shopping centre where they'd met. Ack had thrown her in the shopping cart as he proceeded to the check-out lane restricting one to 8 items.
He's fond of her, but he's not ga-ga.
The Comrade: I don't think we're going to feel what we felt when we first met. I don't think it's possible again.
Ack: But isn't that what we're supposed to feel?
The Comrade: It makes sense to, since that's how it's been, but I don't know anymore. It's not really real, is it? And boy, does that not last.
Ack: But you should be able to know right away.
The Comrade: But what if you don't know. What if love and ardor grow, as someone once said, like a fungus? Its root system, its clinging device being trust, something that's only gained through time.
I didn't feel ga ga when I first met Fatty. I didn't feel it when we first started seeing each other. Shock was more apropos. Strangely I'm feeling it now. Ga ga. And it feels like it's grown exponentially.
posted by Comrade Chicken at
11:11 a.m.
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