Works of Fiction: Bill and Bel (1/3)

Since I have written quite a few short stories, I thought I would post some of them on the site. I have chosen to share some of the older ones to appease my fandom's voracious appetite for brilliant writing, while saving some of my newer, more polished work for a collection of short stories I plan on shopping.

I wrote the following short story in 2007 as a Christmas gift for my father, who when asked what he wanted that year chose a short story. A belt or sweater would have been far-less labour intensive.

The following story will be broken-up into three parts - with each part revealed today and the two days which follow. Enjoy.

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Bill & Bel (1/3)


The brittle auburn leaves and distant smell of an intentional, arson-free fire signal the advent of fall, a season suited for a town like Eugene. Fall is the most aesthetically pleasing season for those fortunate enough to avoid the confines of urban squalor, where nature’s palette is substituted for with insipid grays, creating a banausic environment that sucks the life out of its inhabitants. Over-run by concrete and brick, America’s metropolises have sucked every last ounce of joie du vivre out of its people, where grass and soil is replaced by uninspired boxes stacked one on top of the other. Not enough can be said about the benefits of living in a town where man and nature cohabitate without conflict. Places like Eugene offer a visual treat during the fall months when the town’s trees begin to prepare for the winter freeze by shedding their leaves, creating random arrangements of brilliant colours plastering the vast spread of parks and pathways. And fall they do. Concourses and outdoor markets are covered with broad brush strokes of warm hues, allowing nature’s litter to contrast the coming cold. The leaves are thin, at times even translucent, so that they crack involuntarily when you step on them. Fall is a fitting title, but autumn is a better word.

Autumn’s warming scenes and chilling air are best served with a side of romance. There’s something about the colours that demand accompaniment by a beautiful woman. Warm hues like those of the fallen leaves encourage people to consume in excess, an idea that relates well to love. Many restaurants subscribe to this logic, using reds and oranges to create a congenial atmosphere that persuades it’s customers to eat and be merry. The same way a bronze sun and bright-blue sky can raise the lowest of spirits on a balmy summer’s day, a typical autumn afternoon can help even the loneliest find some form of love. After countless years of uncertainty and despair, Bill had finally found his autumn beauty. Isobel stumbled upon Bill by accident about a year ago in one of Eugene’s lush parks, and for a lack of conversation, it’s amazing how quickly a bond developed. The pair became inseparable, using the Pacific North-West as their playground. It was not uncommon to find the two trailblazing the most remote of wooded areas, with Isobel leading the way and Bill keeping pace alongside, face painted with an expression of curiosity and anticipation. Regardless of the setting, the two grew closer with each passing day.

At first, so as not to rush into things to quickly, I slept on the floor, Isobel in her bed. It made perfect sense to me, and I was willing to take things slow to ensure that nothing jeopardized our perfect pairing. This is assuming that I had any say in that matter, which of course is assuming a fair bit. What’s that they say about making assumptions? Shit I’ve been waiting long enough to even get in a woman’s room, let alone her bed - was I ever eager to fall asleep next to Isobel. Patience is a virtue - this may be true, but having low expectations makes life easier, that way even the smallest things feel monumental.

He was so infatuated by this woman that if asked what he most admired about her, an extensive list of qualities would immediately spring to mind, with both examples of the common; she’s so smart, funny, beautiful, etc, with those sentiments he found to be something a little more unique, something that reflects how well he knew her. Questions like these are not typical. Generally those around him don’t ask such questions, in place posing rather banal queries on the condition of the gardens or the location of the remote. Regardless of these judgmental stiffs and the way they looked down their noses at Bill, his feelings for Isobel were deep-seated, and only a few shades from fanatical. Healthy/Safe? Yes. Normal? Not so much. She was certainly a catch. Any member of the opposite sex lucky enough to have five minutes of Isobel’s time would agree. A woman whose virtues were as profound and as many as the brilliance of autumn, Bill recognized how ‘soft’ he had become with Isobel by his side and he loved every minute of it. Shoulder length-cut a deep shade similar to that of freshly brewed Colombian, Isobel’s hair added value to her physical appearance like a coat of a neutral eggshell hue the night before an Open-House. Somewhere in her late 20’s, age was certainly a friend of Isobel’s rather than an enemy, with a face that hasn’t changed a bit since her junior year in high school. Her olive skin was a blemish free palette that is best suited for as little coverage as possible. Isobel looked even better naked then clothed, a secret Bill enjoyed keeping to himself. Long-story short; Isobel was a gorgeous woman who for some reason had many struggles with the opposite sex, something Bill was confused by, and at the same time relished as an opportunity to finally find any form of companionship where previous suitors have included a river and a hockey stick. Generally love tends to be a messier venture than eating an egg-salad sandwich on the subway, however in the case of Bill and Isobel things could not have been more peaceful. Bill knew very well that he could not let the best thing in an otherwise monotonous life pass him by.

On that cold Tuesday, one of autumn’s last days of the calendar year, Isobel drove about 10 minutes northeast of Eugene towards Roote National Park, an enormously large protected area of foothills, streams and forests which epitomized the beauty of the Pacific North-West. Winding roads pierced massive rock formations that outdate every living species on the planet, separating the driver from towering forests as dense as the laws of nature will allow. This was Bill’s favorite place in the entire world. He didn’t have to say it, Isobel knew. A combination of possibly the cleanest air in the continental United States and the remarkably random symmetry of the wooded areas had meditative effects on both Isobel and Bill, as they basked in isolation from the evil world which surrounded them. At the mouth of the massive forest, long, wild grass that bled the darkest greens shook furiously at its roots, almost as if it was fighting to flee towards the welcoming forest. If you were to bend over and somehow grasp a blade of the raging reeds, it would likely cover the hand in a decadent green pigment that would stain much like those bright –blue security fluids attached to valuable items at the mall in order to dissuade thieves. Perhaps these precious blades have an equivalent mechanism, marking those who dare tear the planet’s shag carpet for their own twisted pleasure – which of course nobody does. The grass was very green. The two had walked for about 20 minutes when both realized that it was probably far too cold and increasingly windy to be out on the trail, though Bill was eager to stay out. He refrained from arguing his point, instead agreeing with his Isobel to make a run for the car. Doubling back along the route would likely have been the best option, so instead Isobel led Bill towards the general direction of the dusty field/carpark by way of some challenging terrain. Never before had the woman’s adventurous nature put the two in harm’s way, so why would it now? Between the two of them, Isobel generally made most of the decisions, many of which worked out for the better. Bill can be a pretty accommodating guy.

If hiking was intended for pussies, the forests and trails would be littered with drinking fountains, first-aid kits and topographic maps depicting the location of the nearest public washroom facilities. Obviously the closest distance between point a) and point b) is a straight line, but what if that line intersects a monumentally large expanse of steaming mounds of shit? Do you still take the shortest route? Barefoot? This trail was far more difficult to traverse, with mossy stumps and broken branches strewn throughout the passage and an increasing elevation that could quickly change the day’s activities from a hike to a climb. Bill had run ahead roughly twenty yards to stoop behind a large pine and take a leak. Though Isobel had nary a problem with Bill peeing in front of her while out on a hike, Bill was a gentleman and chose privacy over exhibition every time. The wind’s torrential pace had picked up, reducing visibility on the path so that once Bill had sprinted ahead for nature’s calling, Isobel could barely see his silhouette in the distance. The darkness showed no hesitation in blanketing the forest, with the sun ducking behind a slew of dark gray clouds and the terrain becoming more hazardous by the inch. Unable to see more than a couple of yards in front of him, Bill soon realizes that he’s pissing on his leg. Steam escapes his soaked leg blanketing his torso and head with vapor clouds of urine. Embarrassed and in obvious discomfort because of his piss saturated right leg, Bill’s head rotated rapidly at the sound of Isobel’s voice, only to find that not only could he see his love, he had no bearing on where she was with her voice bouncing off the trees, distorting its origin. Almost instantly, an immense sense of fear consumed Bill. He was lost. Panic ensues. His immediate impulse was to run, and after but a few seconds, running at full steam for dread of the unknown, Bill struck a massive tree headfirst, with the impact propelling him down a steep hill littered with jagged branches and sharp boulders. Falling head over heels down a dangerous slope is one thing; doing so while completely bewildered and disoriented by the darkness is a shade more terrifying. Somewhere between the top of the hill and the place where Bill came to rest, he had smacked his head once more, this time off of a triangular shaped rock jutting out of the slanted hillside, creating a gash about the size of a quarter behind his left ear. He passes out.

(check tomorrow's post for part 2 of 3 - thanks.)

Ruminations 5.0

My apologies for the lack of posts recently, but amidst work and writing for legitimate sources that people actually read, I have been a wee bit busy. Combine this with the fact that sometimes I would just rather curl up by the fire and write compelling and emotive teen dramas that focus on the hardships of being a young vampire - it's understandable why I sometimes allow a few days to pass between entries.

As a means of placating my rabid fan base, I return with a few points littered with the common vitriolic rage and angst you've come to love and yearn for.

I'm certain everyone has noticed the proliferation of smaller bottle caps during the last few years. These pathetic, flimsy lids are now used by several North American flat-water companies as a means of using less packaging, and as a result doing their part to lessen the environmental impact of plastic water bottles.

Ideally, an alternative to plastic water bottles could be found, considering it's an object that is surely not recycled enough for a variety of reasons, rarely reused by consumers and often left in the sun or the trunks of cars to depreciate the value and subsequently, the shelf-life of the bottle. Until a practical alternative is discovered for massive and mobile application, we are stuck with the plastic bottle.

The problem with these new bottle caps is that they are a royal pain in the ass to screw back-on the bottleneck. It often takes a half-dozen tries to turn the cap clockwise and actually have it follow the threading on the bottle. If I had a dollar for every time I threw a bottle in my bag only to find that I had not properly screwed the lid back on properly, I would be rich and not have so many tattered manuscripts of my collection of stories centered-around a mysterious teen heartthrob with a secret: he's a vampire werewolf!!!

Holy fuckin' run-on sentence. Yes I'm aware. I do occasionally proof-read items. Now for a Seinfeldian moment of reflection - What's the deal with 'centered-around'? How can something be centered, yet around? Am I missing something? Considering I'm such a literal person and a stickler for the incorrect usage of terms, I have even surprised myself today.

Anyways, where were we? Right, bottle caps. I appreciate the efforts being made by some companies to reduce their carbon footprints or whatever the fuck it is, but if it inhibits the efficacy of the product, there should be an eventual decline in sales as a result, and everybody wins. Everybody but the suits who drink San Pellegrino anyways.

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Speaking of San Pellegrino - oh how I enjoy the taste of your carbonated waters and delightful flavored drinks. Their Chinotto is second to none. The other night I stumbled upon an episode of Mythbusters on the Discovery Channel. It was a coincidence that they were discussing myths concerning deposits left by critters on the tops of soda cans, since my friend proposed the very same idea earlier in the week (if you think that's irony - stop reading this blog.) My friend seemed to think that some high percentage of soda cans have traces of rat urine and feces on the lids. I'm under the impression that drinking out of these cans may explain the bizarre taste of Mountain Dew, but leave it to the Mythbusters nerds to find the truth.

Truth be told, instead of sticking with the Mythbusters for the duration of the show, I flipped over to some reality show about fat people crying that really made me want Burger King.

Regardless of what conclusion the two nerds came to, I have now developed an aversion to drinking out of soda cans. I would like to point-out that several varieties of delicious San Pelligrinos can be found in cans, with a paper doily adhered to the top of the can to protect us from the nasty-ass bacteria left by a rat taking a crunch on your can of Faygo.

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Finally, something along the lines of my prior post concerning the death of UNICEF collections in Canada.

Does anybody trust little kids selling chocolate? I do not. Especially since these chocolates are typically 5 bones a pop for a generic, brand-less bar of shitty-ass chocolate and third-world almonds. I know you're gonna buy the new Air Jordans with the proceeds you collect from selling this garbage. Who do you think you're fooling? And where the fuck are these kids' parents?

In fighting the urge to make a generalization - I have failed, however more often than not, I will see some black or latin-american child no more then ten years old walking door-to-door selling these chocolates. I admire their courage and the size of their balls (metaphorically of course, unless one has a varicolcele or hydracele - look it up you ignorant bastards, but essentially they are inner-testicular growths), but always end up empathizing with these kids.

I guess what I'm saying is that I don't trust the kids or the chocolate, but at the same time I feel bad whenever I see these kids peddling their shit. The pity I feel for these children outweighs my dislike for the wares their selling - it just saddens me to see it. I'll be dammed if I ever purchase said chocolates, but I would not hesitate to buy the kid a San Pellegrino and smoke him a joint.

Things Done Changed: UNICEF

The other night, while helping my parents hand out miniature bags of chips for Halloween, I noticed something beyond the lame costumes that was distinctly different than my experiences as a child. Amongst the 100 children who loudly banged at my parents door, was nary a single UNICEF box.

I recall walking door to door dressed as a robot in a box that once held a fridge and exhaust tubing on my limbs, bag in one hand, UNICEF box in the other. It acted as the perfect contrast to the greed of begging for and hoarding candies.

A 50-year-old Halloween tradition in Canada is about to come to an end as UNICEF has announced the cancellation of its orange box campaign.

After consulting with teachers and parents about its Halloween program, the United Nations Children's Fund said the time has come to put the cardboard boxes to rest. Apparently the resources required to count and roll the coin in said boxed is too great to preserve the program. According to UNICEF, in recent years, Canadians have donated an average of $3 million every Halloween through UNICEF's orange box campaign.

The annual loose change collection isn't worth the money that's amassed, said Evelyne Guindon, executive director for UNICEF Quebec.
"Coin is very labour-intensive," she said. "Rolling pennies is very labour-intensive, so obviously that was one of the things teachers reflected to us."

The decision doesn't mean UNICEF is backing away from efforts to get children interested in fundraising, said Guindon. Teachers will be given opportunities to organize educational activities, that include raising money for people in need.

Critics say the aid group has made the wrong decision.

Philip Robertson, an elementary school principal who oversees three schools on Quebec's Lower North Shore, says UNICEF is making a mistake in dropping the program.

"The kids feel good about what they've done," explained Robertson, "because UNICEF normally provides little educational units about why kids are bringing the orange boxes along with them when they're trick-or-treating, and what this money's going to be used for."

The program will continue in the United States, despite the fact that rolling American coins is as labour intensive as it is for their Canadian counterparts. I don't get it.

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Nonetheless, Halloween is an enjoyable time both for children and adults. It's common thought that adults use Halloween as a means of escaping from their daily ways. Women dress in whorish garb, while men mimic their douche-baggish role models who they criticize, but deep inside the recesses of their souls they love said douchery.

Two costumes I stumbled upon caught my eye:

The kid's facial expression seals it no?


Brilliant effort for this artsy fellow


The original work by Banksy

Corrections

The need for a fact-checker on this site has never been more apparent than now. My readers may remember a post from a little more than a week ago that was a retrospective of sorts.

The very woman who once referred to me as Doorchfall dropped me a line to let me know that it was in fact the Dutch word Doortrapt that means a person who has a penchant for deceit. Thank you Lia.

Doorchfall is actually the German word for diarrhea. The similarity in the spelling of the two words is a lame excuse, as is the lack of a spell check program that filters for other languages. My apologies for the error. Don't ask me why I know the word for a bowel movement, but very little other German.

Advice For Men: 1) New Era Mods

This is the first of an endless barrage of installments in a new series of posts which will attempt to help increase the efficacy of everyday life for men. Being a man, albeit barely, I'm constantly searching for means to simplify my life.

Each article will identify an issue, the problems it may cause and the methods of simplification.

1) New Era Modifications:

As most of you likely know, New Era is a company which makes baseball hats. Their 59/50 line of hats are the official on-field cap of Major League Baseball and are available at most sporting goods stores and their flagship Toronto location on Queen West, just steps from McCaul ave. The caps, commony known as "full-backs", are fitted and based on fractions of an inch in hopes of fitting all head sizes (even Hideki Matsui's size 8.) In my case, I have a big-ass head which requires a 7 5/8th cap. My collection of hats fitted well when my hair was short-cropped, however I am currently sporting a super-lame variation of the Tom Brady, and my hats do not fit as well as before - leaving me with a dilemma.

Last year I purchased a San Francisco Giants hat because a) I like the colours and b) one of my favorite skaters, Brian Anderson often wears one and it looks pretty neat. Since I am a moderate bandwagon jumper and a major fan of Giants hurlers Tim Lincecum and Brian Wilson, I wanted to rock the SF again, but alas, I didn't fit well. Problem solved - I taught myself how to modify them.

Follow both my written and visual instructions, and you too can overcome a similar obstacle. The modifications cannot be undone, so be aware that once you cut your hair short, your hats will fit like Jules Santana - which is altogether another level of coolness and panache.

For this process you will require sharp scissors, a New Era 59/50 cap and hands. You may also find that hands are a useful tool for many other duties such as solo-sex and wiping your ass/nose/stomach (see. Solo sex.)

Step 1) Pick a hat, place it on your head and confirm that the circumference of your melon is exactly that of the equator. Once you've completed said task, grab your scissors and make the two cuts to the band on the inside of the cap (this band - once removed will give you that extra space, hence the enitre purpose of this post.)

In this case, I will use a ratty, old Yankees cap as a test model.

N.B. This is most efficiently performed while NOT WEARING the hat - don't blame me if you cut yourself/detach your retina.

Make certain the cuts are sharp and clean, as this whole method is based on your ability to operate scissors and maintain the initial form of the cap. It is essential that the cuts are close, but not touching the seams which connect the bill of the cap to the body.

Step 2) Once you've made those two cuts, still using the scissors, delicately remove some of the stitching at the absolute base of the cap by firstly cutting the seems, then removing the stitching by hand or by pulling with the scissors several seems ahead. Follow me? Start at the rear of the cap where the New Era label is stitched into the cap.


N.B. There are two sets of stitching laid-into the hat - the one you were asked to remove above, and the one that the measured inlay is stitched into the hat with. The inlay features white stitching, and an effort should be made to keep this one intact, as it will help maintain the general form of the hat.


Step 3) Continue removing the coloured stitching from the hat until the interior rim is completely removable, which should be the case if your two initial cuts were well performed and the stitches came-out with minimal effort.


At this point, all that is required is minimal clean-up as far as neatly removing any residual stitching and generally cleaning of the modified area.


Congratulations, you are now the proud owner of a newly modified and purposeful New Era cap that can now be worn regardless of quantity of hair. You can thank me later.

N.B. One last helpful nugget of wisdom for my homies - take a minute out of your hectic day, bust a few helicopter whirls and send a picture of your tube steak to a girl you work with. It worked for Favre.

Here's a collection of some of Brian Wilson's better interviews - enjoy.

R.I.P. Cosmo / Last Minutes With Oden

R.I.P. Cosmo... I fuckin' loved you buddy. I'm really going to miss you.



Please just set-aside 6 minutes of your day for this short documentary. Thank you to Bryan and Anderson @ The Film Vault - this certainly did make me cry.

Things Done Changed: R.I.P. Technics

Yesterday, Technics maker Panasonic released some sad news for anybody who is a fan of Hip Hop and analogous DJ'ing - amidst dropping sales numbers of analog equipment, Panasonic has decided to discontinue the production of Technics turntables. Since 1972, 3.5 million SL-1200 turntables have been sold, as well as countless accessories and headphones bearing the famous Technics name.

Most commonly known as Tec 12's, this analog turntable became a staple item of the majority of DJ's, mainly because of its 27 pound base, Direct Drive mechanism and solid shelf-life.

Tec 12's were not the only analog turntables on the market, but unequivocally, they were the best with more than 3 decades of reliability to its name. Should you happen to own a Tec 12, or preferably a set, hold on to it because like all other outdated electronics, these will become antiques and will certainly be of great value to collector's in the near future.

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The death of the Technics SL-1200 is an example of the increasingly-quick decline of hip hop music. As somebody who grew-up on hip hop - it is saddening to see the game like this. In and around the time I entered high school, some of the best hip hop records ever released could be found fighting for space on the shelves at local record shops.

Wu-Tang's 36 Chambers was as pivotal of a release as any, and had me contemplating wearing black toques in the summer months and balaclavas in public places. Mobb Deep's The Infamous and Nas' Illmatic painted a picture of struggle and despair in Queens, New York that by virtue of the growth of hip hop, could not be replicated today. Illmatic still stands as my favorite album of all time. Not to be left of the list, Biggie's debut album Ready to Die hit stores in '94. Tribe Called Quest's Midnight Marauders also dropped in 1993 and is also as listenable today as it was 17 years ago. On the west coast, Dr. Dre released The Chronic and Snoop broke-out onto the scene with Doggy Style - two of the best albums to drive-around to looking for trouble/honeys ever. In addition to the said albums released within this time frame, there were also highly influential releases from Tupac, Geto Boys, De La Soul, etc that marks this period as the Renaissance of Hip Hop.

Seven of the greatest accomplishments in the history of hip hop music were released within a window of a year, and despite my comfortable upbringing, I could identify with the artists and translate their struggles with gang life and broken-homes into my own with acne and losing my virginity. I feel sorry for kids growing-up today idolizing the likes of Lil' Wayne and Drake. Not to discredit the aforementioned artists, because I used to love me some Hot Boyz era Weezy, but how can any child identify with these artists and use the music as inspiration when all they're rapping about is cars, ice and hoes. At least with Mobb and Nas, I could hear their frustrations and attempt to empathize with their struggles.

The death if the Technics SL-1200 turntables is another piece of evidence of the decaying nature of hip hop music. It's sad.

Like Biggie said on Ready to Die - Things Done Changed.