adrian-the-elder

Stop! You're under arrest! © by adrian

2011-05-14T19:33:00.004-04:00

"Stop!" I commanded. Quickly reaching inside my suit jacket pocket I pulled out an official looking wallet. I flipped it opened and flashed the enclosed card at him. Across the top of the card in bold letters was the word PRESS. I was holding in my hands the fake Press Pass I had printed just a few weeks earlier.

"You're under arrest." I said. He dropped some tool he held in his hands and as he rose to his feet from a crouching position between two cars he put his hands in the air and quietly surrendered.

It was just about now that I realized I hadn't really thought past this point when I earlier played this little drama over in my mind. I didn't have the foggiest clue what I should do next. It was now very obvious to me that I should have prepared a tiny, tiny bit more. I hadn't understood how easy it was going to be to arrest someone with a Press Pass and I guess I thought he would just get scared and run away and that would be the end of it. Well, apparently not, and I was now the proud holder of the prisoner I had just arrested. I had made my first "collar" as is said in police circles.

It was eleven o'clock on a summer's night and the events that led to why I had just arrested my first criminal with a fake press pass and why I was now desperately trying to decide what to do next began a few weeks earlier.

Let me explain.

A few of my friends and I often parked our cars in the corner of a service station's parking lot near my apartment. We had permission from the owner to do so, but lately somebody had started taking the air out of our tires or opening the car hood and disconnecting the distributor cap wires whenever we parked there, making the cars temporarily inoperable (this was back in the 60's, long before they had locks on car hoods).

I felt this required an intervention I was easily capable of handling. I would park my car in its usual spot so I could see it from my balcony and sit there for however long it took and wait. As soon as the culprit appeared, I would then run downstairs and make a citizen's arrest. What could be simpler? Well, who knew? Apparently nothing could be simpler, but as I said, now what?

He stood there staring at me with his hands in the air and I couldn't believe how stupid the situation I had so carefully plotted was becoming. I do remember a slight moment of relief as I realized he wasn't much bigger than me. I don't know why that struck me as important, I was hardly going to do physical battle with him, but up to that moment I had no idea who or what would emerge from between the cars. I was glad to see I hadn't "arrested" King Kong. The local police station was four blocks away and I remember muttering something to him like, "The boys with the cruiser are out on another call right now so we will have to walk over to the station ourselves." I should add that because I rarely seem to miss any opportunity in life to turn stupid situations into really stupider ones, I then found myself adding, "You can lower your hands now and if you promise not to run, I will give you a break and not handcuff you." My prisoner then promised not to run as he lowered his hands. Sigh...

So, start walking we did, on our way to the police station. I wasn't sure, but I thought I could feel a song coming on. Where was my top hat and cane? Surely I had somehow trapped myself in a piece of musical theater and now was the time for my dance routine. Why had I forgotten to wear my spats? As we walked along together I tried my best to sound official and authoritative. At twenty five years of age it wasn't an easy task as mostly all I could think of at the time was what a complete idiot I was. As we started to get closer to the police station, I suddenly remembered one other small detail I seemed to have forgotten till now. I wasn't a policeman at all. I also realized I didn't know how I was going to handle that bit of sticky news once we got to the station. Maybe I could just march the culprit into an open cell and call out to the staff sergeant to "book him" as I'd seen done in so many movies and then I could be on my way before anybody noticed I didn't belong there.

To all appearances we were just a couple of guys out for an evenings stroll. Nothing particularly unusual except for the fact that one of us was assumed to be a cop and the other thought he was under arrest by the aforementioned pretender. In case you've never considered it, I can also tell you right now that it's really difficult to make small talk when you have just arrested someone. As we walked along I casually explained to him that many people had made complaints to the station about his actions and none of us could imagine why he would do such a thing. Surely he understood that disabling cars the way he did was completely illegal and caused many innocent people great difficulty. He said that he hadn't really thought about it much and as far as he was concerned, people were parking in what he regarded as "his parking spot" and he felt if he damaged their cars everybody would stop doing it and find someplace else to park and he could have his parking space back. I continued to lecture him and explained that all the boys at the station and I thought he was very misguided.

Five minutes later and there we were at the steps of the local police station. I guess if I was capable of panic, this would have been the perfect time for me to explore that side of my personality to the fullest. In that moment I felt at the very least I should have had enough sense to flee. Even back in my younger days though, I mostly always wanted to hang around when I was being a fool so I could get to watch how I would handle my predicament and what I was going to do next.

Anyway, up the steps we went and walked right in. I went directly over to the desk sergeant as though I had done this a thousand times before. He casually looked up from his typewriter and asked, "What can I do for you fellows tonight?"

I knew right off that there was no turning back now so I calmly explained that I had just made a citizen's arrest of this chap and wanted him booked and locked up for malicious damage to my and other peoples cars. Not surprisingly, the sergeant thought that was pretty funny and I understood by his chuckle that he knew right off this was turning out to be a much better night than he originally thought was in store for him.

It was just about now my prisoner realized that I wasn't a cop at all and he became extremely agitated about that detail. He started sputtering that he wanted the desk sergeant to arrest me for impersonating a police officer and false imprisonment. I explained that I never at any time said I was a policeman and hadn't imprisoned him as he had been able to leave any time he wanted. I even pointed out that in fact I had simply invited him to walk to the station with me and he had joined me of his own free will. He then insisted I had falsely shown him a police identification card otherwise he never would have complied. The staff sergeant looked from one to the other of us with amusement as he waited to hear what either of us would say next. I pulled out my press pass and showed it to the sergeant and explained that was what I had shown my prisoner and if he decided it said Police that was his problem.

Various verbal exchanges went back and forth for a bit longer and then the sergeant explained to the other fellow that I hadn't broken any law so there was nothing he could do. He then told me that what I could do if I wanted was go to small claims court and go after him for damages but he pretty well thought that was a lost cause and he wasn't going to lock him up either. He then suggested that at this point the offender had probably learned his lesson and we should both see to it that none of this went any further and he sent us on our way.

I can't remember what we talked about as we went back to the scene of the crime, but we stayed walking together all the way back to the cars. He never did anything to any of our cars again and every time we saw each other on the street we forced ourselves to wave friendly greeting to each other.

I continued to use my fake press pass to get into events I wanted to photograph but I never again tried to arrest anybody.

Little Red is in love with me © by adrian

2010-10-07T19:32:00.013-04:00

The squirrel whisperer, Episode #5

I should probably say she might be in love, I just can't be sure. Honestly though, maybe it's just a crush. I hope that's all it is, but I assure you, infatuation can be just as demanding as love. She's definitely in love with my nuts (lord knows, been there, done that!). I know it's entirely my fault, but I swear I had no idea things would get so far out of hand and turn out like this.

Let me explain how she and I got into this dreadful cross species predicament.

My bride bought a cottage in the Laurentians with her step-sister a few years ago (see my story, Little Adri’s big adventure) and during the summer we now spend some of our dotage there.

There, by the way, is full of hills and trees and water and oh yeah, adorable tiny red squirrels (or irritating, depending on your viewpoint). Previous readers of my ramblings know that I spend some of my time communicating with squirrels (or thinking I do). I love the constant state of perceived Italian excitement they seem to be in and I like talking to them. Even when they lie out with me on the back porch at home, I just know their minds are constantly busy thinking about when or from where their next adventure will appear.

Grey and Black squirrels definitely have an identifiable form of communication and I'm sure most readers have heard them squawking and yelling at each other or at us two legs. There is also much that can be stated or implied by flicking one's tail, as any woman would know. Some of the sounds they make are very bird like, so they often go unnoticed but they always definitely have seemingly important things to say to us and each other. Red squirrels on the other hand, apparently don't have the need to deal with us two legs much and mostly flee whenever they see us coming. They seem to be constantly in motion and the only sounds I had ever heard them make were a loud almost barking sound that I just assumed was their way of squawking at us. I'd never bothered trying to communicate with them because among other things, I presumed that squirrels of the Laurentians would use some local French dialect I wouldn't understand anyway.

A couple of years ago, we encountered a red whose name was Big Red and he was under the impression that the cottage belonged to him. He was obviously quite angry that we were squatting in his home.

Every time we would go inside the house he would jump to a ledge in the porch and yell at us as though we were the intruders. He would stand up and defiantly bark at us without moving an inch until we were able to finally shoo him out the door. I would bark back at him and explain that he was mistaken and wild animals were required to live outdoors, whether they liked it or not. He didn't agree with us and would be casually resting on the sofa every time we got home.

One day when we came down the hill to go inside the house he decided to confront us outside. He was twenty feet up a tree and started yelling at us to stay away. So I started yelling back. My form of rodent speak is really just to mimic as best I can the sounds they make, so we had a yelling contest.

All of a sudden he went very quiet and then after a few moments of silence he began to make the most unbelievable throaty cooing noise and then began a high pitched trilling sound while constantly running up and down the tree in obvious excitement. I had never heard anything like it in my life. He would coo and trill at almost the same time and was obviously beside himself with excitement. He then came down the tree to within a foot of my face and just stayed there staring at me while constantly cooing. I swear he looked at me adoringly. I had no idea what I had said, but he immediately decided that whatever I wanted, he would do. Now I need to quickly add that I don't think in that little bit of time I learned to speak French Canadian red squirrel. I honestly think the language breakthrough is really more about effort than actual squirrel speak. I believe the little dears at some point simply decide that if a two legs is going to make that much effort to talk to them, they should be allowed into the circle. From that moment on, Big Red never bothered us in the house again and would trill and coo at me whenever I showed up.

Later on, we met Little Scruffy.

Generally speaking, reds are very fastidious and tidy looking. Always immaculately groomed and clean. Little Scruffy was the exception and was the messiest unkempt back alley looking rodent we'd ever seen. He was full of swagger and obviously tough, a true street urchin. You just knew by looking at him that he was a mischievous terror. Whenever he showed up Big Red and all the other squirrels immediately fled.

One day I was conscripted to take down a large backyard galvanized metal shed so I got my sledge hammer and started demolishing it. Little Scruffy got into a tree above me and started watching. To pass the time I started to talk to him and made my usual goofy sounds in order to pretend I knew the secret language. Well, it didn't take long before he started to run up and down the tree, trilling and cooing like crazy. He got an immediate crush on me and wouldn't leave the area all day even though I was making a tremendous racket smashing at the shed. Every time I would stop to relax he would come down the tree and lie on the ground nearby staring at me affectionately, continuing to coo all the while. I saw him on a few other days after that and every time he saw me he would run over to me like a puppy and start cooing.

Now Little Red, well, she is something else again.

She lives in an old wooden shed near the house and has been in crush with me since we first met a few years ago. A few days after I first arrive every spring she always realizes I'm on site and starts calling to me. It must be love because she bats her eyes at me now and has on occasion brought pine cones from her secret stash over to me and drops them at my feet when I go outside.

If I don't see her nearby I call to her and she will be on the roof of the shed in no time at all cooing and making her trilling call. Some mornings she will sit outside and call to me and won't stop until I go out and give her a peanut. My bride Linda is amazed that Little Red has trained me so well in such a short time. She has asked Little Red to give her some pointers, but so far to no avail. When other people stay at the cottage they say they see her maybe once or twice but I see her almost every day and we always have time for a little chat together.

I've set aside an area of the shed that we've marked as hers and she's filled it up with shreddings, leaves and pine cones so I know she's looking forward to a comfortable winter. She has asked me to stay the winter but runs off in a pique screaming at me when I ask her if she has any ideas on where I could find a large fur coat so I could be comfortable living in the shed with her.

I will be going back to close up the cottage in a few weeks and have one more chance to spend a bit of time with her before winter sets in. Then it's back to waiting for the spring so we can get together again and share stories of what we did in the long dark months of winter.

Little Red doesn't seem to care too much that I'm married and I have to confess, when I look at how beautiful she is and listen to the alluring things she says to me, I don't care much either.

Long distance love affairs are always fraught with difficulties but when you add this cross species business to the mix it's almost downright impossible. I think next year I will try to set her up with a computer so we can email each other during our absence. She has such exquisitely long paws so I'm sure she would master typing in no time at all.

Road Rage! © by adrian

2010-04-22T14:04:00.001-04:00

As I reluctantly come to a stop, a passenger from the huge black Cadillac beside me jumps out and pulls open my car door. Startled, I look over to him and notice a rather large hammer rapidly descending toward my head. I have a brief moment to feel really disappointed about the way this evening is turning out before realizing I better do something quickly or I may never have the opportunity to feel really disappointed again. Everything is happening, as us old photographers say, in a flash.

Let me back up a few minutes...

It's just past midnight on a warm summer's night and I'm casually driving along Bloor Street. I'm thirty-three years old and feeling just fine in my little 1968 Cortina, thank you very much.

The Cadillac, before becoming interested in me, was originally going in the opposite direction of my travel. There were a few girls on my side of the street (the recurring story of my life, it seems) and the fellows in the Cadillac made a u-turn directly in front of me so they could converse with said ladies. Because of that, I needed to swerve and quickly stop in order to avoid a collision. I voiced my displeasure by blasting my horn and then continued on my way. The chaps in the Caddy were immediately rejected by the girls they sought (probably a recurring story of their life) and so they were now mad at me because, as far as they were concerned, by being in their way I had destroyed any chance of a blissful night for them. So they decided to pursue me. After all, boys will be boys.

They kept trying to maneuver ahead of me as they chased me and my car along Bloor Street, but the little Mario Andretti I keep bottled up inside me reared his ugly head and refused to let them pass. Up the road a bit I could see a car double parked ahead of me and with a sinking feeling I knew that no matter what I did, I was about to be boxed in by the Cadillac cruising to my left. I have to admit that just before I came to a full stop, I had no idea I was on the cusp of a new fad called road rage. I mean, after all, this was the friendly 70's. We didn't even bother locking our car doors in those days. Even if I had known, I really had no time to appreciate that once again in my life, I was a trend setter.

As I was saying, the door flew open and there it was, plain as day, no mistake about it. A full sized hammer was being swung toward the non-existent nail in my head. The holder of said hammer was definitely determined to cause me serious injury. Sigh…

I kicked both my legs out the open door as I twisted my body sideways. I thought I might have time to push him and his hammer away from me and my head. In the same moment I summoned an enormously loud scream from the depths of my being. I hit a high C that would have made Pavarotti, had he been nearby, weep with envy and bow to the power of my lungs. Loud as my scream was, it wasn’t quite loud enough to diminish or drown out the crack of breaking bone I heard as the hammer connected with and shattered my left kneecap.

Then they were everywhere.

Five, ten, a dozen perhaps, young, strong and swarthy men appeared from nowhere and dragged him off me. He was on his knees now, in the middle of the road and a few of them held him as others kept hitting and yelling at him to drop the hammer. I have to confess that as I watched him being pummeled, I wasn’t able to muster the slightest bit of compassion towards him. To be really honest, I kind of hoped he wouldn’t drop the hammer, now that the tables had turned. While all this was going on, two police cruisers, with sirens blaring came roaring to a stop nearby.

"Whoopee!" I thought, "We're going to have a party."

Police jumped out of both cars with guns drawn screaming at everybody to stay where they were. Sitting in the car with blood gushing from my newly broken kneecap, I found it surprisingly easy to accommodate their demand. The crowd parted as the police charged into the middle of the melee, but the fellow with the hammer still kept his grip on it. I suspected by now it had become his Linus blanket and he was determined not to part with it. A loud "drop your weapon!" order from a policeman with his gun drawn seemed to bring the fellow to his senses. As he let the hammer fall, he was quickly handcuffed and pulled to his feet.

"All right, who's going to explain to us what the hell is going on here." one of the policemen shouted. The gathered crowd all turned in one silent motion and looked towards my Cortina and me, as none of them knew the answer to that question. They had apparently been summoned by god to save me, but didn't have the faintest idea why. In fact, all of them had been minding their own business hanging out in the all night pizza joint I ended up stopped in front of. The double parked car belonged to another who had simply run in to pick up his pizza. My cry for help had produced the testosterone spike needed to have their collective adrenalin drive them all outside ready to do battle.

As the assailant was led away and placed in the back seat of one of the patrol cars, the other policemen came over to me to find out my version of what happened. At the same time, everybody became aware of the Cadillac's driver hanging about and he was also taken to a police car.

As the policeman started taking notes, we both quickly became distracted by the blood seeping through my pants. I wasn't in any pain yet and had briefly forgotten why we were gathered there myself. On his insistence, I pulled up my pant leg in order to see what I had won. Well, my kneecap was a mess. It didn't look anything at all what I remembered it had looked like earlier in the evening. Bits of bone sticking out, torn, loosely flapping flesh and lots of blood, I obviously needed some serious medical attention. The policeman went back to his car and brought back a large roll of gauze that he helped me wrap around my knee.

As I said, I was not in any pain yet and so we decided that seeing as my right leg was fine I could drive to the hospital myself rather than wait for an ambulance. He also decided that he would lead the way and finish taking his notes when we got to the hospital. The assailant and his driver were both secured and being interviewed by the other policeman. The gathered crowd was in such high spirits chatting amongst themselves about what a great time everybody was having, it seemed a shame to leave them, but I obviously needed to get my kneecap glued back together (or whatever it is they do in such circumstances) so, off we went. Because I arrived at the hospital with my very own police escort, I was immediately whisked away to a private area and didn't have to wait in any line... Believe me, if you have to go to a hospital emergency clinic, take the police with you, I guarantee you will get quick and attentive treatment.

X-rays were taken and as a doctor tucked everything back inside my knee and started stitching it all together again, the policeman continued to interview me and take notes. I was given a tetanus shot, sleeping pills and some pain killers. I was told to stay off my leg as much as possible and come back in three or four days so they could see how successful the sewing had been. After instructing me not to leave town because I was now a material witness in any potential criminal proceedings, the policeman wished me well and I was sent on my way.

It was about four o'clock in the morning by the time I got my weary body home and into bed. As the medication helped me drift off to sleep I remembered I needed to get up early so that I would have time to ready myself for a first date with a lady I met just a few weeks earlier. I didn't even know if I would be able to walk the next day and my last thought before sleep won over was, "Boy, I bet that should work out really well."

As it turned out, my date did indeed work out really well. This was, as I mentioned, the early 70's and she was part of the first wave of women who a few years earlier had decided to return to university to explore their options and become more independent.

She lived in the suburbs with her husband, two cars, two teenage children and a house complete with a swimming pool in the backyard. I originally met her at a job I was shooting pictures at and suggested we get together for a harmless cup of coffee on the university campus some time. Of course she said no. After three weeks of phoning her every day to chat about how her life no longer looked the same as it used to before she went back to university, she said yes.

Now, the reason I mention all this is because in some small bizarre way, my newly acquired broken kneecap helped contribute to the theatrics of our first date. Dating, after all, is foremost about presentation, you know.

I drove into the university grounds and saw her sitting on a small hill under a tree. It was a beautiful sunny day and she had arranged herself so the backlighting sun cast a shimmering halo around her body. After parking and struggling out of the car I reached inside to pick up an old gnarled cane I had brought along as a necessary prop. As I limped up the hill towards her I swear I could hear angels singing. Certainly at the very least, some hokey, mushy sound track from any romantic movie you could think of. I was ten years younger than her and had very long hair, but the cane and the limp gave me a certain maturity and serenity I could never have pulled off on my own. Both of us succumbed to the intoxication of that first meeting. Six weeks later, after many more daytime rendezvous, she left her previous life and moved in with me and we set out on a very happy next ten years chapter of our lives.

Anyway, back to my damaged knee. I did need to return to the hospital again to get some more stitches and a few times after that for more examinations but after a month or so it finally started to slowly heal. Walking up and down stairs sometimes is a challenge and it never was quite the same old knee it used to be, but I'm sure if he had connected with my head my knee would have been the least of my worries. I also had to attend a preliminary hearing so the police could determine what to charge the perpetrator with. As it turned out, a few months after that he was charged with assault with a deadly weapon and I received a summons to go to court to testify against him. The driver was not charged with anything, as he claimed he had absolutely no idea his passenger would do such a thing.

Facing him in court was certainly a very frightening and surreal experience, but having guards everywhere gave me the illusion of security. He had been out on bail since the incident and his trial ended up taking far less time than the assault itself. He was convicted and sentenced to six month in jail and then immediately removed from the courtroom in handcuffs. After all, if he had hit me on the head as he originally intended, he could very well have killed me and I would never have been able to tell you my story.

Into the Witness Protection Program © by adrian

2009-10-20T08:37:00.004-04:00

Well, not exactly. I mean after all, would I really be writing a public blog if I was in the witness protection program? Actually I ended up not quite in and not quite out (a not unfamiliar position for me).

What I actually went into was a mostly unknown plan in Canada that is quaintly named the Voluntary Disclosure Program. For some strange reason the many government tax ladies and gents I eventually ended up dealing with (they called themselves my handlers) just seemed to think it was thigh slappingly funny whenever talking to them I referred to the program they let me into as the witness protection program, so I'm sticking with that name. Believe me; making government tax officials laugh and slap their thighs is a lot of fun...

I've mentioned previously that I was a hermit. I more or less dropped out of society many years ago and have lived a Spartan life by choice ever since.

Here's how it all came about.

Around 1975 or so in my career, I worked as a personnel manager for a large chain of camera stores and was paid oodles of money (see my story In praise of Bill Gates). When I quit that job I just bummed around and took it easy for a year and didn't work at all. I vaguely remember something about smoking a lot of dope, but I could be wrong on that one. I guess if I could remember that part, it wouldn't be true at all...

The year after that, the government of Canada noticed I hadn't filed any tax return for the missing year and so they assessed me for taxes owed based on what I earned earlier. I didn't notice this though because next to answering phones and responding to doorbells, opening mail has never been high on my list of things I must do.

So, I found out about the assessment when it was too late to file an appeal. Even though they eventually did acknowledge that I was unemployed and had no income that year, they still insisted that the incorrect tax assessment had to be paid in full because I had missed the appeal deadline.

There were letters back and forth, threats and demands made, but nothing that made any sense to me so I ignored it all. Then they started randomly garnisheeing my bank account. Government garnishees stay in effect for ninety days, so even if you have no money in the bank when they hit it, any deposits made in the next ninety days after that get automatically sucked up by them too. This presents a rather difficult obstacle in meeting other financial obligations like mortgage and car payments.

I started making visits to their office which was on Front Street in Toronto. That didn't produce any more results than the mail did and they just insisted I had to pay even though everybody agreed I technically shouldn't owe any money. Appeal filing deadline rules were unshakable. So, at my last appointment with them I explained that I was leaving now. I told the rather shocked tax agent that I would happily hang around in the laneway downstairs for five minutes. If they wanted to send the guys with baseball bats down to talk to me that was fine, but after five minutes I would be gone and they would never find me again.

Just like that, just like in the movies! All balls and bravado, nothing frightened me when I was in my thirties. So I dropped out and became invisible. Hiding, as is said, in plain sight.

I ordered a phone in my dog's name and used that to start building an identity. I almost tripped up when the Bell person taking the phone order unexpectedly wanted to know my first name. I quickly thought "Furry" but stopped myself in time and chose "Harry" instead, (I also resisted the temptation to spell it Hairy). I became a new man (or puppy, as the case may be) and quickly disappeared from the tax records.

Now, for all you moralists out there who may think it's atrocious and unpatriotic not to pay the tax man (person?), try getting hit with a tax bill for a few thousand dollars you don't owe and then let me know how moral you feel about it.

I'd also like to clear up a potential misunderstanding. It is definitely illegal to file a false tax return, but there is nothing illegal in simply not filing a return. The tax people will get mad at you, but no laws have been broken; lie in a return you file though, and you're in trouble. I always filed and paid my business Retail Sales tax every month and even though I used my real name for that (not my dog's) nobody ever noticed that I didn't file anything else.

From that day more than thirty years ago till now I've kept all my receipts, T4 slips and miscellaneous tax information in what has now grown to be many, many large boxes. I always felt if they kicked my door in I would be able to point to the boxes and insist I had all my records available. Pick any day or year from the past thirty and in no time I will be able to produce a receipt of how much I earned or spent that day.

When it finally came time for me to apply for my old age pension I thought the jig was up. I just knew that as soon as my forms arrived on some official's desk they would reach for the red phone they all must have and let the guys with the baseball bats know that they had finally found me. Surely they have been driving around Toronto night and day looking for me for the past thirty or so years. This was finally the big chance they'd been waiting for to get their revenge.

Well, it didn't happen.

Instead, a few months later I got a lovely letter from the government thanking me for living such a long life and promising to send me five hundred dollars a month from then until I fell over dead. They even said that I was going to also receive a second cheque from the Canada Pension Plan. I had applied for CPP but seeing as I had contributed such a small sum in my documented working career I thought I would be lucky if I got anything more than $1.69 a month (I thought old Harry the dog was entitled to more than me). As it turned out though, once again they put me on the fast track to riches and hooked me into an additional monthly cheque.

I was curious as to how they arrived at the number they had for the CPP amount, so I went over to their office to inquire. I explained I didn't object, in fact I loved what they were going to send me, I just wanted to know how they got to that number. Was a scientific formula used or did someone simply throw darts at a board with numbers on it? The clerk took my information and went to one of their office machines. A moment or so after punching in my data a printout was discharged from the beast. She stared at it for a minute and then she came back and handed me a printout of all the money I had paid into the system, (not much, as it was). She leaned over the counter and whispered to me "If I were you I would just shut up and go back home, I have no idea how they decided to even give you a penny." So, I shut up and went back home.

I was rich, the money just started pouring in and all I had to do was stay alive. Then in 2007 the government decided that they would now allow income splitting to apply between spouses (one of which I am). However, seeing as I still hadn't filed any tax returns since 1976 my bride Linda thought it best if I just "shut up and went back home."

By 2008 the potential savings for Linda's taxes if we split our incomes was just too large to ignore, so I decided to turn myself in.

The Voluntary Disclosure Program is set up so that the only way in is to write a confession to the government listing your tax crimes, declaring why you did it, and get this... you also need to tell them what you think would be the appropriate penalty they should impose on you for your wrongdoing. If they like your submission they will let you in and if you're honest and disclose everything you did that was bad, they potentially might forgive you. If they don't like your confession, now that they know everything about you, I guess we get back to the guys with the baseball bats (I mean after all, they need to earn a living too).

Linda and everybody I knew insisted I shouldn't do it. When I looked up information on the Web every opinion available also insisted that if I did it without legal assistance, I was a fool and would loose everything I ever owned and spend the rest of my life behind bars. Of course, all those opinions came from lawyers. So, what the hell, with that much encouragement, I just couldn't resist writing up my confession and sending it in.

Now, it may come as a surprise to you my treasured readers, but I'm not very respectful when I get presented with idiotic things and this struck me as very idiotic indeed. So I wrote my confession and extensive list of crimes with the light touch of insanity I felt was befitting such silliness. How could I not?

About two months later I got my welcome aboard the Voluntary Disclosure Program admission letter.

My composition had been accepted. I had supplicated myself in a manner that was deemed worthy. My confession was adequate and I had passed! I now had my own ID number and was given temporary government immunity and the names of my handlers in the St. Catherines tax office to which all future communication was to be directed.

Seeing as I now had government immunity, I filed my 2008 return, the first in thirty years and we split Linda's income. The tax office promptly thanked me and sent me a large tax refund cheque. I convinced Linda that she should re-file an amended return for 2007, I would also file and we would again split our incomes. Sure enough, I got another thank you and a larger tax refund cheque this time. I had tapped into the mother lode. Life is good!

Eventually my handlers decided that just filing the past ten years was more than enough... oddly, they were starting to loose patience with the sarcastic new nutbar they had inherited.

I phoned the Ottawa tax office and ordered up fifteen years of tax forms prior to 2007. I felt filing the extra five years would be an extravagance worthy of my effort. While I was waiting their arrival I got all my old receipt boxes together. After taking them outdoors and cleaning the mouse droppings and spiders out of them I started sorting fifteen years of T4 slips and related stuff.

Originally I had been granted ninety days immunity from any prosecution. I thought that was not enough, so I wrote them explaining that I was an old addled man that needed more time, so they gave me an additional sixty days to complete my class assignment.

When everything arrived from Ottawa we tossed all the boxes in the car and drove to the Laurentians where I sat naked in Linda's cottage and had an extremely sacrilegious and fun time filling out my tax forms. In fact it went so smoothly, we both started to feel disappointed I wasn't doing them all the way back to 1975.

When I had them finally completed I put them all together and mailed them in a large priority post box to my St. Catherines handlers.

About a month later I got a terse official notice from the team leader of the enforcement branch of their office stating they found from my recent tax filings that I had not been bad enough to be punished. I quote from their letter:" therefore a penalty would not be appropriate in your situation" (I detected a note of disappointment) and they had decided to just send all my crap on to "the appropriate taxation centre for regular processing".

So, my stay in the witness protection program was terminated. Linda and I are still waiting for the letter that says I can finally throw away all those old receipts.

Ah, but it was all worth it. I have finally redeemed myself and am now an upstanding and up to date, I might add, member of society.

Getting into the swing of things © by adrian

2009-09-01T09:53:00.003-04:00

Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice

I swear this is how it happened. I still insist I was totally innocent...

Up till the mid eighty's I lived a quiet monkish life in my studio without much regard for the outside world. During that time there were about a half dozen or so lovers who would occasionally drop by. Some white, but mostly black women. Long time holdouts from the black period of my life, (see my story Accidently black) who still liked to drop in for what my ego referred to as tune-ups. There were also new ladies along the way who would become interested in me and start dropping by. Just enough sex so that I was always able to keep my nose in other peoples business, as it were. Overall though, nothing too complicated.

As usual, it all started with a simple photo session. When she came in I had no idea this was the beginning of a new phase in my life. I thought she was good looking, but she didn't arouse me much at all. She had a delightful girl next door charm and that was about all I felt about her during the photo session. Until then I had been mostly drawn to dark, mysterious and exotic women. Yet somehow, that casual photo session managed to turn into twelve years of almost constant sexual arousal.

Every person I've ever dealt with had a story to tell me, some explanation or reason for why they ended up in my studio instead of the Sears portrait studios. Hers was a little different but not unique. She was leaving her husband and the fellow she was leaving him for was getting nervous. She wanted some sexy pictures to help remind the new fellow of her charms.

After the session I gave her my standard impersonal hug and told her I was sure we had made some great shots in the sitting.

I always phoned my clients the day after a sitting. This call served more or less as an "I still respect them in the morning" sort of call in case by the next day they felt they may have gone a little too far during the shoot. As a bonus, of course, this also kept the client firmly connected to the excitement of the sitting.

So, as was my fashion, I called her the next day to let her know how delighted I was with the way her session had gone. This was just a brief call, but I knew immediately that there was something a little different happening here. A nervous tremor in her voice suggested some future promise. Some excitement I hadn't noticed or paid any attention to the night before.

I should mention that I never made a sexual pass at anybody who interested me until the business end of our transaction was completely finished. Not necessarily out of any moral principles, simply that I find it difficult to extract money from someone I'm carnally involved with (unless we're role playing some game that involves my partner leaving money on the dresser to pay me for my services). My landlord, to whom I needed to pay my rent every month, totally endorsed this very practical business approach.

Her photos were ready a few weeks after the shoot and she arranged to come in and pick them up. I thought when she came by I would make my move and ask if she had any interest in getting together. Disappointingly, I had to scuttle my plan when she looked through the shots and decided to order a couple of 16 x 20 enlargements from the sitting. She gave me a deposit for this new order and went on her way.

I had my own colour lab so I immediately went down to the darkroom and started to print them. I was becoming quite interested in the possibility of getting some more of her and the sooner I could get our financial dealings out of the way I would be able to find out if she had considered or would consider exploring any future contact with me.

When she came to pick them up the following week I suggested that if she needed a temporary refuge from the demands the current changes in her life were making, she was more than welcome to call me and we could have a quiet dinner together if she wanted. As it turned out, she wanted! A few weeks later she came over for dinner and ignited the beginning of a long, new chapter in my life.

For the next few months or so, whenever she found the time she would call me and drop over to the studio if I was available. We would spend a few hours exploring each others bodies and then she would go back to work or disappear into the night. During this time she was still looking for a place to move to with her young daughter so they could start living on their own and she could make the final break from her husband. I had seen some photos of him and he was a big burly bear of a guy who drove a Harley Davidson bike. She was also still seeing the boyfriend who was now becoming less important to her.

As luck would have it, the apartment above my studio became available to rent. At the time we both thought it would be great fun to have a fuck buddy nearby and would be kind of neat to have an available lover living upstairs or in her case downstairs, so she decided to move into the apartment.

During this time my lifelong friend Bill did his best to convince me that there must be an easier way to commit suicide than the path I seemed to have chosen. He was sure the biker dude who was twice my size would inevitably try to kill me. Rational thinking has rarely gotten in the way of mankind's sexual interests, so naturally I helped her move.

After moving in she continued to see her husband. They hadn't become enemies, they just didn't want to live together anymore. He never presented any difficulty to our relationship and in fact turned out to be a gentle prince of a guy who I got to know a bit over the next dozen years.

During this time her boyfriend set up a threesome for her with another girl and himself. This was more about his fantasy than anything else and although it didn't excite her much, it did pique her interest. So we started talking about trying out things she and I could do together that would interest her more.

After months of talk and debate about what we wanted and might like to try, as well as exploring how we felt about the concept of jealousy, we joined "Club Eros" which was the only swingers club in town at the time.

As far as jealousy is concerned, that part for me was easy. I simply have never felt jealous about any companion I've been with. I always enjoy that the woman I am with is coveted by other men. I also never compare myself to others; I know there will always be many smarter or richer men with bigger dicks or more adept tongues than mine, so I just don't care. On the other hand, it has always proved to be much more of a challenge for my companions... I dealt on a daily basis with gorgeous women that were scampering around my studio with their clothes off, so the women that sign on for a trip with me have to be pretty sure of themselves to be comfortable with that.

Anyway, the club ran weekly theme party dances at a private bar that many people would frequent. It's not quite as archaic as the old "key clubs" from the seventies, but swinging is certainly a unique and alternative approach to sexual activity. At the bar people mostly swim around each other (just like singles bars I would imagine) and zero in on couples that appeal to them for whatever reason. If interest proves mutual then arrangements are made to meet somewhere "off premises" for those that are in a hurry or to get together at another time for the more patient in the crowd.

I have this theory that your partner can actually be thought of as additional bait in the swinging culture. If that's true, then it's no wonder that I was originally an extremely useless piece of bait. I can't dance, am totally tone deaf, couldn't find a beat if my life depended on it. I hardly drink at all, and hadn't been in a bar in about thirty years. So I sat there rather somberly trying without success to look cool and casual. There's little doubt that I was not exactly viewed from across the room as the most comfortable choice to get together with. My features are fairly angular and I have deep set dark eyes, so even at the best of times when I'm my playful child self, I look pretty severe. I eventually learned from people I got to know that many were surprised I didn't have a chainsaw resting on my lap. The overall consensus was that I just didn't look very inviting. So after a few unsuccessful visits we tried ads in adult newspapers instead.

When you run an ad with unusual requests, this is what you can expect to get in the way of replies... About one third will be thigh slapping funny and utterly impossible to consider, one third can be put in a pile that you will call if nothing else works out and a third can be considered possible. We started with about sixty replies, so initially we had about twenty potential victims, ah, I mean couples, to meet with and sniff out whether we wanted to get together on a more intimate level.

We started filtering what we could by phone and had a few casual meetings at coffee shops and bars, but nothing really clicked for us. We were getting pretty fed up with it all when we finally met with a couple who seemed to be exactly what we had set out to find in the first place. They were novice swingers and because we were too, nobody felt intimidated. We all decided this would be the ideal way to start off and satisfy our curiosity. We set a date for dinner at their place a few weeks down the road.

The whole idea was very exciting for us and thinking and talking about it for the next few weeks proved very horny indeed.

This could be where I interject some anecdote about how the evening went awry, but it didn't go wrong at all. The whole evening turned out to be a spectacular success. We got together and sat around on the floor in the living room chatting about everything and nothing. This was late nineteen eighty but it was just like being in the sixty's or seventy's again, the only thing missing (fortunately) was disco music and the fondue pot. We then had a comfortable dinner and talked about everybody's expectations and needs. After dinner we returned to the living room floor and continued with a lot of verbal foreplay.

I don't know which one of us proposed the obvious, but I think it was probably me. I'm generally the first one in any crowd to remind everybody why they got together and in this case I suggested that this would be a really good time for everybody to get naked and start exploring the possibilities. Well we did, and everything was far better than we had hoped it could be. The experience was very exciting, sensual and exploratory. It would not be misleading to call the whole evening intensely exotic.

I found it extremely horny to watch my companion blow our new found friend and she too was turned on watching me explore his partner. There were some confused amateur moments when nobody knew what to do... it was sort of like being in a candy store that you owned. It seemed the choices were unlimited and sometimes it was very difficult to decide what to do (and to whom) next. Although we were lost in the excitement of these new people, we also remained very aware of our own partner's needs. We both had agreed before we got there that we would not abandon each other, no matter how much fun we were having with the others.

Fatigue eventually got the best of all of us and by about four in the morning we decided we were satiated and couldn't take (or give) anymore. When we went home that night we talked about how we were so used up that we would probably need a month to recover before we could be able to enjoy each other again.

Well, were we ever wrong about that! It turned out that evening of exploration made us so horny that we couldn't stop talking about it or keep our hands off each other over the following months. Over the next year or so we continued to have dates with that first couple. In the next dozen years we made many new intimate longtime friends as we became converts and proponents of the swinging lifestyle. We eventually even held seminars at some Club Eros and other swinger conventions.

Last I heard she and her new partner were still very involved in swinging and although I now live monogamously I still advocate for the lifestyle. I don't miss it, but still think it is a great alternative for those who have strong relationships and are willing to be more adventurous in expanding their circle of friends in such an intimate way.

There's litter everywhere © by adrian

2009-06-20T16:02:00.017-04:00

The squirrel whisperer Episode #4

I assumed when I started writing this blog that I would regale my hoped for audience with many titillating stories of travels behind the spotlights and in the darkrooms of the world. I foresaw lust and sexuality dripping from as many pages as possible. A few readers who have written me with comments have suggested they also looked forward to that very same thing.

Alas, this photographer and current writer-poser has become stuck in the rodent trap, as it were. What I am serving up for now is another visit with Rusty and her six baby squirrels from my previous story A lot of litter The squirrel whisperer Episode #3. This will be more along the lines of what used to be called a photo essay, with a lot of pictures and not much, as the squirrels would say, squawking.

Like juveniles and adolescents everywhere, the squirrels already seem very independent and quite full of themselves. At the same time they have developed an extremely affectionate and apparently loving relationship with each other. Whenever they meet up with another of their siblings they poke noses and hug as they pass each other on their travels. It's not uncommon to look out and see one with their arm around another.

They occasionally tumble and wrestle briefly together and then go on their own way.

Sometimes brushing noses seems so boring and commonplace so the only sensible thing to do is just grab the other guy and plant a big sloppy kiss on them.

Once in awhile they follow another to see what treasure they might find together, but mostly they move about on their own now.

As we watch the squirrels lay about in a pack on their house porch it's apparent they have perfected the art of hanging about and doing nothing. Their porch sometimes looks like someone from the prop department of Walt Disney's studio has come by and sprinkled a bag of miniature squirrels all over it. More like caricatures of squirrels rather than the ones we're used to seeing scurrying about everywhere.

The laying out is always punctuated with one of the crowd starting to groom another.

Judging by the look on mom's face, she seems to be a big fan of having her ears chewed. I have occasionally suggested that her and I get behind the tree and give it a go, but so far she has declined. When I remind her I used to scratch her dad's ears and he loved it, (see my story The squirrel whisperer, Episode one: Lurch) she insists that as far as she's concerned that would be carrying this cross species thing way too far. I think she's just playing hard to get, so I will persist.

Ear chewing and cleaning is certainly a favorite, but occasionally one will roll over on his back so the groomer can give his feet a good going over.

Leaping to and from the bush is also great fun and they never miss an opportunity to experience the thrill of flying through the air.

The raccoon I mentioned in my previous story did manage a mini raid on the house one night but she must have been driven off quickly by the activity of so many bodies and she didn't get to inflict too much damage. The children were able to immediately turn the pulled out bedding into a new toy.

Rusty spent all the next day moving everybody out to somewhere else, sometimes carrying the children on her back.

The baby that I mentioned in episode three who I thought might want to eventually stay living in the house refused to leave, really pissing mom off. She tried dragging, pushing and pulling but the baby has a mind of his own and refused to go with the rest of them. He ended up sleeping over in the damaged house by himself that night.

The next morning we watched as the little one who wouldn't leave made up with mom when she came by for a visit and all was forgiven.

Rusty then moved all the others back to the house. They spent the rest of the day tidying up the remaining mess (overturned lamps and end tables I would guess) and have been living together in the house ever since.

The children are now quite comfortable coming to our porch to get a drink of water from the dish we leave out for them.

Occasionally they do stop to ask if this is also the peanut house, and if so, would it be too much trouble for us to get them one.

Anyway, that's about all I can tell you for now, but the children did want to send out a big high five from the rodent clan to all you two legs.

A lot of litter © by adrian

2009-05-01T22:31:00.022-04:00

The squirrel whisperer Episode #3

I've never heard the Mermaids sing, but I have talked to the baby squirrels.

Rusty has finally begun to display her litter to us. She is now allowing her infants out of the drey (a squirrel house) so they can start hesitantly exploring life on their own.

Rusty, you should understand, comes from the finest rodent stock in our valley, so we are very excited to see her reproduce. She is the progeny of Lurch (see my story; The squirrel whisperer © by adrian Episode one: Lurch) and Missy who was the squirrel that lived with Lurch and helped care for him after his accident with the big wheels.

Squirrels have very pragmatic names in general and because of her colour, she insisted on being called "Rusty". I remember one of our visiting squirrels who was the most adorable rodent we had ever seen. His name was "Tiny Perfect", but after he had an accident and most of his tail was ripped off he quickly explained to us that he had decided to change his name to "Almost Perfect".

Most two legs don't realize that squirrels lead very tragic lives. Not only must they remember not to play in the street with the big wheels, but they are constantly pursued by a myriad of predators. As well as dealing with the children who love to chase them, they need to stay alert for dogs, cats, raccoons and large birds that all seem to be constantly on the lookout for inattentive squirrels. They are also not averse to having some fairly serious squabbles among themselves.

We knew she was pregnant at the beginning of the year when she started hanging out for hours on her porch. At the time she seemed very reflective and rarely left the drey. She always had a look that seemed to suggest she didn't quite understand how this had happened to her. A sure sign to a squirrel whisperer that there is definitely something in the wind.

She is living in our backyard in the same house she grew up in a few short years ago. She was just an infant and now she has become the grande dame of the valley.

During the past few months we would occasionally see her stagger out the door onto her porch where she would then spend the next twenty minutes trying to clean the spittle from her belly and now huge teats. As soon as she was finished, she would lie down exhausted and doze off to sleep.

Until just the other day we had seen no other signs of life. And now the infants are everywhere.

A tiny face and then a small body emerged hesitantly from the opening one day. A bird chirped and the tiny ball of fur threw itself back inside immediately. A few minutes later the face slowly started to push out onto the porch again but a gust of wind startled her and she was back inside in a flash. This was repeated over and over... slowly emerging and then running back inside in an instant. She was determined to get out and look around and apparently filled with wonder, but at the same time everything she saw or heard terrified her. Every time she emerged a bird would fly overhead or a car could be heard on the street below and she would scramble back inside. Now of course, she would be armed with scary stories about the outside world she could share with the others in the house.

Soon another face and tiny body joined the first on the porch. Immediately a third stepped forth and they began to frolic with each other, then a gust of wind resulted in a flurry of tails disappearing into the house. Hours later we looked up and saw another we had not known was there. Rusty had been hiding four babies from us, and today was the day for them to start their squirrel journey.

The tree house I built many years ago is wide, deep and very long, so we knew it could easily accommodate such a crowd, but it still amazed us that Rusty had been inside nursing four babies for almost ten weeks before we knew positively how many were in there. During that first day they would venture as far as the porch and only for the briefest bit of time. Anytime there were more than two on the porch, they would play wrestle with each other, but mostly the top order of the day was to pull and play with the others tails. If mom showed up she was groomed constantly by the infants. She would lie down on the porch and one would lick her ears as another sat on her back and a third would pull at her foot.

Suddenly Linda and I realized we were now watching the antics of five babies, another had added himself to the pack without us noticing.

It wasn't too long before we realized that the five had become six and it was now impossible to keep track of them or the constant flurry of motion... At times the tree was a beehive of activity with baby rodents constantly running everywhere in different directions. Rusty had been nursing a total of six babies during the past ten weeks! She produced one grey, three golden greys, and two black. Surprisingly, it's not unusual for black or grey squirrels to have black and grey in the same litter.

I've grown into the role of Jimmy Stewart in the movie Rear Window. I sit at our bedroom window with my camera and binoculars at the ready, minutely examining every move the infant rodents make, squealing to Linda to come quick and look at the cute things they are doing. This is how I spend my dotage now. Linda spends her time down the hall in her office on the internet. I hope she's looking for some place where we can rent an intravenous feeding setup for me so I won't need to leave the window area to eat.

There are long periods with no activity at all, and then all of a sudden they come out of the house and start running everywhere on the tree again. There is almost non stop activity for about a half hour or so and then they pile back inside for nap time. All of this is mixed with periodic bottlenecks at the door as they flee to safety if anything startles them. On a rainy day like today Rusty comes down for her handout but we don't see the babies at all. We assume mom keeps them inside and explains to them that days like these are craft days.

As far as predators go, raccoons are the worst. Since building the house it has been a constant struggle to outsmart them and at the same time let the squirrels have easy access to the tree. If a raccoon can get up the tree it will pull out all the stuffing (think pillows) that is in the house and kill the babies if it can get to them. Adult squirrels can easily get away, but of course the babies can't.

The latest invention that has successfully deterred the raccoons has been surrounding the tree trunk in those slippery flat plastic sheets that kids use for sleighs. The raccoons haven't been able to get past the plastic apron yet, but sooner or later they may, so our only hope is that we can hold them off until the babies can fend for themselves.

Grown squirrels and even the juveniles can easily leap to the hedge or back to the tree, but the infants have to be taught to do that. They haven't gotten to the ground yet, but they are practicing their leaping, something they will need to master before they can get off or back onto the tree. You have no idea how the neighbours carry on when they see me throwing myself off the tree to the bushes below yelling all the while, "follow me, follow me!"

Squirrels are just a nuisance to many people, but I find them full of excitement and curiosity. If you get to know a bit about them you can easily see they also often display a great deal of empathy to each other, (as long as it isn't feeding time). I've certainly had a lot to do with squirrels in my day, but I've rarely seen anything as fascinating as watching this litter develop in such an accelerated time frame. Over the years we've had other juveniles grow up in the house. Rusty, as mentioned, grew up there, but this is the first litter that was actually born there. All the others were brought from some secret place and moved in once they were large enough to travel on their own.

In another week or two they will start to go their separate ways and set up their own living quarters somewhere else. Some will make our back yard a stop along the way in their daily travels and we will see them every now and then. Sadly a few may not even make it past the juvenile stage, but they are here now and will be in this story forever. Rusty will probably move on soon too and maybe she will come back to live here next winter. Inevitably one of the litter will stay on to live in the house, usually the philosopher of the bunch chooses to stay. The porch lends itself to lying out and contemplating the world and being able to watch it go by from a safe distance.

After Rusty and her siblings grew up and went their separate ways, Rusty's brother Smudge decided to stay on and he lived in the house for about six months after the others left. We see him every once in awhile now, but don't know where he lives anymore. Occasionally we see him coming across the wires from the big Condo in the trees further down the valley, but we're not sure if he has an apartment there or not. Generally squirrels live communal lives in the winter; there is something fundamentally practical about a lot of warm bodies snuggled on top of each other in the cold. We did see Smudge up in Rusty's house about the same time we realized Rusty was pregnant, and we assumed he had just dropped by to pay his respects to his sister.

Anyway, I have my money on the greyest one of the group staying on, so far he seems to be the most reflective of the bunch. We often notice him just sitting there away from the others, daydreaming. It's still a bit early to tell yet, we don't know their names, but I suppose when they come down to formally introduce themselves the one who might be named Socrates will tell us he's decided to stay on for awhile.

Thank you, Leonard Cohen © by adrian

2009-04-04T10:52:00.004-04:00

Linda and I started to watch an edited version of "Leonard Cohen Live in London" on television the other night.

Leonard probably wasn't even half way through his first song before we both realized that if he ever showed up at our front door, there would be an enormous skirmish in the hallway as we jostled each other to see who would get to him first.

This man has dramatically and single handedly raised the bar for those who would never have previously considered being intimate with an old guy.

As soon as we started watching the show it was obvious that he owned the crowd. Lord, I can barely imagine how many women later that night in bed must have accidently screamed out "Give it to me, Lenny!" For that matter, I'm sure even the occasional man (much to his own surprise) let bellow the same refrain.

I can picture younger guys rushing to make appointments at the dermatologist to have extra wrinkles injected into their face lines so they will have a chance to be able to compete with us old wrinkled up guys. As they stand waiting in long lineups going around the block they can work on trying to perfect his elegant stoop. His studied caressing of a microphone or anything else he touches.

I'm a mere sixty nine, (see my story; I'm a 69er © by adrian) and old Leonard has set a new benchmark for us all... He's five years older than me, so at least as far as age is concerned, I know I'm good now until I'm at least seventy four.

I've certainly got the wrinkles. I think if I scream out "Give it to me, Lenny!" often and loud enough, I may even be able to get a tiny bit of the raspy voice the man continues to delight us with.

Anyways, I must rush off and get to my vocal lessons. Oh, and by the way "Give it to me, Lenny!"

A little boxed in © by adrian

2009-02-08T13:10:00.008-05:00

The re-construction of our house has finally been completed since the disastrous flood we had six months ago. (see my story; From the dumper to the dumpster © Part 1 of 2 and From the dumper to the dumpster © Part 2)

All the items that had been stored in the cube in our driveway were recently brought back into the house. The last construction worker left and we have been unpacking and sorting ever since.

If I ever find the box my computer is in I will get back to some writing. Come to think of it, have you seen which box the desk is in yet?

I will be back as soon as possible.

In praise of Bill Gates © by adrian

2009-01-06T09:16:00.005-05:00

Back in the late seventies I was the operations and personnel manager of a large chain of camera stores. No, really I was.

Dun and Bradstreet, among others, would often hold seminars and training sessions for personnel managers that usually cost three to four hundred dollars a pop and I just loved going to them. Other attendees would generally be personnel managers that looked after a staff of three to a half dozen employees. In those days with my long hair, goatee (don't forget the earrings) and wearing a suit I was certainly an incongruous sight at any Dun and Bradstreet function. The other much neater and shorter haired clean shaven suits (male or female) that were in attendance would always slide away from me as I sat down with them in any of their groups. Eventually, whoever was the bravest, had lost the bet, got the shortest straw or whatever would ask why I had come to a function like this, as I didn't quite look like I was in personnel. I always assumed that as far as they were concerned, I didn't quite look like I was even employable.

What, you may ask, has this got to do with Bill Gates? Well,

you just keep watching and I promise you I will manage to slip him into this fluffy little story before I'm finished with it. In fact, you stick with it and I promise I will even slip in a cute little squirrel picture.

I would explain that I ran forty-five stores and managed a staff of over one hundred and twenty people and five supervisors to operate them. I was responsible for hiring all the store staff and then would personally run a five day training class to get them up to speed. I would oversee all the staff operations, salaries, appraisals and eventually termination if that was necessary. We used to call it firing in the good old days, somehow that still sounds more humane to me than termination. Termination always suggests someone strapped to a gurney waiting for an injection whereas firing is mostly just a case of "I'm sorry, but this is not working out, give me your keys to the store, get your belongings, and get out." I appreciate that to the person being fired it can pretty well feel just like the gurney experience, but that's what I worked at for a period of my life.

These were all large walk in stores that had same day photo finishing. They were double staffed and open twelve hours a day, so there was quite a lot involved in the administration of all this. My lifelong friend Bill ran the photo-finishing lab, and I ran the stores. We both made an obscene amount of money for the times, but we also earned every penny of it. Whenever I've worked for other people I always made oodles of money (far more than I ever came close to when working for myself) but there was always something missing, let me think for a moment... Oh yes, I remember now, it was my soul that was missing! That business about owing your soul to the company store fits doubly when you are the upper management of the company store.

Part of my administrative duties was being keeper of the keys. With one hundred and twenty people, the staff often rotated around to various locations as they traded shifts and sometimes stores. On occasion we would also get a call at head office from a customer wondering why a particular store wasn't open and then we would discover that some disgruntled staff member had quit and forgot to mention it to us. I would locate an available employee and dispatch them to the store and then usually go there to meet them. I would open up the store and then be the counter clerk until the replacement arrived or just stay and work the shift if no one else was available.

One of the keys to making this all work successfully was in fact, the keys. We used a numbered security key system in the stores that had locks with an interchangeable key core made by the Best Lock Company. The keys could not be copied by regular locksmiths and could only be duplicated by the Best Lock Company using special security codes. I could change the lock in a store in moments by simply inserting a special key, pulling out the core and then slipping a new core with a different security key code number into the lock cylinder. Whoever then had legitimate right to be in the store would be issued keys with the new code number.

Somewhere along the line a maintenance company we hired lost a complete set of keys and so every lock in all the stores needed to be replaced with new cores and key codes. The replaced cores and remaining keys came back to head office and all their corresponding key codes were cancelled. About thirty years ago the photo-finishing company Bill and I worked for went out of business and I inherited the discarded keys and cores and have used them in my various studios ever since.

So, enough with the background already, I will now finally get to the point of this little meander...

A few stories back I wrote about the cottage my bride and her sister bought from their parents (Little Adri’s big adventure © by adrian) and that I had inherited the maintenance of said cottage. During the forty years their parents owned it everybody in the local area as well as friends and many people no longer remembered had ended up with keys to the cottage. It also seemed that anybody that had ever gotten a key had made a copy and given it to somebody else. So I decided that the easiest way to regain control of the "key situation" was to switch the locks at the cottage to the Best Lock Company system, get a bunch of extra keys made and distribute them as needed. This way we would always know who had a key and we would also be the only people able to have copies made.

I soon discovered there was just one tiny flaw to my plan. The Best lock Company was no longer in business (lord, you just look away for thirty or so years and the moment you look back, everything is different). So I started that web searching thing on my computer that many of us seem to spend a lot of time doing these days. I found out that what was left of that company had been acquired by the Stanley Lock and Tool Company many years ago.

I now needed to find out if the new company (Stanley Tools) had records of the secret key codes for cores that had been cancelled and completely removed from service thirty five years ago, for a company that was no longer in business, from a company that was no longer in business. Oh yah, they would also need to be able to verify or have on record somewhere that I had the authority to get the codes and new keys cut.

I couldn't imagine a more bizarre and potentially ridiculous communication. So I couldn't wait to give it a try.

I phoned them up and was switched to the security section and within a minute or so of answering a few questions only I would know the answers to, the helpful lady I was talking to had everything I needed up on her computer screen.

If you're still awake, this is where I get to the Bill Gates part. It seems lots of people can't wait to denigrate Bill Gates, are envious of his success and angry at how pushy Microsoft is. As far as I'm concerned if it wasn't for Bill Gates' driving ambition we could potentially still be using punch cards in big mainframes instead of everybody with computers on their desks and laps.

Imagine that within thirty seconds or so a stranger who likely wasn't even born when both those companies closed down is able to punch up codes and information about me and others she named that could have access to this information. Think of how long this could have taken if she needed to search various scraps of paper to find this. Would anyone have bothered to keep slips of paper recording codes from a key system no longer in use, for a company no longer in business? Somewhere along the line thanks to Bill Gates and of course many others the codes were entered into a computer and were still sitting there available for use, casually waiting to be called upon. A couple of keystrokes later and I had an order for a few hundred dollars worth of new keys paid for and I could pick them up in three days or have them shipped out if I wanted.

Now old Bill Gates didn't personally have a hand in my saga, and I realize he's not likely to invite me to his house for dinner and dancing, but if he ever gets down on his luck and needs a vote of confidence, he's sure got mine!

By the way, remember that cute little squirrel picture I promised to slip in this story? Well, what I really meant to say was that I would slip in a picture of cute little squirrels.

I'm a 69er © by adrian

2008-12-08T08:24:00.002-05:00

I've been waiting since I was a giggling teenager to be able to legitimately say that to anybody who asks. Up till now whenever I've said I was a 69er it was always, how should I put this, tongue in cheek? So go ahead, ask me how old I am. Please?

I'm a 69er. Lord knows that's the truth. Let's go down in this laneway and I'll show you mine if you show me yours. Actually, I really don't care if you show me yours, but if you want we could do it together. I'll pull out mine and if you like what you see you could let me see yours and then we can put them together to see how they match up. Trust me, this could be a lot of fun.

What is your problem? I'm talking birth certificates here.

I'm a 69er. Don't worry about the raincoat I'm wearing, you can never be too careful these days. It could start raining at any moment, so I leave it on just in case. That's how come I wear it so loose, in case I need to open it (sorry, I mean take it off) in a flash.

The boots? That's just so I can run fast. You get really good traction when you have rubber on your soles. It's always best to keep your rubbers on you know, it's so much safer. Again, these days you can never be too careful. Seeing as I'm a 69er I love to do a lot of exercises and I love to run fast. Running is an exercise, isn't it?

That drool running down my chin? Nah, that's nothing either. Almost all of us 69ers drool a little bit just thinking about it. Me? I like thinking about it when I'm standing in line very close behind you at a checkout counter in the grocery store. I guess it must be all that edible stuff hanging about and sitting on the shelves I keep thinking about that makes me drool. I just love the fact that if I pick up almost anything I can usually start eating it right away.

I mostly think of the drooling as pre lube, just in case you turn around and ask me how old I am. I want everything to be really moist in there so there will be no hesitation as I move my tongue around in my mouth to form the words "I'm a 69er." I want to make sure you get the point. I don't believe there's such a thing as overkill when it cums to making an important point and I want to be sure my lips won't get stuck together if you give me the opportunity to interact with you. That would be very bad form for a professional like me. After all, you should have confidence that if you invite me to engage in communicating with you you're going to enjoy what you get in return.

If you don't want to go down with me in this lane we could go over to the park. There's a really nice bench there we could stretch out on. Us 69ers call the bench over there the G Spot because as you enter the park it's right near the big Gate. If you don't know where the G Spot is I would be more than happy to show it to you. It's really very delightful there and it's surrounded by a beautiful huge bush. Whenever I get the opportunity I just love to forage about in that bush. I did some photos of Linda Lovelace once and she told me she had heard about the G Spot, but I think she was confused because she said it wasn't by the big Gate in the park at all, but it was in her throat.

When I was involved in the swinging world I belonged to a couple of 69er clubs. I even ran some seminars at international conventions of swingers a few times but I assure you those 69er clubs were something totally different. They definitely didn't have anything at all to do with age. I did get connected (as it were) to a lot of really nice people though, regardless of their age. We mostly hung out a lot and sort of just chewed the fat.

Wait a minute; I think I hear a police car siren coming this way. This might be a really good time to show you how fast I can run. Would you like to see me run?

Just before I run off though I hope you won't think it too cheeky of me if I mention that I sure hope all you other 69ers out there have an enjoyably tasty year too...

Happy birthday you old 69er... Now that's a mouthful, isn't it? A bit of a tongue twister, really.

Whoever would have guessed I'd still be daydreaming about the joys of being a 69er after all these years.

Some oldsters collect stamps but not me, not yet. As long as you all keep saying "Why not?" whenever I ask, it still looks like I will continue to have something else to chew on. Hey, we all need some kind of hobby to keep us active and alert. You know what I mean don't you? We should all have something to do that helps keep the juices flowing.

At your age you better rest up boy... this may take the better part of a full year.

So go ahead; ask me how old I am. Please?

Big Sur revisited © by adrian

2008-11-13T09:59:00.009-05:00

Forty years ago I lived in this spectacularly beautiful area. I had very short hair then, but overcompensated for that by living with a very tall woman (see my story Of Nomads and Amazons). I'm back here now because my new and much shorter wife wants to meet my family before they go to the happy hunting ground. What's left of my family consists of a couple of sisters and a fellow who claims he is my father (at various times he has also claimed he is god, so I think the man is not to be trusted). I haven't seen or talked to any of them for about ten years, so I think I may be up to the task. They are scattered about in various parts of California. Linda has a brother also scattered in these parts so we thought we would make a huge "meet the family" junket and explore some of my old haunts as well.

Added to this was our mutual interest in visiting and soaking nude in the famous hot springs at the Esalen Institute in Big Sur. The Esalen Institute is sort of the home of Gestalt Therapy in North America. Psychotherapist Fritz Perls, of whom I am a fan, was a resident and teacher there during the time I lived in California in the mid sixties and my bride Linda is a Gestalt Therapist.

Among other things, Fritz is known by many for the quote, "I am not in this world to live up to other people's expectations, nor do I feel that the world must live up to mine." Down Big Sur way he also used to hang out nude in the hot springs and was frequently quoted then as saying to his young nubile devotees who were crowded in the hot tub with him, "Who vants to suck my cock?" Either quote would have been delivered in his thick European accent and even if paraphrased sets him up as my kind of guy.

Now, the Esalen Institute is not just a place you can stroll into. It is a cloistered community that does allow the public in at two a.m. for a one hour visit to the hot springs if you pay twenty bucks a person and arrange for it in advance. I thought that seeing as Linda was a distant associate someone here could arrange for them to cut us some slack and let us visit in the daytime... This was a delusion and I was wrong.

So I didn't tell Linda and went ahead and wrote Esalen a "To whom it may concern" letter. I explained Linda's connection to Gestalt and thus the institute. I explained that I used to be involved with the printer (actually, the very same aforementioned man who currently claims he is my father) and I used to make all their pamphlets forty years ago. I did the camera and darkroom work that was a necessary part of publishing in those days. I also explained that the only time people our age were up at two in the morning was on one of the many necessary pee breaks we take during the night.

Amazingly, one week later I got an email with a contact name and phone number and was told to phone them and they would see what they could do. A bit of conversation and airline schedule checking later and the next thing I knew we had a pass for us to visit and stay a full day. The pass came complete with free meals and as much hot springs as our wrinkly skin could tolerate. Linda cried with joy when I told her what I had pulled off, but I felt it was the least I could do if she was really prepared to go through the ordeal of meeting my family.

I will fill you in more on that part of the trip and the family stuff at another time, but for now I thought I would indulge myself (as usual) by mentioning a few remembered experiences from our trip.

We have arrived at the Henry Miller library and museum in Big Sur, California and are walking about looking at some of the artifacts and treasures from this man's lustful life and writings. We are chatting to each other about some of the things we're looking at while moving through a few small rooms. There are other individuals and couples quietly mingling about on this sacred ground doing pretty much the same as us.

An open book in a display case in an adjacent small cove off the room we're in has caught my eye and I mention to Linda that I will be back in a moment as I amble over to check it out.

I walk up beside a very attractive middle aged lady who is presently looking at the book that has called me to this room. It's warm today and I'm wearing a short sleeve shirt. This lady has not glanced my way as I end up standing beside her.

In a moment, without saying a word she reaches over and takes my hand in hers. She brings my exposed arm up and while holding my hand she slowly and seductively starts to rub my arm with her other hand. She says something to me in German while she gently caresses my bare arm.

She's speaking slowly and although I've never thought of the German language as sexy, this is unmistakably full of lust. She's speaking in a low tone, with a guttural animal sound coming from her that is full of passion and promise. I know this sound well! While she continues to gently caress my arm I lean over to her and move my mouth an inch from her ear. I know when I speak she will be able to feel my warm breath on her hair. I whisper to her, "I have absolutely no idea what you've just said, but the answer is yes!"

Still absentmindedly caressing my arm and not letting go of my hand she now looks my way and screams out "Oh my god!" She drops my arm and we both break into fits of laughter and shatter the somber silence of this place.

Everybody is now staring at us. We both continue to giggle and scurry away to our respective mates to explain what just happened. Always the observer, I realized what was happening from the moment she touched my hand. She thought her husband had arrived beside her and in this house of lust she was telling him how much at that moment she wanted him. Of course I was delighted to be the proxy receiver of her passion.

Later, the four of us end up in the same room together and as we're leaving I mention to the other couple that I think the Henry Miller library is perhaps the finest place imaginable to share such intimacy with a stranger.

Further along Highway 1 as we travel through Big Sur we pull into a gas station to fill up the car. The attendant comes over and grabs the nozzle from the pump. As she walks toward the car I get out to retrieve something from the trunk. Just as she is about to squeeze the handle she looks up at me and exclaims, "Oh good grief, I'm so sorry!" I do not respond as is my fashion and wait to see what will unfold.

She walks back to the pump and reinserts the nozzle in its cradle. She goes to a different pump that has no price of the gas or any other markings on it and takes its nozzle. She comes back and while filling up the tank now says to me, "I really am sorry, I didn't notice at first that you are one of us." I say, "That's ok, it's no big deal". I have no idea what she's talking about or what's going on.

When finished she goes inside to get the bill and then comes over to me for payment. Getting back in the car after paying, I realize we've just been charged fifty cents a gallon less than we would have paid had I not been "one of them". One gas price for the "touristas" and a much lower price for the "regulars".

My long hair and used hippy look has finally paid off... I am now officially recognized as a Big Sur resident. Life is good!

Later in the week we did indeed get to the Esalen Institute and enjoyed the hot springs. Sitting naked on a California cliff top overlooking the coast in a hot mineral bath with a bunch of other nude strangers was quite an experience. Not surprisingly, I was certainly tempted to scream out "Who vants to suck my cock?" but I knew no one would believe me if I said I was just quoting old Fritz Perls. On helping me edit this story my bride was surprised to discover that there are actually times that I don't want to shout that out, wherever I am.

Something I've always noticed when groups of strangers are naked is that everybody tries not to be too blatant about staring at each other when the clothes are off (even true with the "swingers" set). As soon as it's time to get dressed though, the type and style of underwear a person puts on seems to be the moment of sexual excitement for everybody. I wear what are called string bikinis for those who want to know. I love the snug tight feel and warm genital embrace I get from them. Anyway, they sure do have some fine looking underwear out there in California.

From the dumper to the dumpster © by adrian Part 1 of 2

2008-10-15T17:25:00.004-04:00

It's Sunday night and this has been a very long day in our effort to get the dumper at the cottage cleaned out and properly set up. Linda and I have gone from cleaning the composter pit to me on the roof fixing the vent stack. I am (if you will pardon the thought) wiped.

It's eleven p.m., we're in bed and just starting to drift off to sleep. There will be no sex tonight. Even though, as previously stated (in my story on smells and odors I'll be home soon, don't wash), I'm a big fan of odor and things of that nature I must confess I have always regarded the fact that the sex organs are also involved with elimination to be a design flaw. This would definitely not have been my choice if I had been consulted. For those of us who like to forage and rut about in the bedchamber, toilets are not held in particularly high regard. There are body fluids, and then there are body fluids. So for me and fortunately for my companion, a day in the dumper does not exactly fan the flames of lust. Tonight it will just be sleepy byes.

Then the phone rings and our lives begin an uncharted course.

A bit of background: the phone at our house in Toronto had been busy for a day and a half, so we thought perhaps it had been left askew by the last person who checked our house while we were away. We phoned the person who has cleaned our house for many years and asked her to please go by and check the phone and house. We thought she would do that in the early afternoon. Seeing as we hadn't heard back from her yet we just assumed she was going to stop by the next morning instead.

I'm a little foggy as I answer the phone and all I can hear from it is hysterical excitement and yelling. As I focus, I realize it's the person who cleans our house but I can't make any sense out of what she's trying to say. I turn on the bedroom light and as I hand the phone to Linda with a shrug I finally get it. Water... there is water running everywhere in our house. Lisa has come in the front door and like all those funny movies we've seen over the years, water has poured out the door as she opened it. Needless to say she is beside herself and after many unsuccessful tries to phone us from her cell phone, she finally gets the taxi driver who brought her there to dial our number for her.

Linda's soothing voice starts to calm Lisa down and then I'm handed the phone again. I slowly begin a series of questions so I can try to decide what to do next. Lisa continues to excitedly explain to me that water is running everywhere (she must be Catholic, because she immediately wonders aloud if it's because of something she did wrong). Water is pouring down the stairs above her and she is standing in about two inches of water at the doorway. Not surprisingly, she doesn't know what to do and we are seven and a half hours away in Montfort, Quebec.

I learn that some lights are still on in the house, so I determine the electricity has not been compromised so it will be ok to move around without many safety issues. I ask Lisa to go downstairs and I will try to describe where the main shut off for the water is. She gets downstairs and immediately sees the shut off valve. It's not easily accessible but she agrees to go through the water and climb over some boxes to try to shut it off, which she does. Unfortunately nothing much changes and water continues to flow down the stairwell and through the ceiling.

I hear another voice in the background. A neighbor from across the street was sitting on his porch and when he heard the commotion he decided to come over and see if he could help. Lisa hands the phone to him and we simply confirm that he also thinks the water is successfully shut off. I ask him who he is and he mentions that our only contact has been that I always wave to him if I see him out having a cigarette. There is much concern on both their parts about whether they should turn the electricity off. I'm convinced it should stay on because among other things I can't imagine standing in two inches of water and touching the main power supply box, so I finally convince them to leave the electricity alone.

I get Lisa back on the phone and after thanking her and my new found friend from across the street I tell her there's not much more can be done and to carefully lock up and we will let her know when we know what happens next.

I now need to convince Linda that the next step should be me getting in the car and heading to Toronto. She can catch up with me later by train once we know more about the extent of the damage. Even though I've had a long day, I love night driving so I don't think the trip will be that challenging. I'm also not a hero, so if I get too tired I will get a motel room or simply sleep at a gas station along the way.

There are many advantages to night driving, it's easy to see oncoming traffic and there are far fewer cars on the road so you can make great time. The only potential disadvantage to night driving is car breakdown, which is a little scary. I drive a 1991 Subaru wagon. What could possibly go wrong in a seven and a half hour non stop drive with a beat up tired eighteen year old car?

My bride realizes that we just can't ignore this and go back to sleep, so it's agreed that I should mount my horse and begin a charge west. I think the electrical system will need constant checking in a house full of water so I quickly throw together a kit of electrical tools. I get to the car and as the clock strikes twelve (do digital clocks strike?) begin my drive into the unknown.

The first two hours of the trip are daunting indeed as I drive through pea soup fog. Visibility is less than fifty feet in some areas. Not an encouraging start. The fog finally breaks about the same time I start to run out of gas at Cornwall. I drive into Cornwall expecting to find a gas station open but apparently at two a.m. this is a foolish belief. I drive around for about ten minutes and don't see any sign of life, not even a raccoon to chat up about how life is always full of surprises.

I remember there is a huge diesel truck stop at the cutoff of Highway 138 and the 401 so I head over to it. I know they don't have regular gas, but maybe I can convince the attendant to look the other way as I siphon gas out of some car parked there. As I approach his counter he looks at me with the steely glare of someone who has already explained twenty-seven times today they don't sell gas. I beat him to it and tell him I know he doesn't, but I must get to my house before it floats away and I want to know if there's any way we can make a deal? He is amused by a tale he's never heard before and tells me that on the other side of the overpass there is a station that even if closed leaves a pump on that I will be able to fill up from if I have a cash card. He rejects the bodily favours I offer him in return for this valuable information and I aim for the overpass. I fill up the tank and continue on my crusade.

I speed along to my destination but not aggressively so. I stay about twenty or so clicks above the speed limit. I reason that if I'm not being reckless even the most jaded cop would let me off with a warning after he hears my sad tale. I stop to rest and gas up occasionally but I'm not fatigued so I just keep going.

Overall I'm a pretty relaxed individual. I'm certainly capable of the odd Italian operatic outburst (Linda sometimes calls me "Sparky") but she envies that I have the blood pressure of an 18 year old. I never fret or worry about the unknown and seeing as I have no idea what's in store for me my mission barely even crosses my mind.

I slide into the mayhem that begins on highway 401 at Port Hope just about 5:30 a.m. I am astonished to discover the 5:30 morning rush hour is just as horrifying as the 5:30 evening rush hour. The only advantage is that the sun is behind me instead of in my line of vision. I finally pull into our driveway at 6:30. I have turned a seven and a half hour drive into six and a half hours. Take that, Andretti!

I brace myself and swing open the door.

From the dumper to the dumpster © by adrian Part 2 of 2

2008-10-15T16:48:00.017-04:00

The house is a disaster. Walls and parts of the ceiling have caved in and broken drywall is lying about on various areas of the floor. There is about two inches of water over all the visible floors. Even though the water was turned off the night before it's still dripping down the stairs and through the ceiling. I quickly go downstairs and reconfirm that the water is indeed turned off. The water that's still dripping is just what has saturated the walls and carpets from a two day onslaught of running water. The phone is still dead and I guess it shorted out from the water, thus precipitating the unscheduled house check.

Thirty minutes later the front doorbell goes. Linda has phoned the next door neighbor and wants to talk to me. She has already arranged for the insurance adjuster to start the recovery process, and at eleven a.m. someone will be here to inspect the damage and determine what needs to be done. I let her know what to expect when she returns home.

I return and slog through water continuing to look for some explanation of what happened. This house has always had a slight shift toward the front so I discover the back areas of the house are untouched. The bedroom and my computer/hobby room which is filled to the brim with electronics and camera equipment on the second floor are completely dry. The kitchen and living room at the back of the house on the first floor are also mostly dry.

The tank in the second floor toilet is empty, so I reason it may have cracked and started this whole mess. If the toilet tank breaks the water will just continue to run full blast. I turn off its supply line and go downstairs and hesitantly turn the main water back on. I quickly run back upstairs to see or hear if water is leaking from anywhere else. I also check if there is hot water and everything seems fine.

We have a toilet in the basement that still works so with some heavy boots on, this place is actually more or less habitable. Already I start to daydream that we may reach a new plateau of personal exploration. I envision Linda running around in something flimsy with big work boots on. Some new unexplored sexual fantasy may emerge. Life is good.

We brought home an antique outhouse toilet from the cottage and set it up in the garden a few weeks ago so we would also be able to use that.

Well, maybe not.

I picture Linda waking me in the middle of each night asking me where we left the flashlight so she can find her way outside.

I finally find the source of the leak. It turns out to be the coiled supply line that connects the toilet tank to the water line. It didn't come undone; it simply fell apart in the middle and water poured out of the hole for two days. I decide that as soon as I get a chance I will go back to solid copper supply lines to the toilet tank. Next time we go away we will also be sure to turn the water off.

I disconnect wires in a few of the phone connection boxes that I see have been waterlogged and hope that if they dry out the phone may start working again.

At eleven on the button the door bell signals the arrival of an estimator from a company named Burke's Restoration. Tony and I do a walk through (more like a slosh through actually) and he fills out forms with as much information as he can get. He says that tomorrow he will have a dumpster delivered and his crew will be here to start ripping out the affected areas and drying out what's left. He carries himself with the air of a man who appears totally unflappable but he briefly loses it when I ask if I should dress in formal black tie for the occasion.

I collect up any carpets that are loose and throw them over the banister on the back porch and then get out the wet/dry vacuum cleaner and start mopping up. About two in the afternoon the phone begins to reluctantly work again. The line is full of static, but it works. I phone Linda and update her on what is happening here. She lets me know her stepsister is arriving in Montfort soon, will stay overnight and then drive her back to Toronto the next day. Later, the phone returns to normal as the line dries out.

Tuesday morning brings a crew of workers who set up huge dehumidifiers and fans and then start cutting up carpet and ripping it off the floor. In the afternoon the dumpster arrives. I had pictured a small dainty apartment size dumpster but now lodged in our driveway is a no nonsense big grown up man sized dumpster.

Linda and I have a lot of stuff (well had, anyway). Once upon a time in a memory far away, I owned a house and rented the studio I also lived and worked in, so I had two of almost everything, stoves, fridges, dishes, beds, tools. When I sold the house much of it ended up at the studio. When we got married and I later closed the studio it all ended up here so we now had three of many things. We did garage sales, took lots to Goodwill and places like that, but the piles never seemed to get smaller.

Between the two of us we also have easily over a thousand books.

As I said we have a lot of stuff and now parked in our driveway is the very dumpster we had for years said we needed to help extricate us from this excess. I have the ten foot fluorescent sign out back that overhung my former studio. I have useless "Passport photos in five minutes" signs. Ornate pieces of banister railing, fur bits, lamps, all waiting for use in some undiscovered photo I will someday want to make. All of it horded in the off chance I will one day open another studio to play in. We now have the opportunity to get rid of as much excess baggage as we want. The gods have brought spring cleaning to us by way of a flood and a dumpster (fortunately no pestilence yet). I sense some of what's to come will be very cathartic.

The crew of workers starts tearing at the walls and floors like a pack of hungry Rottweilers. There is urgency to get it into the dumpster before the dreaded mold sets in. Whenever they come up for air I can hear them mutter to each other about the amount of stuff in the house. Before they leave for the day I ask if I can continue to add to the dumpster and they encourage me to fill it if I can. Little do they know!

Linda and her stepsister arrive later in the day and after they tour the devastation we go out for dinner. I've been here for a few days now so I'm a bit more cavalier about it all, but it certainly takes a bit of getting used to. Even though the dehumidifiers and fans have been going non stop there are still drenched carpets and walls full of water everywhere. We still come upon areas of the ceiling that are dripping. One saving grace is that it's all clean water. After seeing this I can't imagine what a drain backing up with sewage could be like.

The noise here is almost unbearable. We must leave the fans and dehumidifiers on twenty four hours a day and there are two on each floor, even right outside the bedroom door. I personally think this is a lot better than living in a motel until it's over; Linda is not so sure about that.

The next day brings the Rottweilers back (sorry Steve and Ryan, I'm sure you know we think you were both great) and the dumpster starts to fill up.

Other days bring different crews of people packaging dry books and other items into boxes. Another crew lists destroyed books and other items and takes them to the dumpster. As the hardwood floor starts to dry out it buckles insanely and so it is ripped up and tossed as well. During all this more pieces of wall and ceiling are added to the pile. We learn to navigate around the house on the beams and subfloor as we miss nails sticking up here and there. We don't wear hardhats, but shoes are a must everywhere we go. Eventually I go over the floors and all the nails get pulled but we stay with shoes anyway.

In the meantime we fill more than a dozen garbage bags of dry books and drop them off at Goodwill. All the book shelves are ruined and get tossed in the dumpster as well. I keep adding to the dumpster with as much dredge as we can find.

The house is now filling with boxes and we can barely move around in what was the remaining sanctuary. We are promised a "Cube" storage bin that everything will be moved to. It shows up after everybody goes home one day and the driver can't place it in the space left in the driveway. Next day the dumpster is picked up and moved further back into the driveway and one day later the Cube comes back and gets dropped in the driveway as well.

Our neighbors are thrilled for us because they think we decided to redecorate and then many offer to help when they hear our sad tale.

For the next five days new crews of workers return and while some fill boxes others fill the Cube with anything that isn't nailed down. A few days later Ryan returns with new assistants and tears apart what's left of the basement walls and ceiling.

It's been over three Months since this all began and we are managing to live in what we now refer to as our new "Squat". The dumpster has been taken away, but almost everything we own is still in the Cube in the driveway. There has been no word from the insurance company on what to do to get it all put back together, but so far they have been magnificent in arranging to take it all apart.

Overall not too bad, except for deductibles, most everything is insured. The house needs major repairs but it was all clean water (a breath of fresh air after fooling around that damn composter for weeks), we lost hundreds of books but they were due to be culled anyway. Some precious things and many old negatives gone... don't know yet what was saved or wrecked. Everything was packed so quickly it was impossible to keep track of what was going into the dumpster or what was aiming for the storage Cube, but done is done. A lot of photo equipment was wrecked, but again, nothing that I can't live without and amazingly as mentioned the computer hobby room and most of my current camera stuff didn't get a drop of water on any of it.

The big difficulty now seems to be getting it all put back together again. There have been huge rain storms in Toronto this summer and basements in hundreds of homes have been flooded, so there are no contractors available to do reconstruction work. We want to use the company that took the place apart as they have been unbelievably reliable, but that will mean waiting for a few extra months and continuing to live in our deconstructed house.

Who knows what's next. The other day I did come across a Home Improvement and Restoration Company that looks pretty good from the outside. I'm looking forward to getting into their showroom someday to see samples of the work they do, but they never seem to be around to answer their doorbell. I guess I will just have to keep trying.

Bulletproof © by adrian

2008-09-23T22:20:00.006-04:00

I just came back from my uncle Rocco's

one hundred and first birthday party.
To have lived this long the man must be bulletproof.

One hundred and one years old – extraordinary!

I thought I would write a little about him in this chapter of my memoirs. I’m almost seventy and he’s lived close to half again as long as me. We have the same genes and he was one of the people who saved my life by giving me a direct blood transfusion when I was a baby (see my story; My Mother, the Sister) so maybe some of it will rub off on me and I can look forward (or dread, depending on the mood of the day) to living another thirty years or so.

He attributes his longevity to eating three bananas a day and never having gotten married. I could have tolerated three bananas a day I guess but I enjoy the company of women too much to ever have attempted the latter.

Rocco stayed at home almost all his life and then became the caregiver of his parents as they aged and died. He lived alone for the next twenty years in a three storey house until he was ninety five years old. Then came "the fall" it seems all active elderly people are destined to have. He lay on the floor for a day and a half because he couldn’t get up. Since being found he has lived in his own apartment in an assisted care facility.

Each year after Rocco turned eighty-five my cousin and I would get in touch to talk about going to uncle Rocco’s probable last birthday party. We don’t bother with that anymore, now it’s simply, "I’ll see you at the birthday party this year."

When he was going on ninety-four he announced to anybody who would listen that what he really wanted for his birthday was one of those long garden hose extension poles so he could clean the eavestrough on his three story house easier because he was now starting to find it a bit difficult to get up the ladder.

The extended family took him to a restaurant for his hundredth birthday and when the cake came (yes, with a hundred candles, anything less would have insulted him) he broke into operatic song to prove to all present that his lungs were easily up to the job of blowing the candles out.

It seems fashionable to always say the elderly are still sharp, but in his case I swear the man is as sharp as a tack. He still reads the paper everyday. You can start a conversation on almost any current subject and he will join in. Linda and I had a major house disaster a few months ago that has disrupted our lives tremendously (the reason I’ve been off line recently, a story will follow) and as soon as he saw us he called us over and commiserated with us about our difficulty and related details he had been told about the event that even we had forgotten.

All his life he was an avid photo hobbyist and among other things he used to make his own emulsion to coat paper for making prints. Up to a couple of years ago he always said that as soon as he could get some spare time he was going to set up his darkroom again. He still has one of those old Omega enlargers that uses four by five inch negative film (good grief, I just realized I still have one of those in my basement too). Nowadays he is fully knowledgeable about digital equipment and when I showed him the first professional digital camera I bought he ran around the residence he lives in like a kid excitedly showing it to anybody he could find. While I was shooting some digital photos today he joked about how amazing it was that all this happens without any chemicals and then reminded me that we used to cart around cameras that used single sheets of four by five inch film just to get one or two shots. He and I have both used cameras whose film size is eight by ten inches.

He's not always in top form and sometimes he gets into conversational loops that are a little tedious. Reminds me of my old stoner days when you would listen to someone talk for twenty minutes (sometimes yourself) before you realized you had no idea what anybody was talking about. If you've read any of my previous stories you will notice I have a bit of the same approach to communication. Anyway, I can get him to refocus by simply telling him he's in a loop and he should change the subject or I will pass out. He just smiles and starts on a different thought. Maybe he's faking it, but it sure always impresses the hell out of me. I should be so lucid when I'm over a hundred years old.

At one point in today’s festivities as my cousin and I were helping Rocco get to a different chair, he explained to us that as soon as he gets back to his house he will start exercising again and then be able to get around without needing any help.

I tell you, the man is bulletproof.

2008-07-19T19:22:00.005-04:00

But I will be back soon.

Cleaning out the composting toilet at the cottage. As soon as I hose down, I’ll get back to some more writing.

2008-06-04T12:15:00.010-04:00

“Thank you so much, you just saved me a trip into town.” Oh my god, what have I just heard myself say. I forgot to check the marquee outside the theater when I came in. Have I ended up in another western movie? Can’t be, her name isn’t Clementine, and anyway I didn’t finish my sentence with “little lady” but if I had, I bet it would have passed unnoticed. She saved me a trip to town because she just faxed an important document for me and I know they definitely don’t have fax machines in westerns.

I’ve been here three days.

You’d think by now I would have a firm grip on where here is. I quickly scan the horizon to get my bearings. No help at all. Rolling hills covered in snow. One hundred yards away, a lake, covered in melting ice with shimmering patches of water pushing through. The Alps maybe?

This can’t be an Acid flashback, that was way too long ago.

I remember now, and if you knew me like I thought I knew me, you would understand why being in this place is incomprehensible to me. I am in the Laurentiens, it’s late April now, and I’m on a big adventure.

I think this is how it happened.

About nine years ago I ran an ad in the Toronto Star companion section. It’s title was, “Bohemian hermit stuck in the 60’s seeks companion and lover.” I gave my age and a few important details, then went on to write cute and clever things about myself. I could walk and chew gum at the same time, that sort of stuff. If someone is interested in an ad they phone your box number and then listen to any message you choose to put in a voice mail, and if they’re still interested, they leave you their contact information.

During the next six weeks or so, I talked to many women. A few came to my studio for dinner, but nothing really came of those meetings, no sparks. In the voice mail replies I had gotten, only one person sounded like she had any idea of who I might be, and what I hoped to find. She didn’t say much about herself, but I liked her voice and what she did say. She also said she was a school teacher and away on vacation, and I should contact her when she returned in six weeks if I was interested.

So, six and a half weeks later, I phoned her.

Our first conversation was very comfortable and casual as we each described a few small details about ourselves. She mentioned that she was a widow, her 21 year old gay son lived with her, and she didn’t shave her armpits. I mentioned that I earned my living taking provocative photos that some people regarded as pornography. That the lady who had been my partner in the swinging lifestyle for the past twelve years lived in an apartment above my studio and still used my shower everyday because hers didn’t work.

Nothing too substantial really, just some minor details you’d like to get out of the way before you actually bothered to meet up.

One thing we both definitely had in common was that neither of us was interested in a binding or committed relationship, we both abhorred the concept of anything “domestic”.

A little over a year after that first conversation, Linda and I got married.

Now, nine years later, I’m in the Laurentiens. Temporarily on my own, “starting up” the cottage that Linda and her step-sister bought from their parents last fall.

Before I met Linda, I’d been to cottages maybe half dozen times in my life. Cottage life had never appealed to me whatsoever. To begin with, I discovered long ago that I am incapable of walking on water. About three seconds after I learned that, I found out that I’m also incapable of swimming in water. It’s always damp. In this case, we’re fifteen feet from the lake, so it’s really damp. It’s always cold at night. Those that love this call it “crisp”, those of us that know better call it “cold”.

Then there is the province of Quebec. Regardless of the number of cereal boxes I’ve read, or messages from Bell Canada in French and English I’ve heard, I never picked up the language. I also look French. I look mostly old and used now, but if you wanted to identify my background, you would probably pick French. When I am in Quebec, I am often mistaken for Quebecois, and seeing as I can only communicate in English this confuses people.

Half my manufacturing plant was Italian, but I don’t look Italian. I know from a reliable source I shouldn’t claim myself as Italian. About twenty years ago I had an Italian girlfriend who briefly passed through my bedchamber. When she got mad at me (which was often) she would scream out (didn’t matter where we were) “You, you’re not an Italian, you’re a manga cake!” She would then turn slightly sideways and pantomime a huge spit that she would direct to the ground. Ah, Stephania, what a delightfully insane firecracker she was. Anyways, I don’t look Italian.

Buying this cottage was not an easy task. It’s part of two separate deeds, one property is the main house and the other a small cottage. During the past forty years they have intertwined themselves in an elaborate encroachment on each other. Some of the electrical comes from the other place, the septic system is on this property, but services the other house. A water line runs through the middle of this landscape, but is used by the other place. It’s all very baroque.

Her parents could no longer manage the physical maintenance and needed to sell them both and move to more suitable accommodations. They were convinced that because both properties depended on each other, they would have to be sold as one unit and were not prepared to compromise.

I encouraged my bride to make an offer to buy the cottage separately anyway. It was rejected. Her step-sister got briefly interested but then decided it was financially risky and far too difficult to separate the two properties and backed off. I continued working on Linda to keep trying to buy it. Over the years other members of the family had also stayed at the cottage, but it was always Linda’s special place. Of course, I had the advantage of not being discouraged by a fifty year history of dealing with her family. I’m also pretty relentless and not usually swayed by obstacles (a delightful trait in good times, really irritating in bad).

Somewhere along the line her step-sister got reinvigorated and signed on again. A campaign was launched. Linda was in school (learning, not teaching) and was not available so I was dispatched to Quebec to help her step-sister with negotiations. We had been friends since I first appeared in Linda’s life, but had never been involved in anything this complicated before. Our styles are enormously different and sometimes we each wanted to kill the other, and at other times we were a spectacular team together. Linda’s step-sister is inclined to examine everything in miniscule detail, I have more of a put your head down, run across the street and hope there are no cars coming approach to life. One of Linda’s step-brothers also got briefly involved and somehow it all came about, the cottage was co-bought, with half the time allocated to Linda, and the other to her step-sister.

And here I am on my big adventure.

Cottage life seems to revolve around getting water in, septic systems, and getting waste out. Very elemental. The task at hand right now is getting lake water in for washing, and getting what is pleasantly referred to as the “grey water” out. This is achieved here by an elaborate array of holding tanks and pumps (that may or may not still work). As an added bit of silliness the kitchen hot water tap runs cold and vice versa. There are drainage taps that can only be reached by crawling in a semi basement past a very unpleasantly odored composting toilet. The plumbing definitely needs some work. Electrical that previously came from the other house needs to be re-wired. Now that the cottage is owned rather than borrowed, I have been dispatched to fix all these inconveniences and any others I find before anybody stays here.

I have so far completed the re-plumbing tasks and am now working on the pump that brings water in from the lake. Having worked with many pumps in various darkrooms in my career I know it needs to be primed (simply add a bit of water to the intake pipe) and start it up. Any pump I ever primed needed a cup at most of liquid to work. So far I have added a gallon of water and all I’m getting is concerned.

I discover we still have an extension phone connected to the other property that has now been sold to someone else, so I steal their phone line and use my portable computer to dial up and go online to do a search of cottage water pumps. I get pages of information about the best things to buy to prime water pumps. I quickly reason that if someone is prepared to spend $75.00 to buy something to accomplish this task then this sucker probably needs a lot of water in it’s throat to remind it of it’s destiny. I have brought a few five gallon jugs of precious clean drinking water for my stay here, and must now give them up to the pump to get it to work. I’m convinced the pump will work, but saddened to know I will be found dead, having died of thirst because I had no more drinking water. Sigh...

I pour in five more gallons, and it finally starts to gurgle. I pour some more, seal it up and start it. I get water running out the taps and nothing is leaking!

It’s midnight now and the plumbing is completed, I fill the hot water tank and go to bed full of myself.

The next morning I steal the phone line again and send an email to my bride. The subject line is: Wood. The message reads:

Lord, I had a woody the size of a monkey wrench almost all night long that would have made everybody delirious with joy.

I got the shower & wash basin working, and I am full of man testosterone...

Prepare your body for a ravenous feast when I regain ground. You could stop washing anytime now. (see my story on smells and odors I'll be home soon, don't wash)

Love,

MAN

Eventually I get two of the outdoor “grey water” exit tanks and pumps working but the third will need some serious repairs and re-wiring to get it working. The black ABS pipe has broken away from it’s tank and will take some time to deal with and it’s still way too cold to work outside comfortably. As everything sits now this place is fully habitable for about two weeks before the third tank must be online and functional. I decide to leave and will make that fix when Linda and I return in May.

What’s special about this place for me is this is where my lovely bride always came to for a retreat on her vacations before we met.

Every time I come here I learn new things about this place and often new things about myself. Everything about this place reminds me of Linda. Almost every day while I am away from her, I discover things about this place that explain why she loves it and thus after nine years of being together I still discover something new and exciting about her.

While I'm here I find I can do things I never dreamt I was capable of, and can no longer do things I always thought I could. It’s just like when I first met Linda, this place is open and yielding, challenging and hesitant. Full of mystery and mischievousness.

When I return home I am full of the newness and discovery of the cottage. The cottage has magically become my mistress, and my mistress is my wife.

2008-05-08T10:35:00.003-04:00

We’re driving east from Little Rock, Arkansas, along highway 40. It's early evening, just past seven o'clock, and this has been a beautiful, sunny spring day. We are just a few miles from our planned stopover for this leg of the trip. We're going to stay at the Lorraine Hotel in Memphis, Tennessee, tonight. We picked the Lorraine simply because that's the name of one of my sisters, and we thought it would be cute to stay there.

After three years of living in the United States, a land seemingly full of contradictions for us, we're finally moving back home to Canada. Our last residence had been Houston, Texas. In Houston, among other things, they had what was called “the brown bag” law. If you wanted any booze to drink with your dinner in a restaurant, you had to bring it yourself in a “brown bag”. In some restaurants, they would serve you liquor only if you signed a membership card, so that you could be a “club member” during your dinner. At the same time in Houston, it was legal to carry around a pistol anywhere, as long as it was visible.

We've also had our fill of America's social difficulties and racial tension. We will never have to deal with any of that stuff again. It's clear sailing now, we feel good, and know we have an easy drive ahead of us.

"We" is myself, the girl I just married after four years of us living together, (you can check out my blog story Of Nomads and Amazons © by adrian) and the Lab/Shepherd mix dog "Brutus" we acquired a few years ago in California. We're in a large window van we bought a few weeks ago. We're travelling with everything in the world we own in it and tied on it. Every time we exit the van, we need to keep pushing items that tumble out back in. Stuffed to the gills is the descriptor that comes to mind. I also have eleven hundred dollars cash in my pocket. Eleven hundred dollars is the grub stake you needed back then to move to a different city. That way you had enough to pay rent and supplies for a few months until you got resettled in your new place.

Further down the highway, as we comfortably cruise along, we begin to see signs of some kind of commotion ahead. Can't quite figure it out yet, but flashing lights abound, perhaps, we reason, there's been an accident.

As we get closer, we can see the road ahead is barricaded in both directions, and state troopers are everywhere. As we come to a stop, a trooper comes to our van and excitedly tells us that we must turn back, we will not be allowed to go any further forward. We are instructed to make a U turn across the median and drive back in the direction we came. No explanation is, or will, be given. "Go back!" is the order. Memphis has been sealed off, and no one will be allowed in or out.

We drive back and find a small motel in a little place called Mound City. The clerk has no idea what the problem in Memphis is, and would like twenty seven dollars for the nights lodging, please.

We start getting settled in our room and turn on the television. The date is April 4th, 1968, and we now find out that one hour ago, Martin Luther King had been assassinated at the Lorraine hotel, in Memphis. If we had been one hour earlier, we would have been in that tragic place.

We watch the news for a few hours, this is long before the days of CNN and their ilk, and mostly all we get is confused reporting. The one thing that is consistent is that the icon of Americas' civil rights has been assassinated. Memphis is sealed off, and no one will be allowed in or out.

As a Canadian, I was never able to make much sense of the difficulties that plagued the southern states and much of the U.S. Certainly not because I felt pure or better than them, I would say naivety was the main reason. I grew up in a decidedly different environment, and simply was never affected by the racial divide.

My very first contact with segregation and what it meant was during a time that I did a lot of hitch-hiking while I was young. Occasionally, if I could afford it, I would take a bus as part of my trip so that I could relax and use the shower facilities that were available for passengers in bus stations in those days.

On one of my bus rides, going south into Georgia, I had been talking to a black kid who was about my age (seventeen) in the seat next to me. When we got off the bus at one rest stop, I suggested we get a drink at the lunch counter. He pointed to the signs above two separate doors and said that would not be possible. Not this far south. I was dumbfounded. Talk about naive, I truly had never encountered such a thing, and had never heard any hint of anything like this discussed in any schools I ever attended. I knew I had blinkers on as I was growing up. That was one of the reasons I went hitch-hiking in the first place, so I could learn more about the world, but at that moment I realized how little I understood about what was around me. At that time, I suggested that we should both get what we wanted at our designated places, and if he wanted, we would have our snack at the side of the road, which we did.

The next morning at our motel the news was bleak. America had started a slow burn, and riots were engulfing many cities. Like it or not, we were in for a difficult ride ahead.

Needless to say, we bypassed Memphis and headed north along highway 55 to St. Louis.

During the remainder of our trip, we literally drove around and through bigger cities listening to our car radio for instructions on which areas were and were not safe to drive in. That information was always very race specific, with information on where whites were thought to be in danger, as well as where blacks were in danger.

We went east on highway 70 to Indianapolis, and then on to Columbus, Ohio. There was serious tension everywhere. In coffee shops along the highway, if black people came into the restaurant, everyone would stop what they were doing, to wait to see if there was going to be an incident. We travelled up highway 71 to Cleveland, and at all times were mindful of the danger that was mostly in larger cities. Our trip was scary but apart from the tension of all the burning and rioting in the large cities our trip was uneventful and we were never confronted with personal hostility. However, this was anything but a comfortable trip. Definitely not the way to travel.

As we went further north and east, we began to feel some comfort in the fact that we were getting closer to Canada. We travelled across highway 90 and bypassed Buffalo, then went on to Niagara Falls. We drove overnight so that we were able to cross the Peace Bridge into Canada in the morning, just a few days after the dreadful event that had started the rioting.

I vowed to never return to The U.S., but of course over the years that has proved to be a false vow. When I now travel to the States, I'm always mindful of what I perceive as the edginess in the way the races deal with each other there. I don't suggest that Canadians are exempt from racial tension, but so far, we have managed to deal with our differences a little more subtly than in the States.

It seemed that this past April, everybody had a story about the 40th anniversary of the assassination of Martin Luther King. This is mine.

2008-03-15T17:39:00.002-04:00

Becoming married, as I did after a long and comfortable life of semi bachelorhood, has allowed me many adventures I could never have imagined. Fortunately for me, marriage is continuing to be an extremely successful experience. My bride, Linda, has the courtesy of also frequently expressing pleasure that we mixed our lives together.

There are however, a few things that I deal with now that I never expected I would need to face.

I can't say for sure what I am about to describe is endemic in all marriages, but with mine, and my research suggests many others, it seems wives don't have much faith in their husbands' ability or interest to look after their own medical needs.

After getting married, I found out that asking Bill in the back lane if he thinks that new growth on my arm is anything I should worry about, is no longer an acceptable approach to my well being.

Not only that, but get this. I discovered quite by accident one day, that asking one of my former girlfriends to check out my hemorrhoids for me is also apparently frowned on. Who knew?

I hadn't really noticed it in all the excitement of the wedding day, nor during the vows we exchanged, but apparently there was some promise made that, from that time on, I would need to have a doctor look after things along this line.

I learned how this was expected to play out, about two years into our marriage.

Let me first explain why I would prefer to get Bill's input on the state of my health, and not go to a doctor...

More than forty years ago, while I was still a puppy, I had a vasectomy. Forty years in medical terms is prehistoric by today's standard, and finding someone to perform that procedure was a real challenge. To do such a thing on someone who didn't already have children was unheard of. Many doctors at the time thought it was extremely unethical, and I was actually physically escorted out of one doctor's office when I inquired about having this done (those Catholics are everywhere, it seems). Eventually, after a two year search, I did find one, and although this wasn't exactly done on a kitchen table, it was pretty close to it.

The procedure was not covered by any medical insurance, so I needed to pay him with a bunch of ten dollar bills stuffed in an envelope; this added to the ambiance of the doctor's house/operating room.

After signing as many forms as the good doctor could find where I promised to never hold him, his children, grandchildren, or any of his friends (by now I was beginning to suspect he probably didn't have too many friends) responsible for anything that was about to happen, we began. I went into an office at the back of his house and disrobed. I sat down in what under different circumstances would be described as an easy chair and was told to "Just relax" as my legs were spread and strapped into stirrups. I now noticed there was no nurse available to assist. Not even a kindly old grandmother to offer me soup or a blankie if I became more uncomfortable, it was just him and me.

After that, things did not go well. There was no local anesthetic. He produced a can of something that he spayed on my testes with the intention of freezing everything. I did feel a slight chill, but really, not much more than one feels as they read an Edgar Allan Poe story on a stormy night. Nothing froze, and the pain was excruciating. The fine doctor did his best to distract me from concentrating on my pain by carefully choosing to make as much small talk as he could think of about sports. Even today, I can't think of a subject that would be of less interest to me.

I soon convinced myself that I had made a very bad choice, and continued to scream in pain. He explained to me that he was sorry, but the freezing just doesn't seem to work in one out of every twenty cases. Apparently I was number twenty. Once this procedure is started, it's pretty difficult to tuck everything back inside and explain to your body you were just joking, so, even though I was convinced by now that he was really putting a light switch in my scrotum, there was, as they say, no way to turn back.

Eventually he finished, and I was un-shackled. After a short rest I was sent on my way. Not only my "vas deferens" was severed, but as far as I was concerned, from that moment on, so was any future contact with the medical profession.

The following year was very difficult, none of that "you'll be back to work in a few hours, and ready to service a Harem in a week," stuff. I suffered. It took a few years for me to reconcile it all, but I definitely feel it was well worth it. I could never have lived the life I have if I had spent any of it producing replicants.

I need to add another point to my story.

One of the things that some women find really charming about me (I must confess, some have also found really tedious), is that I don't care much about having a climax while I'm exploring the pleasures of sex. I phoned around to a few old girlfriends just to make sure I had this part of my story right, and everybody agreed. It seems that I only bother climaxing on average about one out of ten times that I have sex. We're not talking Bill Clinton "I did not have sexual relations with that woman" kind if sex here. I've always felt that if I had my nose or any other part of my body in someone's crotch, butt or mouth, (or vise versa) that pretty well constitutes sex.

This, however, led to one little unexpected side effect because of my vasectomy.

I now have an extra build up of fluid that creates a blockage and occasionally I end up with what is called a "hydrocele". Every once in a while this dormant hydrocele grows to about the size of a baseball. There is no pattern to when this will happen, but I have determined it's not influenced by how much sex I'm having at any particular time. Sometimes it shows up every few years, sometimes the gap is six or seven years.

Prior to marriage, whenever this happened, I would take a lot of aspirin, and the pain, discomfort and swelling would be gone in about two days. Anyways, it was always great fun to pull out my bonus large testicle if I was given the opportunity to play "Show and Tell" in any group setting. This time though, my new bride insisted that I go to a doctor to have it looked at properly.

During the following month there were extended visits to four different specialists, as well as regular doctors. I was given various shots, had three ultra sounds complete with pictures, graphs, charts and explanations. The medical profession managed to turn an event which had always given me discomfort two or three days at most into a marathon than lasted for one full month of pain and suffering. When it was over, nobody had anything to offer other than the next time it happens, I should maybe just try taking some aspirins. I once again pledged to never go back to a doctor.

A few years later, when Linda assumed I had forgotten about all of this, she pointed out that as an old man, I was long overdue for a colonoscopy and needed to get one done.

I immediately phoned Bill and asked if he would help me out. After all, we had spent many years working together in the photography business. Surely between the two of us we could throw together some kind of small camera that he could help guide up my butt and look around. He, on the other hand felt that forty years of friendship was not enough to earn that kind of assistance, and fell in line with Linda's "I should go to the doctor" suggestion. It was further decided for me, that while I was at it, I would also get my hemorrhoids tended to.

I went to a well know colorectal clinic in downtown Toronto.

There had been normal but minor preparations made for my first visit. I had taken an enema and done other reasonable things one would expect to do in preparing for someone to shove a camera up their butt. The doctor I was assigned to, who became affectionately known to me, my lover and friends as Dr. Sternfinger, took me to his office. I immediately sensed this was not going to be the fun time I had pretended it would be.

It had been decided we would start with a sigmoidoscopy, which for lack of a better explanation, is a mini colonoscopy. They just go in a bit and peek around, nothing too invasive. I took my pants off and bent over a bench so that my flank was exposed to him and his young female assistant. He was very charming (dare I say, gentle) and all the while he patiently explained to me what he was doing, or was about to do.

I tried to concentrate on what he was saying while he started lubricating my butt with his greased, gloved finger. As he spread the opening and I apprehensively waited for the camera's tube to enter, all I could hear was the echoed distant voices of every women I had ever been with, screaming out, "You want to put THAT!, in WHERE?". The gods had found me, and I knew I wasn't going to get off easy, this was definitely payback time.

I wondered if I should write Oprah Winfrey and tell her about this "Aha!" moment I was having. Would I ever be able to suggest anal sex to another woman again? Should I smile for the camera? Most importantly, how will I be able to explain this, if I really, really, like it?

I decided to flee to my happy place, and eventually heard him announce that everything looked fine, he was finished, and I could get dressed and go home now. I made an appointment for the following week, so that he could start attacking my hemorrhoids.

When I met Dr. Sternfinger the following week, he looked a little jollier than he had the week before. I felt he was perhaps a little too excited about the prospect of destroying the hemorrhoids I had spent so many years developing. I felt a touch of sadness knowing my personal relationship with them was about to come to an end. But, they had to go.

I should point out for the technically minded that the procedure they use involves injecting the hemorrhoid with a chemical that forces it to dry up and eventually fall off. Again, there was the pulling down my pants and bending over the bench. Dr. Sternfinger's assistant this time was another young female who was in training so that she too would one day be able to earn a living exploring the underside of mankind. He explained to both of us along the way what he was doing, and I stayed hidden in my happy place, humming silently to myself. When he was finished, he explained there may be a bit of blood spotting, but nothing to worry about. We made an appointment for three weeks down the road to do some more "Work" as he called it.

That night while I was explaining to my bride how easy it was, and what a hero I had been, I got up from my easy chair to get something from the kitchen. As I turned around, Linda screamed in horror. I didn't know it at the time, but while I was sitting there I had been seriously bleeding. The chair, and I, were covered in blood. With the aid of some ice packs and a sitz bath, we were able to stop the flow.

I phoned the clinic the next day, and was instructed not to worry about it.

I bled on and off for two full weeks, and when I went back for my next appointment, I was again told not to worry about it. We attacked more hemorrhoids in a similar manner as before.

This time I bled for almost three weeks straight, and even Linda was beginning to agree with me that a colonoscopy at this time in my life no longer looked like a good idea.

Four sessions, and almost three months of non stop bleeding later I called Dr. Sternfinger and cancelled the colonoscopy and all my future appointments. My ass and I looked forward to a well deserved rest.

Last year, which was four years after the good Dr. Sternfinger had had his way with me, I was ready for another try at getting my colonoscopy and I went to a different clinic in north east Toronto. I was tended to by a Dr. Byrne, and a magnificent and caring staff. Everything went very easily and my comfort was obviously important to all of them. As an added bonus, I got a gold star and passed my test. They didn't even need to do any of that horrifying "we'll cut off this little bit and send it away for testing" that I had dreaded might happen.

Before I got there, I had assumed that I would not be interested in watching anything on the video screen they use, it just seemed too weird. But I did watch, and in hindsight, if you will pardon the pun, I must confess it was an amazing view of my world.

Lord, the pictures I could have made in my studio if I had that camera available to me. It brings a whole new meaning to the expression, "Intimate Photography".

2008-02-17T20:38:00.008-05:00

I get on the subway car, sit down and put my hand into my jacket pocket. Just another kid, really. I’m almost thirteen years old and no one has even noticed me come into the car. Not yet, anyway. I reach further into my pocket and scoop my hand underneath the warm little fur ball I find there. I pull it out of my pocket and the ball of fur I’m now holding in my hand begins to stir. The little grey squirrel I’ve named Peanuts, who accompanies me almost everywhere, drowsily looks up at me and yawns.

We met a year and a half ago, and have been inseparable ever since.

I'm playing on my porch one day in early Spring, and across the street from me I hear a commotion and know something is definitely wrong in the local animal kingdom. Just down the street I locate the cause of the ruckus.

Three baby squirrels are huddled together in the corner of a porch roof, and a large grey squirrel with huge teats is fighting with a fourth baby squirrel. She's chasing him off the roof, squawking and being very aggressive towards him. He crawls back up, wailing all the while, and she attacks him again. It seems that she's trying to kill him.

If you have read my story titled, "My Mother, the Sister © by adrian", you will understand how easy it was for me to immediately identify with this baby squirrel. What I saw happening was not a mystery to me. This squirrel's mother, for whatever reason, did not want the little fellow around anymore. The others were obviously not being threatened by her right now, this was exclusively between him and her, and the others knew it. After his fourth time of being chased and thrown from the roof by his mother, I intervened. I went over and hesitantly picked him up off the ground. I had no idea if he would bite me, or if the mother would attack me now. She was in a hysterical rage, and I realized very unpredictable. Well, the mother instantly stopped squawking, calmly walked over to the remaining litter, called at them, and they followed her around the corner of the roof, and out of sight. The little guy just stared at me. I didn't know if he was frightened or not, but at the time I felt he definitely knew that whatever was going to happen, was going to be a hell of a lot better than what had just happened.

I decided immediately that he would be my pet, we would be motherless buddies together. From this moment on, it was going to be him and me behind the tree. I would teach him to be strong, and he would teach me the squirrels' secret ways. He would show me the proper way to bury and hoard, so that everywhere we went all we would need to do is scratch the ground and there would be the possibility of discovering buried treasure under our feet. We would fly from tree to tree together, and take on the world...

Then I remembered I was late for dinner.

This realization presented itself rather urgently, because with that thought, I remembered that I also had a set of parents. I knew it would be pretty hard to sneak to the dinner table without someone noticing this new addition, and that they were probably going to play a figural role in any possibility of my being able to keep and care for this guy. There was something else I couldn't quite put my finger on, and then it dawned on me. I already had a pet. I was currently responsible for a five year old beagle dog named Towser whose full time hobby, (I'm sure he thought of it as a vocation,) was chasing squirrels.

I figured through stealth, cajoling, or promising to put out the coal furnace ashes for a month next winter, I might be able to sway the parents. I did, however, have some misgiving about my ability to convince Towser that this squirrel was not to be chased, and would be living in the house, just like him. I felt that no matter how upbeat and positively I tried to explain that to him, it was going to be a tough sell. I foresaw that I had a long night ahead of me.

As soon as I entered the house, Towser knew my secret. He ran towards me and jumped up, gaily barking. He knew I had brought him a treat that was better than anything I had ever given him before. Finally, he would have his very own squirrel to maul. He knew the other dogs on the block would be so envious of him.

I held my new ward above my head and called for someone to help pull Towser off me. One of my sisters rushed to my aid and pulled Towser back. The hallway we were in quickly filled, because added to this mix of dog, sister, squirrel and me, the parents rushed into the hallway to see what the commotion was. Their hysterical yelling along with the barking of the dog was quite a combination. I had single handedly pulled off the biggest family shit disturb of this month, and I wondered if the little fellow I was still holding above my head was reconsidering his options.

It didn't come about easily, but eventually the parents forgo their determined resistance and agree to let me try to look after him. We acknowledge that Towser will be a huge disadvantage to the squirrels well being, but I convince them I will be able to train him to look the other way when the squirrel is around.

I am the youngest in the family, but because I am a boy and must be kept away from my three older sisters as much as possible in order to protect my morals, I have always had my own bedroom. It's negotiated that as long as I keep my bedroom door closed whenever I'm at school or not at home, the squirrel can live in my room with me until he is old enough to fend for himself and be set free.

I name my new companion Peanuts.

Checking at the library determines that Peanuts is probably between six to eight weeks old. He did have his fur, but not a full coat yet. He still didn't know what to do with solid food, (nuts or whatever,) so I mostly fed him from an eyedropper or gave him mashed up food or peanut butter I would spread on the end of my finger. He would lick it off, or gently nibble my finger to get at it.

I got a huge box and placed tree branches, bits of cloth and hamster wood shavings in it so that he would have a room of his own. After a few days he dismissed the idea of his own area and decided to always get on the bed with me whenever I was in my room. I would put him in his box at night when it was time for lights out, but in a few minutes I would feel him crawling up the side of the bed and then he would snuggle up to me. He quickly got into the habit of curling up at my neck and sleeping in bed with me every night.

After a few weeks, we started to stumble through a form of semi satisfactory communication. Peanuts would make little grunting or what sounded like chirping noises when he wanted or needed any attention, and he started to come to me when I called him. Towser, of course was not amused by any of this. Amazingly though, Towser did quickly soften to Peanut's presence. Sometimes when Towser would go and lie down on his doggie bed Peanuts would march over to him and curl up on Towser's stomach and go to sleep. If Towser had ever been able to learn how to use a can opener, so that he could feed himself, I'm sure he would never have put up with such indignity. Peanuts simply became part of the household.

I soon started to take Peanuts outside to the backyard. He was still too young to look after himself, but I wanted him to at least have a sense of the outdoors. I never had any intention of keeping him permanently as an indoor pet, and felt he would go free as soon as he was more mature. I always assumed that when he was free to roam, he would drop by for visits on occasion if he felt like it.

About a month after I started living with him, he had his first attack. I realized he was sick, and at the time, I thought he was dying. Perhaps this explained why his mother had been trying to get rid of him.

Some squirrels have an illness with symptoms that seem to be similar to epilepsy. They occasionally have seizures where they go completely rigid and/or tremble, and stay in that state for a few minutes whenever this occurs. Peanuts was afflicted with this illness.

The Secord Animal Clinic was near Ramsden Park on Yonge Street in Toronto, close to where I lived. The doctor's name was Alan Secord, and over time I became very indebted to him. I took Peanuts there right after his first attack. Naturally I was scared and had no idea what was wrong with him. Because I was eleven years old, I had no money. When I explained that to Dr. Alan, as he became known to me, he said it didn't matter, and he would do what he could to help. I don't remember if he gave Peanuts any medication, but he certainly gave me hope that Peanuts was generally healthy, except for this flaw. During the year and a half that Peanuts and I were together, he had about six more seizures, and Dr. Alan ministered to him without ever charging me a penny.

Back on the home front, on one of our ventures in the back yard, his mother came into the yard. Of course, I had no idea what to expect (that seems to be a constant theme in my life, even back then).

If you don't know much about squirrels, you might find it hard to believe they are individually identifiable, but they definitely are. In a city environment as they run frantically about, that fact might be hard to accept, but they all do have their very own discernable personality traits. Apart from looks they definitely interact with the world as individuals. The way they forage, approach, squawk or even flick their tail, makes them easy to identify.

I offered his mother a nut and she came closer to us. She totally ignored Peanuts, and he ignored her. Of course I was relieved. When I first saw her I thought she would either attack him again, or he would go off with her. Over the next few months, whenever she came by, I would stand in the middle of the yard with Peanuts on my shoulder, and I trained her to jump from the fence to my other shoulder to get a treat. She would sit there and eat it and then the two of them would run up and down my back and around my torso and sort of play with each other. In those interludes, I was their scratching post and tree trunk.

At various times during the next year and a half I would leave Peanuts alone in the yard in the belief that he was ready to go out on his own. He would run and play in the trees, sometimes even with his mother and then when he had enough, he would come to the back door and lie down or just sit there until I let him in. He would scamper in, and run past me up to our room. Towser would watch, and I'm sure he wondered how everything could have gone so wrong in his life.

If I took him to the park and put him down, he would follow along, just like we were going for a walk together. When he got tired, he would squawk and I would wait for him to jump up on my leg and then I would pick him up and put him in my jacket pocket where he would curl up and go to sleep.

Back in the Subway car, I put Peanuts on the window sill behind us and he romps back and forth while a crowd gathers around. Not surprisingly, people are excited, amazed, and have many questions. When we arrive near our stop I call him to come to me and pick him up and slip him back in my pocket. He will quickly nod off to sleep, and I leave the car full of childhood feelings of importance.

About a year and a half after I rescued him, Peanuts had a final seizure and died. I was devastated, but I had always known that sooner or later he would be gone. It's the price you have to pay if you befriend animals from the wild. We had a wondrous and magical time together, and I learned almost all the secrets of the squirrels from him. Little did I know then that I would need to call on those secrets later on as other squirrels passed through my life.

2008-01-04T12:36:00.000-05:00

I'm attending an online writers workshop with other oldsters, and one of the assignments given is to write about smells and odors. In deference to the age of the others in the group I try to sanitize what I write, so as not to offend them. I don't know why, but have you ever noticed how really square old people tend to be. You'd think with all the living they'd done they would be open and flexible, but sadly that's rarely the case.

Good grief though, smells? How can any self respecting libertine be expected to behave themselves with that as the topic? My repeated attempts to sanitize what I'm writing proves unsuccessful, so I present to you this meandering and previously unpublished manuscript.

I call out to lovely Linda, who is down the hall in her home office, "Oh Lord, this time they want me to write about smells. I smell a class expulsion in the air on this one."

I've tried a number of times to make a list of odors I like, but every time I sanitize the list, it mysteriously disappears. I don't seem able to do it successfully, so I will summarize how I feel about odor, discuss some smells that excite me, and then mention a few I don't much care for.

The Good:
I just threw together a mincemeat pie (hey, it's the season). When I started cooking it I was quickly reminded of the joyful smell of food simmering on the stove or baking in the oven. I would be hard pressed though, to find a difference between food and sex. For me, they are very interchangeable.

Somewhere along the line I discovered that my analytical, intellectual self was a hindrance to my life's enjoyment. With that discovery, I relinquished as much control of my senses as I could to my animal nature. Smell, not surprisingly, has ended up very high on my list of important senses.

The incredible smells that can emanate from a woman influence me far more than looks ever have. My visual disinterest stems from the fact that everybody always shows up for their photo sessions at their finest, so I have always tried not to let the way a person looks rule my sensations. Armpits, crotch, sweat, (we're talking fresh odor here, not old and stale). Odors from all of the places you think you can imagine someone full of lust would crave, but so much more. I love to inhale flesh. Odor has always been paramount to my sexual enjoyment, I am an animal.

I believe Napoleon definitely had it right when he wrote to his wife Josephine, "I'll be home soon, don't wash." I envy a dog's approach to meeting and getting to know each other; a nose up the butt seems to be so much more sensible than a sudden look in the eyes and a hesitant handshake. Anyway, think of all the dreadful germs you can get from a handshake. Disgusting! Definitely not for me, thanks just the same.

Some of my photographic assignments are extremely intimate affairs, which occasionally involve some form of sex between the subjects. After a session I am often reminded of actor Robert Duvall's memorable speech while standing on the beach in the movie Apocalypse Now. He begins with, "You smell that? Do you smell that? Napalm, son. Nothing else in the world smells like that. I love the smell of napalm in the morning." After a bit more, he finishes with "The smell, you know that gasoline smell, the whole hill. Smelled like... victory." Well, to paraphrase, I love the smell of sex, nothing else in the world smells like that. I used to love relaxing on my own in the studio after a photo session and re-discovering the odor in the air of what had just transpired. Do you smell that? The studio. The whole studio, smelled like... intimacy.

The Bad:
Then, of course, there are the bad smells. I am horrified by the smell of perfumes, colognes, after shave, scented soaps and the like. Apart from the fact that many are just plain dreadful, I am offended that anyone would want to mask their naturalness. I feel robbed of the opportunity to take in and experience the smell of that person.

Flowers? You won't get any bouquets from me. Almost all flowers just plain reek as far as I'm concerned, and once picked, it's all downhill from there. People are forever shoving flowers in my face as they exclaim, "smell that, it's just so lovely!". Well, I don't agree.

The Ugly:
I am allergic to garlic, so naturally the smell of garlic distresses me greatly. It's beyond me how garlic ended up being attributed to the Italians. I am a lapsed Italian myself, and have spent my life explaining to people that there was never a hint of garlic at our house, or any of the Italian relatives we ever visited.

The list of things that most people never consider have garlic in them is endless, including almost every commercial condiment or sauce. There are some brands that don't use garlic, so I use them exclusively.

If I am out shopping, you will see me with my pocket magnifying glass carefully scrutinizing the small print list of ingredients on tins or packages of food. I assume that anybody who sees me these days thinks that funny looking old hippie is probably checking for healthy ingredients, but all I'm looking for is the dreaded word "garlic", I don't care a wit about what else is in the product. If you see me in a restaurant I can often be found hunched over a plate of food, very animal like, sniffing for traces of garlic to see if I should risk eating it. Asking in restaurants if there is garlic in food is rarely enlightening, although I have noticed lately they take the question much more seriously. I guess they are afraid of lawsuits these days.

I rely on my sense of smell to alert me to the possibility of potential pleasure nearby, and I count on it to let me know if I should or shouldn't eat what is being offered me. Whether I'm in the bedroom or a restaurant.

2007-11-30T12:36:00.001-05:00

I want you to know right off, I'm about 5 feet 9½ inches tall, I have no idea what that translates to in those other measurement number thingies that Prime Minister Trudeau bequeathed to us Canadians, but let's just say, I'm average height. I've pretty well stayed that height since my teens. When I bend over I'm a bit shorter, but when I stand up straight, I don't get any taller. I have a slim build, and since my teens I've weighed in at about 150 pounds. When I bend over, my weight doesn't change a bit.

There's something else I need to explain, but I want your help on this. You don't need to get up or anything, I'll get it myself, but I need you to believe me on this one (if not, for the sake of my story, just pretend you do). Women in general, are taller now than they used to be. In the fifties, sixties and seventies, if a woman was tall, she often stooped to minimize the impact of her height. It was rare indeed to find a woman who carried herself with the full grandeur her height would allow.

Damn, I just remembered something else. Cigarette Girls. If you're older, you might remember them. Some of you young whippersnappers might know them from old movies, or even parties. They became quite campy a few years back, so you may have seen them, or at least pictures of them. These women did tend to be a little taller than average, and often wore brightly coloured tight tunics with black fishnet stockings. Inevitably, high heeled spike shoes were added for more effect. They carried, and balanced in front of them, huge trays of cigarettes and cigars that hung from large straps that went around their necks and came down to their waists. They were hired to walk around in fancier bars selling, you guessed it, cigars and cigarettes.

When I was a puppy, I used to hang around in a bar called The Regency Towers, on Avenue Road near Bloor Street in Toronto. The legal drinking age in Ontario was twenty-one at the time. I was only twenty, but as long as you acted civilized no one ever questioned you or asked for ID in classy joints. This was a classy joint.

At that time, I was going out with my former brother-in-law's housemate. I met her when he invited me to a party at their place. She had a voracious sexual appetite and was driving him crazy with what he felt were unreasonable sexual demands. He reasoned that she might find me attractive, and I probably wouldn't think her enormous sexual appetite was something that needed to be avoided. Well, he got that right on both counts. She lived across the street from the Regency Towers and was fifteen years older than me. There is no question that lady was certainly a great experience in my life, but this is not her story. This is the story of me and my first wife, the beautiful nomadic Amazon I married.

I was sitting at a table in the Regency waiting for my girlfriend, when from behind my chair I heard a young lady walking towards me with the familiar chant of "Cigars? Cigarettes?", "Cigars? Cigarettes?".

I turned around in my chair to buy a pack (yes, I did smoke back then), and all I could see were legs. Above my head and obstructing my view of the rest of her, was the tray full of cigarettes. I could see nothing else, just legs and thighs. Unbelievably long legs, in black fishnet stockings and high heels, asking me if I wanted to buy any cigars or cigarettes. Now, I want you to know, I was a leg man back then, a true connoisseur of legs. I favour rear ends now, but at that time, I thought legs were the most beautiful body part that any women had (that was before I understood about minds). My present wife, Linda, occasionally reminds me that she doubts I've ever met a female body part I didn't think was my favourite. She does have a valid point. This though, was the most spectacular set of legs and thighs I had ever seen; lord forgive me, we called them "gams" in those days.

I remember asking those legs if they could step back a bit so I could have the pleasure of meeting their owner, and they did. She was gorgeous! Fine lovely features, slim, with long hair flowing almost to her waist, and she was about my age. I fell instantly in lust. If you have read any of my previous ruminations, you may have noticed I don't have much hesitation in being direct, and didn't back then either.

I told her I was in lust with her, that I would like to marry her, but if she couldn't make up her mind right away, then maybe we could do something else in the meantime. She said she was sorry, but she didn't go out with her customers, and if she ever did, the bar would fire her. So I explained that if that was the case, then I would never buy any cigarettes from her. I didn't, and we left it at that.

Over the next few months while we flirted with each other in the bar, I learned quite a bit about her and we became playfully friendly with each other. I discovered she was single, and didn't often have much success with men. You see, she was six feet three and one half inches tall, and also extremely independent. Most men, even the tall ones, were intimidated by her height. It seemed that everybody she met didn't quite know how to treat her. Female independence was not usually enjoyed or encouraged in days of yore either.

I have always been a great fan of strong, independent women. Among other things, it's always seemed obvious to me that if I was with a capable women, on the occasions that my brain stops working (which it does from time to time) my capable companion could guide our ship for us. I'm also fearless and not prone to intimidation. I don't mean to give you the impression that my thoughts were pure though. My god, when I was twenty I couldn't possibly ignore how good it would look on my resume if I was able to bed the tallest chick on the block. Well, I didn't bed her, but the flirting continued.

One day when I dropped into the bar she announced she was going to Europe in a few days. She planned on buying a scooter when she got there, and was going to travel around the country for a year or so. She gave me a forwarding address to write her if I wanted, and I gave her my address. We kissed each other goodbye hesitantly. This was our first kiss, and I don't think either of us thought we would ever see the other again.

A few months later I received a letter from her. She wrote that she missed me! I wrote back immediately, and we began an ongoing, increasingly intimate, communication. Seduction by mail is an easy road to travel, you don't even need to get up and wash afterwards. You can write majestic things, and they slide into the body with far more ease than the mechanics of sex allows. On the strength of our one kiss we became lovers by mail. It was extremely horny and exciting and went on until her return a year and a half later.

We got together as soon as she came back and acted like inexperienced teenagers with each other. We had consummated our relationship a hundred different ways by mail, and yet had only kissed each other once.

There was much fumbling about. It was so bad and amateurish that at one point we joked that perhaps we would have more success if we went to separate rooms and just slipped notes back and forth under the door. Eventually our bodies found their own way of communicating and we glided together. We were both very proud of ourselves, and became, as they used to say "an item".

Lord, we were a sight! As I said, women were rarely as tall as her, so when people saw us together it was cognitively difficult to understand that I was average height, and she was very tall. We were always referred to as "that lady with the really short man." I used to occasionally wear a beret, and if we were out together, I have to admit that standing beside her, with my beret on, I looked like I was about four feet tall. It was great fun; it added to our individuality as a couple, and we always enjoyed the gaping stares of others. I was way too young to be a sugar daddy, so others were forced to imagine all sorts of reasons what this gorgeous creature could see in a perceived little runt like me. It added immensely to what others thought must be my enormous sexual prowess.

We continued to enjoy being with each other, and a year or so later, we moved in together.

In 1965 we decided to move to California and look for the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. We also hated the cold Canadian winters. As soon as we got our American immigration papers, we shipped our belongings to Monterey, California, got in our little British two-seater MGA convertible and drove off to greener pastures. Upon arrival, we rented a house in Pacific Grove, California and settled in. I started a photo-finishing company for other photographers, shot weddings and did jobs for the local Chamber of Commerce. She got a job as a switchboard operator.

California dreaming: At that time the singing duo of Sonny and Cher were just becoming famous. Cher has an average female height of about five foot six inches, but because she wore heels all the time, she always appeared to be much taller than Sonny. Whenever we went out, because of our height differences, people often mistook us for Sonny and Cher and wanted our autographs. Initially we protested and insisted we weren't them, but that just pissed people off and they would become verbally abusive. It didn't take long to figure out it was just easier to reach for our pens and get ready to sign away whenever we saw people running toward us. If you're a collector of autographs, I'd recommend you check the authenticity of any Sonny and Cher ones you might be interested in buying.

California was good for us, but that "it's cold, and it's damp" line from the Frank Sinatra song rings true. We went to be warm, and ended up unhappy with the mid California climate. After a year, it was time to move on. We still wanted warmth, so Houston, Texas became our next target. We didn't understand that although Texas is indeed warm, someone forgot to add air flow to the State, so unfortunately, breathing is rather difficult. I was also just beginning to notice that the nomadic life didn't appeal to me as much as I thought it might.

We hated Houston when we got there. It was a city that was intolerant of almost everything unusual, and we were certainly unusual. Among other oddities, I was probably one of only four people in the whole state who had a goatee. Eventually I got a job with Gittings Studios, a very upscale high society photographer. I soon became a novelty item for the rich and famous and started getting many requests to attend and photograph important functions. I was always encouraged to bring my girlfriend along. We weren't signing autographs, but we were once again in demand. During this high rolling period of success we decided it was time to make plans for marriage.

We had wedding rings inscribed with a Latin expression that roughly translates into "We can, because we think we can". In San Antonio, we found an accommodating United Church minister who agreed to remove the U.S. flag that was flown in his chapel, and he let us write our own words for the service (unusual in those days). We were married in a delightful and very private ceremony. A couple we knew joined us at the church to act as witnesses, and I had a friend from work join in to take pictures. After the service they left and we drove to Mexico for a two week honeymoon.

We eventually tired of America. In the States, it seemed that we constantly needed to explain ourselves, whereas in Canada, we found that people generally didn't care what you did as long as it didn't hinder them. Longing for this ideological freedom, we moved back to Toronto.

We didn't live happily ever after though, but we did have a great time that spanned ten exciting and wonderful years together. Over those years we both changed dramatically, me certainly more than her, (check my Image in the mirror © by adrian story) and we became incompatible. We still occasionally see each other, but long ago decided being good friends was a better deal for us than marriage.

Through all of the years that we shared a wanderlust together, her need to travel was much greater than mine, and she often went away on her own to exotic places to explore new experiences. She has spent her life searching for something. I found what I was looking for a long time ago.

Maybe it's more accurate to say that she always went out looking to find life, and I always preferred to wait and let life come and find me. It certainly always has!

2007-11-06T09:14:00.000-05:00

It's early morning, Linda and I are at the table, reacquainting ourselves with each other and the new day. For the past six months or so, since we bought a decent nineteen hundred dollar bed we mostly chat about the dreadful sleep we each had last night. During the two years before that, we mostly chatted about how, as soon as we got a decent bed, we would finally be able to get a good sleep. Prior to that, we slept comfortably on a seventy five dollar waterbed which I put together in 1967 and brought to Linda's house as part of my dowry when we were married. Apart from the occasional bag change over the years, it had never cost me any loss of sleep. Inexplicably one day, we both decided it was time to change to a regular bed, and neither of us has slept properly since.

I am drinking my first of two cups of instant coffee which will glide me through the day until late afternoon when I will begin to consider whether I am ready to ingest some food. I occasionally graze in the daytime, but for most of my life, my first food of any day starts at dinnertime. Linda, on the other hand, is busy doing things that she and other devotees of breakfast often do. Cooking oats, sometimes eggs, cutting apples, squeezing oranges, making coffee using complicated filter systems, and general preparations for her morning feast. With luck, whatever she does now will get her as far as noon before she challenges her stomach to once again get into action. For myself, and I assume many others that don't eat in the morning, it is a sight full of mystery.

In our current conversation, I mention that I have not heard back from the naked pregnant lady I photographed last week, nor have I heard back from the older Chinese lady that was interested in some sexy photos of herself before, as she put it "she fell apart anymore". I wonder aloud that I may have offended each of them in some of last week's emails. Linda looks up from the orange she is squeezing and smiles that delicious wry smile she displays when she has another insight into who I am and says, "So you think you offended another two people. I guess you would say last week was a pretty good week for you then."

It wasn't always like that for me. From adolescence to my thirties, I was extremely conservative in thought, dress, manner and deportment. I always saw to it that I was impeccably dressed whenever I went out. I always wore a suit and tie or ascot. The most casual I could accept of myself was if I was in the darkroom developing prints, I would occasionally take my suit jacket off, but never my tie. If I felt like really slumming, I would roll my sleeves up. I was, as they say, a tight ass. I was over thirty before I put on my first pair of jeans.

I was also in turmoil. I considered myself an intellectual, but I was filled with never ending lust. I could not accept that someone as intelligent as I could be so base and animalistic in my desires. I can't explain why I thought the two could not co-exist, I just did. I felt someone as smart as me should be able to control their instincts. I believed that life could only be appreciated fully as an intellectual experience, to be reasoned with, and not felt. I lived in dreadful fear of my inner self. I was convinced I harbored a monster that was determined to escape and overpower my intellect. I continually waged a war against my instincts to prevent this from happening.

Near the end of the sixties, when I was about to turn thirty, the rest of the world was busy going crazy on drugs and many people were trying to "find themselves". I decided it was time for me to try to face my monster. In those days, the road most easily traveled for insight was the drug LSD. So I took it. Without a doubt, that became one of the pivotal experiences of my life.

What LSD essentially does is temporarily modify the way one can process information. At the same time, you are given conscious access to immensely more information than you normally have. The information you get when under the influence of LSD is not reliably true information, but it is far more than we normally perceive. It overwhelms the senses and produces a very dreamlike state, but you are generally aware that you are the conductor of your own dreams and perceptions. Anyway, in a hallucinogenic state, filled with fear, literally trembling, I stared into a mirror and demanded that I should see my true self. I prepared myself as best I could for the most hideous vision possible, I braced myself, expecting to see the horrible monster I had hidden inside me come forth. Instead, I roared with laughter and ended up with me.

In that hallucination, I appeared to age very quickly, and among other things, my short dark hair grew out very long and white. I liked what I saw. I realized my internal engine was calm, and I was full of humour. I also realized that the animal I had been so afraid of was definitely harmless, and I decided at that moment if that was who I was, I better stop trying not to be that. Thirty eight years ago, in a mirror, I saw the guy that's in this picture here. I immediately decided that I would not do anything to create what I saw, I would simply stop doing things that might prevent me from being what I now realized was far more honest. So, for example, I didn't decide to grow my hair long, I simply decided to stop cutting it. I became determined to stop getting in the way of my own life's experience. I had "gone clear" without the need of Scientology. I was stunned that I had previously been so fearful of such a delightful and comfortable human.

I don't suggest that we should all march over to Wal-Mart, buy a tab of LSD from the drug counter and drop it. I know there is much urban myth about the dreadful things that drugs do, and I have no doubt that some of it is true. For me though, it was a life giver. Over time, I became free of my own self imposed shackles and realized that I could be sane and at the same time truly enjoy my insanity as much as I wanted. I no longer needed to care what the world thought about me. I understood that my fulfillment was completely my responsibility, no one else's. I was no longer dependent on what others wanted me to be or do. Finally free to experience life on it's own terms, beholden to no preconceived notions.

2007-10-14T20:01:00.000-04:00

A few random, sometimes pointless thoughts from my life of pictures:

Photography for me is magic, it's like fortune telling. You show up at my door, I've never seen you before, we are strangers and yet you want me to present you with an insightful representation of your inner being. Forgetting about the sexuality of my particular specialty, even regular photography is a very intimate experience. In seconds, I need to get you to remove your pretence and mask, trust me, and reveal who you are. If I do it right, you end up showing me parts of yourself you didn't even know existed. How crazy is it that we both believe this is possible? I tell you, it's magic!

Mary, from the treasuresintheattic and a private workshop blog I belong to wrote in a comment to me once, "When I read your writing, I feel like I've signed on for a carnival ride."

During one period of my career, I kept coming across a photographer who had his own studio but wanted to work with me. Every time we would meet, he would repeat the same story, that he liked my style etc., and wanted to partner and work with me. He always explained that he was well off and could easily pay the bulk of my rent if I would allow him this privilege. I would thank him, and explain repeatedly this was not possible, as I worked alone. In a moment of weakness once, (maybe I was having trouble with my rent, I don’t remember why) I told him to come to my studio for a meeting, and we would talk about it.

My studios have always been an expression of my being, the studios themselves are theater. I always set my studios up as huge play rooms for grownups. This seems to help enormously in getting so much playfulness out of my clients, and thus onto the film.

I always had on display everything imaginable, and much unimaginable, all strewn about, in what I would call studied carelessness. Great flowing pieces of fabric, underwear of every description, heavy leather gear, satin, fur, whips, dildos, butter. In one period of time I even had a life size papier-mâché horse that I would occasionally put out onto the sidewalk in front of my studio. A little something for everyone. You knew you could act the fool if you wanted, be as free as you wanted, and no one would laugh or point at you.

I arranged everything so that the deeper you ventured into the studio, the more provocative my samples became. That way, you could stop at any point if you felt uncomfortable. If you asked to see something more revealing, I would show you samples of my special signature works that I create called "carnalsnaps" (if you Google them, visit at your own risk).

The other photographer showed up for the appointment he had sought for so long. He solemnly walked through my studio, constantly shaking his head. When he was finished he stared at me wide eyed and exclaimed "This isn't a photography studio, it's a carnival ride. I could never work in a place like this!" He then stormed out. His reaction gave me a warm and toasty feeling, and he never bothered me again.

Well, Mary's comment also made me feel warm and toasty, but this time for a very different reason. It's great to know that even in writing, I can sometimes still throw together a good carnival ride.

I have been on many strange journeys doing what I do for a living. I've seen things and been where it would have been impossible to be if it wasn't for my work. I suppose I have satisfied every imaginable fantasy a man could have, certainly any I ever had, at least three times in my life. The great part for me is that most of the time I didn't even get splashed. Everybody did most of the grunt work for me, and all I had to do was encourage, cheer, watch and take a few well timed snaps.

I have always been amused by peoples reaction to what I do. We constantly see photos of mayhem everywhere these days and hardly ever think about the photographer's involvement in what they have just witnessed. I'm sure it's safe to say we don't anticipate that when they return from their assignments they will refuse to take another picture unless there is a body nearby.

I used to do photojournalism shoots early in my career, dreadful fires, car accidents, that kind of stuff, no one ever wanted to talk about the event I had just witnessed. No one ever seemed to be the least bit interested.

Mix some sex into photography though, and most peoples brains don't seem to work properly. My experience is that you can't get people to stop talking about it.

I have earlier mentioned that I mostly live as a hermit. The friends I do have I've known for forty or so years and that's about it. I did end up with one extra photographer friend about fifteen years ago. The only reason that worked out was because he used to do still photos on the old porno movie sets in California. It was easy for both of us to become friends because we didn't have to waste each others time talking about sex and photography. We had both given at the office.

When I was younger and my ego lived in a different place I believed that my ability to get everybody naked was entirely because of me and my imagined sexiness. I eventually came to understand this was not the case. As I continued in my field, I realized that it had never been about me at all. Of course I contribute, I do seem to have an ability to give people permission to do whatever they want, and to have no embarrassment or shame about it. People do trust that I have no moral interest in what they do, and I will honour whatever their choice is.

I realize that I am dealing with a selective clientele, but it's always seemed to me that most people are able to abandon much of their moral restraint if given the opportunity. After forty-five years of this work, I still wonder what it is about photography that gives so many people the excuse to act differently than they normally do. I always enjoy challenging people to express that same freedom without the aid of a camera.

2007-09-23T17:23:00.000-04:00

It's 1972, I'm working in the basement of the studio/photo-finishing plant I run. Bill my friend and co-worker comes downstairs looking ashen faced and shaken. He says "There are two really serious looking black guys upstairs. They want to talk to the owner."

I go upstairs to the reception room, and rounding the corner see that Bill has not exaggerated. Two very intense looking guys are sitting there, both dressed in tight black suits, slim briefcases on their laps. These guys are definitely not Jehovah's witnesses. As I enter and say "Hello, I'm the owner." they stand simultaneously. It is immediately apparent there will be no hearty handshakes or "Hello's." to be had from this crew.

One of them walks over to the reception desk, flattens his briefcase, opens and starts rummaging thru it. The case is too small to hold a baseball bat. What is he looking for? Why did I come to work today?

The other walks up to me, very close, inches from me, into my space. Very intimidating. I intentionally move two inches closer to him, It's a defense mechanism I've always used when people try to crowd me. I think this lets them know I get their body language and it won't work on me. He almost smiles as he hands me his business card and says simply, "Don't you think it's about time you start advertising with us?" The card I've been handed has "Contrast" written across it.

Contrast is the name of a militant black newspaper in Toronto during the 70's. These are the days of the Black Power movement, Black Panthers, Black & Proud, and everything is "Soul".

These guys are not here to give me a sales pitch. In some strange way I understand I've just been invited. Normally, this would be the simplest of business decisions, advertise. This is different than normally. I would be reaching a market I knew nothing about and could never have had the audacity to consider. Taking this step alters much of the next twenty or so years of my life.

Listen to this...

I ran a photo-finishing company, had a staff of four and a very crowded house. I decided to move everything out of the house, and at the same time I would throw a little studio into the new location to play in. Photography for me is theater, all smoke and mirrors. Point a camera at most people, and they will smile or take their clothes off, or both, at the first hint, in an instant. What great fun!

I dug up some of my old sample photos and put them in the window. The early seventies in Toronto was the beginning of a large migration of immigrants from the West Indies and several African countries. In a short time, the black population grew to over two hundred and fifty thousand people. So, I found the requisite token black person shot I had, and added that to the window.

Photography is one of the few businesses that attracts exactly what you display. If I put pictures of little old ladies in my window, that's what will come inside. Babies in the window, that's what I'll get. Nothing could be simpler. It's like fly paper. What I didn't know, was that for most photographers, black people are a difficult photographic challenge. I had often heard that black people were hard to photograph, but I swear, I always thought it was some kind of goofy racial thing someone thought up, but it's true. It's also pretty obvious if you think about it, white objects reflect light, black objects absorb it. Put a dark subject on a dark background in a photo, and if not properly lit, they will likely disappear.

I almost always use dark backgrounds in my work, that's what appeals to me.

So, the token black person I put in the window wasn't part of any plan, it was just a simple portrait of a black lady. I had used a dark background in the shot, as is my fashion, and she showed up plain as day. I didn't consider for a moment there was anything unusual about it.

Soon, there were various clusters of black people outside the window talking amongst themselves about this shot. I'm still amazed this one photo started it all. This was "the face that launched a thousand ... " (oops, sorry, wrong story).

In the seventies in Toronto, we didn't have the dreadful gangs that are around these days, but it was still pretty unnerving to have a group of black people gathered about and looking into my studio. It was all new, and when they started coming in for portraits, it was a struggle for them as well as myself. Many of these early immigrants had heavy accents and often spoke the Patois dialect, something I certainly wasn't used to, and at first I had great difficulty understanding them.

I make few decisions in my life with any thought about what the final destination or outcome will be. Climax simply doesn't interest me, never did. I'm far more interested in what I will discover on the trip to anywhere, not what I will find at destinations end. When the West Indians and blacks from other countries started showing up, and then Contrast invited me in, I signed on for the trip.

When I began this section of my life, if there was a group of black guys outside my studio window I would be wary. When I finished, if there was a group of white guys outside my studio window, I would be wary. Everything in my life eventually changed from what I had previously known, and turned completely around. Absolutely everything I knew became accidentally black.

The first ads were simple, nothing gaudy. I also advertised in a publication called Spear, which had a more militant approach to the thorny issue of our different cultures. Eventually I ran ads in the other black papers, Share, and then, Pride.

Black people started coming in for portraits. Saturdays they would line up outside, I would shoot twenty or more sittings a day. Prior to this, I would shoot a couple of sittings a week. Initially they were new immigrants and would come in wanting shots of their new watch, holding their first paycheck, anything, and everything, to send back home. They were having fun, and so was I.

White people would come in acting like they were at the dentists. Explain the photo being made was to shut up some relative they hadn't seen in years, and they didn't want to be here. I was instructed to just get it over with quickly so they could get back to their lives.

The blacks were consistently exciting and yes, colourful. Many would show up in outrageous costumes and plumage. This was during the time that the "hip" all dressed in flamboyant velvet suits, innovative hats, goofy platform shoes and that incredible afro hair cut of the time. If a group came in and I set up a pose they liked, everybody would spontaneously clap to show their approval. There was a "black is beautiful" mentality and they wanted me to capture the history of it.

During this period I began dressing pretty outrageously myself. Sort of a cross between early beatnik and late hippie. Long great frocks, beads, very long hair. I've always been a suit and tie man when shooting weddings, so I would make exceptions for that. The long hair with a suit was theater unto itself.

The whites on the other hand were bland and boring. They never hesitated to display how much they hated every minute of what was happening. The blacks I encountered were visceral. Communication was not tainted by hidden meanings. No euphemisms here, everything was direct, emotional and on the surface. It didn't take long to realize I had stumbled into an area that my Italian temperament was more than suited to, this was definitely where I belonged.

At the same time it was an enormous culture shock. Sometime scary. I would shoot a wedding, at the reception there would be a huge gathering and I would be the only white boy in sight. I would attend raucous church services similar to what I had seen only in newsreels, and there I was, up at the alter, recording it. In the beginning it was very weird, no question about it. For them too, I guess.

Seeing as I stuck out so much, everybody quickly got used to the strange white guy with goatee and long grey hair. As I said, photography for me is theater, I am fast on my feet and usually put on a pretty good show. I always do my best to entertain my clients, that way I know they will go out of their way to entertain me, for the camera. Soon the black papers started hiring me to shoot some of their work, and occasionally they would print stories about me. I was welcomed in.

Photography for me is magic, sometimes the magic works, sometimes it doesn't. With black people, for me, it almost always worked. It's about communication, not equipment, and once I got the rhythm of the speech and the personalities right, it easily fell into place.

I closed the photo-finishing section of my business and moved the studio to the middle of what was then the "black section" of town, Bathurst and Dupont Street.

I started advertising on black radio programs, and began using the catch phrase, "The Almost Soul studio" in my ads. It was nervy and all very presumptuous. I now used black people exclusively for samples, with one token white person in the window. We joked that the only time a white person came into my studio was if they needed change for the parking meter. As I said, all unplanned and very weird.

As the community expanded and changed, I moved my studio to follow it. I moved to Jane & Lawrence Ave., and then eventually settled down on Eglinton at Oakwood Ave. This area is still a hub of black activity in Toronto.

For the reader that may have been wondering if I would ever get to it, yes, there were the women. Up till then in my life, my contact with black women had been by way of National Geographic magazine. Well, I found out that in real life, they are way more fun than in the magazine. Who knew?

Photographers get turned on by various things. Some of us get excited about buildings, hillsides, rocks, babies, horses, whatever. Black women photographically intoxicate me. I can't explain it, would be a fool to try. They just knock my socks off. Doesn't matter what shape, how old, how tall or any of that stuff, many just seem to have an attitude that drives me nuts. More fun!

I don't know if I drove them nuts too, but for many years almost all my female companions were black. It was just a natural progression of my life at that time. All the people I knew, met, worked with and saw on a daily basis were black, so naturally that's where I would meet my lovers. Eventually I started a semi-permanent relationship with the sister of a black lady that worked in one of my studios, and we lived together for quite some time.

Later, into the 80's, the area around Eglinton and Oakwood Ave., started to get run down. The shops nearby were deteriorating, taxes were becoming unmanageable, and that section of Toronto temporarily fell apart, so it became time to move on.

Many clients followed me to my new location on Bloor Street West, but it was never quite the same as the intense activity during that twenty year hit. By that time, I had also realized that although it might be initially distasteful, I may as well try to get used to doing business with, and taking money from, the white folk...

They talked a little different than me, but I figured in time I might get used to the idiom of their speech patterns and be able to learn how to deal with them. I even began to notice that some of their white women didn't look too bad either. Not as much "Junk in the Trunk" as I was familiar with, but isn't there something about "a change is as good as a rest".

2007-09-03T11:02:00.000-04:00

I can't think of any easy way to tell you this, I've twisted it about in my mind for days trying to find the words that could even come close to explaining it. I can think of nothing to prepare you. You've heard the expression "horse whisperer", there was a book, followed by a movie. Well, this is so much worse. Here it is then, do with it as you will.

I am a squirrel whisperer!

Really, everything is fine, I've taken my meds today, no need to worry, it's simply not that big a deal. It just happens that's what I am. Lord knows, I didn't choose this, it's just been there all my life. I found this out when I was very young. The discovery was sort of like when you're trying to explain something to someone who doesn't speak your language, there is always much gesturing and carrying on, and all of a sudden everybody "gets it". There are smiles all around, sometimes even laughter, and everybody feels good... same thing, just like that, that's exactly how it happened.

Listen to this...

I am known in the squirrel population as Big Grey, I have occasionally heard them refer to me behind muffled snickers as Big Grey Two Legs, I assure you, squirrels are not without humour.

I have lived with three different squirrels in my lifetime. If you don't understand, you may think I mean three squirrels have lived with me. You are confused, if there are squirrels in your house, apartment, or life, you live with them, not the other way round. I don't jump from branch to branch, but even lately I have spent time up ladders in trees, feeding and talking to a few of them.

This story is about Lurch. I did not live with Lurch, but we eventually became unbelievable friends.

I was cutting some wood in the backyard when I saw my bride Linda coming down the driveway. She was in obvious distress and crying. Before I could ask, she cried out, "It's Todd, he's been hit by a car." Todd was the name we had given one of the local young grey squirrels that frequent our back porch for peanut handouts. "He's lying in the middle of the road." she said. I comforted her as best I could, got some gloves and a bag and suggested we should pick him up and bury him.

We went down the block to where he lay, and I realized as we got closer it wasn't Todd, but an older grey squirrel we had never seen before. His back end had been crushed and he was still alive. I put on the gloves, went over, picked him up and put him in the bag, we then walked home with him. I didn't look at him closely until we got home. He was a mess. Not only his back, but his jaw was also damaged. My original thought was to finish him off to stop him from suffering more. In theory, that's always a good plan, but much harder to do in actual practice. However, he didn't seem to be in actual pain, just numb and in shock.

I ended up wrapping him in blankets, putting him in a container and leaving him in our garden shed for the night. It was early November, still warm, so the weather was not a factor. He was only able to lie on his side, and I went out to him frequently in the night, petted him and fed him bits of liquid food from an eyedropper. Eventually I went to bed, assuming that in the morning I would find him dead and that would be the end of it.

Next morning he was alert and still very much alive, but still only able to lie on his side.

In Toronto, and many other cities, we have an amazing volunteer animal rescue hospital that will take in injured wild animals and care for them. I arranged to bring this squirrel there. When we arrived, there were many questions about where he was found etc., because if an animal recovers they like to release them near where they originally lived. They also offered to call me and let me know if he didn't make it if I wanted, I didn't, and was done with it.

In late December during a snow storm, I looked out in the backyard and saw an old grey squirrel stumbling across my porch. I grabbed some peanuts, slipped on a jacket and went out. I crouched down to see if he would take a peanut and he looked at me for a moment and then staggered over, crawled up my pant leg and snuggled into my lap for protection from the storm. I could see that most of the fur on his back and belly had been shaved off, and what seemed to be stitches ran down his back. This squirrel looked as if he had just come back from a surgical procedure. He stayed in my lap about ten minutes, eating and warming up and then crawled off and went out into the storm.

Linda tried to convince me this had to be the same squirrel we had taken to the hospital, but I refused to believe it. The chance that squirrel had even lived was beyond possibility as far as I was concerned. I could not offer any reasonable explanation for this experience, but St. Francis of the elders didn’t fit my profile either. The next five days were bitterly cold, and we assumed a squirrel with little fur wouldn't have much chance of survival.

I built a squirrel house about twenty feet up a tree in my backyard a few years ago in an as yet unwritten story. I'm in my yard two weeks after I fed the squirrel on the porch, and see an old weathered squirrel looking out the doorway of that house. As soon as he sees me he starts to come out the opening and promptly falls to the ground, landing in a snow bank. He gets up, staggers over to me, and crawls onto my lap. Linda brings us some walnuts and I feed them to him. Twice the next day when I go outside he comes to the edge of the squirrel house doorway, falls to the ground, staggers over to me, and gets on my lap.

It's pretty obvious by now that the squirrel house needs renovation, and a piece of wood is salvaged from a corner of the yard so I can add a porch for him to better navigate. I've decided that if I screw a flat piece of wood to the bottom of the house that will jut out six inches or so in front, he will have a ledge to help him get oriented when he tries to leave it.

Even though it's snowing, I set a ladder against the tree and start up with tools and wood at the ready.

I get up to the house and he sticks his face out it's door and starts watching what I'm doing. He looks at me incredulously, almost as if he can't believe it took me so long to figure out what he needed. He is six inches from my face, staring at me as I start to screw this board onto the bottom of the house he’s sitting in.

This is really weird, even for a nutbar like me. I haven't taken LSD in years, I'm weeks away from receiving my first Old Age Pension check. I'm twenty feet up a tree in a snowstorm, casually explaining to a wild squirrel what I'm doing, while he's watching me like he's the family pet. I wonder if he will offer to hold my screwdriver for me. While this is going on, from inside the house, I can hear another squirrel that I didn't know was there, squawking. Scolding him, or us. In my head I hear Grace Slick of Jefferson Airplane fame singing, "Tell them a hookah smoking caterpillar has given you the call." I'm a star in my own Alice in Wonderland movie.

When I finish and return to the ground, I comment to Linda, "I wonder how the neighbours feel about the harmless, crazy long hair down the street now."

The porch doesn't help much. He now comes out on the porch, but because his hind quarters are still not in great shape, his balance is dreadful. Every time he tries to sit up or scratch, he falls over and to the ground. I just keep shoveling as much snow as I can around the base of the tree to help break his fall. Linda and I have decided that in view of his constant staggering and falling, we will name him Lurch. We also decide it will be emotionally easier on us to refer to his falls as jumping, instead of falling, as in "Oh look, Lurch just jumped out of the tree again."

I have by now finally conceded this is indeed the squirrel that had been run over a few months ago. The body shaving has obviously been done professionally, and there are definite stitches left over from some delicate operation he must have been given. His complete disinterest that I am a different species also suggests that he has gotten very used to dealing with people in his two months of rehabilitation.

As the Winter went on he got progressively better at navigating the porch, he still jumped, but not as much, his upper body was very strong and he developed an incredible ability to grab on the edge of the porch when he slipped, and pull himself back up. It was not uncommon to look out and see him dangling from the edge, he would look like an athlete doing his pull-up exercises as he dragged himself back to the safety of the flat surface. He still had a lot of trouble climbing back up the tree, so I built what we referred to as a wheelchair ramp for him that went from the bushes to the tree, and he started using that with great success.

Most mornings I would go out and sit on the steps of our back porch and he would come out of the house and down the tree to visit. I would feed him, and he would lean against me for balance as he ate. Sometime he would stay a bit when finished eating and I would pet him and rub his ears. Almost every afternoon at about three o'clock we would repeat the same dance.

In the spring his fur began to grow back. He still staggered about and fell over constantly but he started to look like a normal squirrel again. We found out that the other squirrel he had in the house with him was a female, and when he found out he quickly got her pregnant. He stayed around and constantly visited with me until May. As the weather started warming, whenever I was on the porch he would come down, find a sunny spot and just lie out with me for long stretches of time as I sat reading. I would talk to him, and sometimes he would come over to be petted and at others, he would just lie there and ignore me. He seemed to just hang around for the companionship. I never knew if he thought he was keeping me company or if I was his company.

Summer arrived, and we simply didn't see him anymore.

Other squirrels moved in and out of the squirrel house during the following seasons. It had been eleven months since I last saw Lurch, and one day I looked out and saw a familiar face looking out the squirrel house doorway. I thought, no way, not possible, and then he came out. He sat for a moment, started to scratch, fell over the side and grabbed on to the edge and pulled himself up. Lurch had moved back into the house! This time, he was very skittish, and nervous, but after about four days we reacquainted ourselves and returned to back porch feedings complete with petting and ear scratching.

During this stay he reconnected with the squirrel he previously lived in the house with, they mated again, and she produced another fine litter.

Lurch certainly brought a lot of pleasure to Linda and me (yes, worry too). He also helped remind me of the squirrel named Peanuts I lived with for a year and a half when I was eleven and twelve years old. He would curl up at my neck and sleep in bed with me every night.

The picture I use in my profile is of Lurch. That picture was made two years after he had his accident and we first met him. If you click on it, you will see a larger image. Look at the joy and glee in his face, listen, and you will almost hear him laughing.

2007-08-19T21:19:00.000-04:00

Twenty-one years old, decked out in my ever present ascot and beret, sophisticated, svelte. I'm in a fancy restaurant/bar I frequent named the 5th Avenue, where I'm so well known, I even get my mail sent here. I'm a good looking boy, all the waitresses treat me as their darling and I frequently date some of them. The restaurant's owners often sit at my table. I am invited to the kitchen for New Year's and other special occasion celebratory toasts. I am on top of the world.

I'm sitting with my three older sisters drinking a liqueur and espresso. At the top of the landing I notice a Roman Catholic Nun standing there with a large battered suitcase at her side. She is dressed in the full regalia. Habit, head covering, huge rosary dangling at her side, a tattered black prayer book in her hand. The outfit she's wearing is blue in colour, signifying a different order in the hierarchy of the Church, not the traditional black you may be familiar with. We all turn to look at this woman of the cloth who is so obviously out of place. As if rehearsed, we each exclaim in unison our own personalized variation of "Holy Fuck!", and our jaws drop.

Listen to this...

None of us has seen or heard from the woman we're staring at with our mouths open in over six years. The nun standing at the top of the landing is our mother. I'm not talking some symbolic Christian mother here. We are her spawn. This is the woman from whose loins my sisters and I were wrested.

She bellows out across the restaurant "I knew I would find you here."

I am mortified. Concerned that I will never be able to explain how the goateed, libidinous, dark and intense young man women find so fascinating ended up with a mommy who is a nun. I am a mere twenty-one, and my life is now completely, irrevocably ruined, I will never be able to set foot in this place again.

My mother is a large woman, this is magnified by the enormous outfit she is wearing. She picks up the worn suitcase and trudges towards us. She looks like a huge blue Penguin. As I watch her, I quickly realize this will not be the problem I first anticipated. I will simply tell anyone who asks, "Oh her? she's my mother." and everybody will laugh and say what a card I am, and that will be the end of it. Who would believe such a thing!

Women have always been extremely kind and giving to me. There have only been three women in my life who have ever caused me any difficulty. There was the sister who tried to stab me in my back with a pair of scissors. After that event, we were able to officially forgo the pretence of sibling love and move on. There was another lady along my path that caused me pain. As an existentialist, in order to congratulate myself for all the good things that happen in life, I am determined to accept responsibility for most of my misfortunes. I understood that I contributed to that experience by mixing my life with hers, and survived.

My mother was the third. It started in her pregnancy. We were at war long before I was born.

I had what is called RH-factor or hemolytic disease, which simply means that my blood is RH-Positive, hers is RH-negative, and they do not mix. Her immune system saw me as a foreign object and for her protection produced antibodies to try to destroy me. Because of our incompatibility, I wasn't able to get any nourishment from her body and was slowly wasting away. We spent the entire pregnancy trying to kill each other off.

This incompatibility is not a problem these days, medical procedures deal with it fairly easily, but in 1939 it was an almost certain death sentence for one or both of us. As it turned out I was one of the first in the world that a new procedure was tested on. Immediately after birth the bad blood was drained out one leg as new good blood was pumped in the other. When I was young, I would proudly display the scars on my legs to show where the pumps that gave me succor had been attached. I loved the image that my belly button had in effect been attached to some Frankensteinian machine, and not to my mother.

As she descends on the table, there is much shuffling and moving about. None of us knows whether to flee or make room for her, she's never really batted a home run with any of my sisters either, but for different reasons. We take the easier choice, and shuffle over to make room for her. I have a brief image of us bolting from the booth in different directions as this lady of the cloth arrives.

She now hovers over the table and while staring at me, screams, "Well? How are you?" I intend to answer "Good, thanks." in my finest enunciated voice. What I hear tumbling loudly from my mouth is "Gooth." as I glue bits of the words together. I have been struck dumb by a minion of the Catholic church.

My mother and I have never forgiven the other for the physical suffering we both endured during and immediately after the pregnancy. Every time we face each other, we are forced to re-learn we are part of the same flesh. So, here we go again, only this time, I seem to be stuck on, "When is the sound of a blue nun not German wine?" and "Is blue nun a German wine or a virgin ?" Have the Catholics accidentally sent me a Zen Koan? Am I about to receive enlightenment? Should I order another espresso?...

I am thirteen years old, my father and I are going to church. I have been commanded to attend a meeting with my mother and her spiritual advisor at the church she attends twice daily. It seems because of my age I am the only thing standing in the way of my mother's wish to obtain an annulment . If she can prove my sinfulness to the church she will be allowed to formally request her marriage be dissolved. She desires to remove herself from the drudgery of parenthood so she can become a more religious and saintly being. We meet in the Bishop's office. After ten minutes of my mother and father shouting at each other the bishop orders them to stop. I expect to be asked questions about my beliefs, or lack thereof. I wonder if he will ask my name? I wonder if he knows I'm even in the room? Having not spoken to me, the Bishop announces "Seeing as the boy has obviously already lost his soul, I understand completely there is no point in maintaining this marriage." He looks at my mother and says " I will send my approval of your request to the Holy See in Rome." He stands, smiles, makes the sign of the cross, and blesses my already lost soul. He dismisses me saying, "Go in peace." and I am sent from the room.

Catholics don't allow divorce, in order to get around the sticky business of marriage breakdown they grant annulments. In the eyes of her church, they sort of pretend the marriage never took place. With annulment, they are able to comfortably claim that the marriage was essentially invalid from the beginning. My sisters and I were born in a marriage the Catholics deem didn't, or shouldn't have, existed.

When I last saw my mother six years ago she had been granted her annulment, and was on her way to Rome for a special audience with the Pope. No Bishops this time, she's going to see the Boss. If she can get Him to agree to her new request, she will be given a special dispensation that will allow her to join a convent and eventually become a nun.

Her wish has been granted, and she now belongs to an order that wears a blue Habit in honor of the Blessed Virgin Mary. What a perfect choice for a women with four children. She has arrived at this restaurant with impressive armament... She wears uncontestable proof that God is on her side!

My mother now sits with us, her children, wearing a costume of her faith, dressed as a representative of chastity and virtue. Rome has seen fit to dismiss her marriage. Her children are no longer a hindrance to her calling. Her virginity has been restored by a decree of the church, and she is a nun...

I promise myself I will write a story someday...

Everything is empty. Everything is full. Surely in this moment I could start my own religion!

Submerged in the shock of seeing my mother as one of the Sisters of the church I sense there must be something of great gravity and significance that I should say. That I must say! I must find something so profound, so esoteric, so meaningful that it will be written about in history books for eons to come. Could I trust that life will ever allow me to face such a mystical opportunity again?

Yes! Yes! I have it. There is no other choice. I know now exactly what I must say!

"Would you like a pastry, Mom?"

2007-08-05T14:17:00.000-04:00

A few years ago, Linda, my bride of three years said “Lets go to Florida in February. It will be fun to get away and have a rest in the sun for a few weeks.” I stared at her, dumfounded. She now claims I went to my room, curled up in a fetal position on the floor and would not come out for 3 days, that may be correct. I have no other memory of the event.

I’ve spent most of my life on my own, venturing outside my cave only when I needed to forage for food or other sustaining things, I am a hermit. Not the “Mad Bomber” type of hermit, quite different. I can be social and charming if need be. If you ever get me started (I urge you not to), I will regale you for hours with stories filled with laughter and pathos. You might even be fooled into believing that I am very social. That would be incorrect. I like to be alone.

I don’t mean to give the wrong impression. There have been four spectacular women who at different times in my life have decided to be equal co-pilots with me and we’ve lived together in long and wonderful relationships. There have also been many tourists who have dropped by for visits at other times.

I have loved and embraced the years I've been with each. Those who stayed were intelligent, beautiful, mysterious, and full of themselves. They’ve needed those qualities to share time with me. My life’s work is unusual to say the least. Any women who feels she can find comfort with me must know who she is. She also needs to be capable of whacking me over the head with a newspaper and command our ship by herself during the times I get stupid. I have completely enjoyed sharing my life with them.

I just happen to completely enjoy spending time with myself. I like to be alone.

I do not like to go outside my cave. Almost all my life I’ve created, worked and lived in the same environment. I would prefer to be paid for my services with food and dry goods. You’ll save me a trip to the store. I am a hermit.

Going to Florida involves flying in airplanes. For the Wright brothers, a dream. For me, a nightmare. Not only must I leave my cave, but I will be flying above the clouds in a container that weighs thousands of pounds, full of thousands of pounds of flammable fuel. That’s asking Mother Nature for a lot of co-operation. I will also need to go through U.S. Customs, and spend hours with strangers in airports and airplanes. That's asking me for a lot of co-operation.

The airline limo picked us up on time at 4.30 a.m. Linda and I thought this was a good omen, our trip was starting off great.

After waiting in the wrong line for twenty minutes we are sent two hundred yards away to get in the line for United States flights. We trudge over there, wait another twenty minutes and after booking in are sent to a different line. This new line is huge, consisting of about eight rows of people snaking back and forth like a bank line that slowly moves us to our potential doom. We are now waiting to experience the joy of U.S. Customs.

Half an hour later we arrive at the counter for interrogation This part of the experience isn't too bad. Sharp unfriendly questioning, minor baggage disruption, a little roughhousing, nothing unexpected. As we leave this section, Linda dumps her suitcases, coats, bags etc., on the floor with the sensible intention of repacking so that everything can be carried to the next trough without dragging it along the floor. As she throws her stuff to the floor the guy who just dealt with us starts yelling at us to move along (no one is behind us, so we aren't holding anything up). Linda starts to explain to him she just wants to get a better grip on her belongings when two other guards with hands on their holstered guns descend on us from different directions, running towards us, both screaming that we could NOT stop there AT ALL and have to keep moving, NOW!

Realizing we are outnumbered I help her gather up her strewn belongings and we drag them along the floor to the next section.

The next line is smaller, (perhaps some of the unfortunates in front of us have been killed off) and we place our watches, shoes, belts etc., in an X-Ray machine... all pretty uneventful until we get to the next section.

A gun belted uniformed woman of formidable girth is in charge here, my friendly "Hello" is ignored as she waves a metal wand over our portable computer. It’s an old Macintosh that I resuscitated from some workroom corner so that Linda could get her e-mail (a hermit who never leaves his cave doesn’t have much need for a viable portable). Well, this guard immediately drops the wand. She reaches into a lower drawer, pulls out and puts on a pair of rubber gloves and screams out "We need a supervisor over here." He arrives and they have a very animated conversation while pointing to various dials on their machine, the supervisor says there's a problem, and commands us to "Wait here!" and leaves. I think I hear a drum roll, but I can't be sure.

It’s now about 7.30 a.m., we’ve been in various lines for two and a half hours, the plane will be leaving soon and we're not even close to getting on board yet. We’re old, we’re tired. Even I am beginning to lose my sense of humour (that’s quite a ways down the path for me).

The supervisor returns with a clipboard and explains we have to answer some questions because the computer and case show traces of explosive material on them. The rubber gloves are to protect the agent from getting explosive dust on her hands. Linda had been carrying the portable at the time of our capture, so he asks her if she's used the case lately to carry any bombs, explosives, or makeup. I interrupt and explain the case is mine and I got it from my basement where I don't make bombs and I haven't used the case or computer for a couple of years.

The supervisor now gets agitated about whether anybody else in our basement could have added any bombs to the case or computer. I explain no one has access to our basement, that I am a photographer and just grabbed one of the many camera cases I have in my basement to carry this in, and I want my mommy and were sorry and we promise to never do whatever we did again...

Eventually, after opening and closing the computer repeatedly, the gal with the gloves, holding the opened computer, stares at me and demands "Open it up for me." I meekly mention it is open and she loudly repeats "Open it up for me." We do this a few more times as she gets testier and testier, for a moment I wonder if she means I should take it apart, but finally figure she might mean “Turn it on.” I ask, and she yells "That's what I’ve been telling you to do!"

Macs are turned on by the keyboard. No simple on or off switch for Macs, nothing anywhere that says ON. I'm convinced that if I don't remember what the stupid key is, I will spend the rest of my life in an American prison, being really friendly with a guy named Bubba. I resist the urge to start humming and suck my thumb, I sense this might be very counterproductive. Finally, I notice a key that has a squiggle on it that might be it. I explain this is an old computer and will take some time to start up. I push the key and the supervisor, guard, Linda and I, in a state of transcendent awe stare motionless at the blank screen for at least thirty seconds until a little Mac happy face appears and it slowly starts to come alive... everyone is happy now, and we hold hands and dance around the table in a circle. The supervisor concludes that recharging the old battery probably produced some gasses that the sniffer machine detected.

We are freed from our detention and sent to another holding area. More waiting, and then we're finally allowed to board the plane. We take off and fly above the clouds and eventually the hermit and his bride arrive in Florida.

As the plane is landing, Linda asks, if she is ever able to talk me into leaving the cave again, would I prefer to drive next time? I make a mental note to remember to check what my bride means by the words "next time".

Six months later, my bride has again talked me into venturing from my cave. I'm sitting outside a drug store in St. Sauveur, Quebec waiting for her to come out when some old guy comes up and sits on the bench beside me. He start to chat with me about my tan, his tan, what parts of Florida I went to, and what parts of Florida he goes to.

My life of solitude is ruined. I am no longer a monk. I have become a caricature. I am now the other half of a duo of geezers sitting on a bench in Quebec, calmly talking about their trips to Florida. The only thing that's missing from this scene is a cane to thump on the ground while we cackle. Maybe I'll be able to talk Linda into going to Florida again next year. I remember seeing a fine walking stick in a store when we were there...

2007-07-15T14:47:00.000-04:00

As a man, I am incomplete, a total failure. I have never been able to find the missing gene that would allow me to identify with my fellow brothers, there is absolutely no other possibility. I am a failure.

I am almost 70 years old, and I have never in my life seen a complete game of any sport played on those fields or courts or ice men use for such things. I don't beep my car horn at women with big breasts. I don't wear my cap on backwards, I don't even wear one. I don't adjust my private parts in public places.

I spent most of my youth curled up in a big easy chair reading Dostoyevsky, Sartre, Plato, Freud and Jung while I listened to Tchaikovsky and Beethoven, I wore an ascot and a beret, I was disgusting!

Wait, it gets worse... I cook, I do my own laundry, I sew. If there is a problem in my relationship with my lovely bride of 7 years (much to our surprise, we both re-married late in life), I am always the first to state the obvious "we need to talk". I will discuss my deepest feelings and inner thoughts with anybody, I will happily open up to the bus driver, I am not afraid of what others think of me. When I get served badly, I tell the person involved that their actions are unsatisfactory, and if served well, I never miss expressing how much I enjoyed what just happened. None of that "have a nice day" stuff, but real solid contact and thanks.

Don't get me wrong, I am a capable individual... I could do a pretty good job of wiring your house, I can do your plumbing for you, not just changing a washer, but big grown up stuff with blow torches and the like, I could even present you with a fairly good plumbers butt. If something mechanical is broken, there's a pretty good chance I will be able to fix it.

As I said though, as a man, I just don't measure up, I just can't do any of that "guy" stuff that men do so well. I am a failure.

I almost forgot, I don't drink beer very often, and if I do, it's always one of those honey brown beers, you know, the kind that, to use Arnold Schwarzenegger's words a "Girly Man" would drink.

In the city I live in we have just started a returnable wine bottle deposit system, an almost fine idea, except for one tiny, tiny flaw... you are required to take your wine bottles back to a beer store, so for those of us that don't beer much, it's a non event and sadly they simply go in the recycle bin. This though, has created a new "cottage industry" of people that go out on recycling days with huge shopping carts and roam the city picking up bottles so that they can return them and enjoy the refundable deposit for their efforts.

It's been about four years since I was last in a beer store and my cousin, bless her soul, brought us a six pack the last time she came to dinner, so now I had 2 six packs and a twelve pack of empties to return, I even had 3 wine bottles in the recycling bin that could go back. I was ready. I threw the empty wine bottles in a plastic bag and the cases of empties in the car and drove off to do my deed. I was pumped.

As I arrived at the parking lot of the Plaza where the beer store was, I realized my grip on the steering wheel was tightening, I could feel a nervousness building, I was slightly nauseous as I started remembering just how "manly" beer stores are, how totally incapable I have always been at navigating these places... the minute I open the door, they all know my secret, they all know that I do not belong there, that I am not one of them.

On parking, I noticed that my brain had stopped working and I could no longer remember what brand of beer I drank. I sat for a few minutes and then convinced myself that this had to be done, I would at least go in and look around, maybe I would recognize the bottle in the displays they have on the wall of all beer stores and if my vocal cords stayed paralyzed with fear, perhaps I could just point and some kindly clerk would help me.

Well, as you know, life does not always unfold the way it is pre-imagined. Apparently since the last time I was in a beer store they changed the interiors rather dramatically and failed to notify me. There was no row of bottles on the wall for me to point to, everything was bare except for a check out island in the middle of the store, one at the back, and a long row of those roller things I recognized where I would return my empties to if I had not cowardly left them on the front seat of my car. To one side I saw a cavernous room that men were casually walking freely into and strolling out with cases of beer under their arms. Everybody was staring at me, they were all waiting to see what the Gringo would do, I found my voice and said to the clerk standing in the centre island "Is this self serve, do I just go in there and get what I want?" "Yep" he answered.

I am now in the largest refrigerator I have ever seen in my life... it is stacked with hundreds, possibly thousand of cases of beer, I am in what I perceive is "Man Heaven". I wander about aimlessly, I cant find what I want if my life depends on it, I know if I stay in here much longer, I will be found in a corner, humming quietly and sucking my thumb... I retreat. As I flee to the exit door the clerk calls to me "Couldn't find what you were looking for?", "No, it's OK, this was just a practice, I will come back next week" I reply. I get to my car and without looking back drive away.

It's Wednesday now, and I have been driving around with my empties crashing and rolling about the car floor, reminding me of Saturday's folly... I must do this thing, I must return these bottles, I must be strong. I must also remember the name of the brand I drink when I go into that dreadful place! I will buy 24 bottles this time, I won't need to return for another 4 years. If I can cut back on my drinking, I might be able to squeeze 5 years out of this new case before I have to return it.

Full of resolve I jump into the car. I even understand the lay of the land this time, I am ready, I am pumped. Life is good!

I live ten minutes away from the beer store. After driving 5 minutes or so I notice on the sidewalk the occasional street person clanging up the street with his/her cart full of bottles, I think how sweet that they have been able to take advantage of this new system and find some spare change without the need to beg.

I turn down a side street about four blocks from the beer store and notice more people with their loaded carts. For a brief moment I think that I am a jerk, and maybe I should stop and give these bottles to someone, they certainly can use the money more than I, but no, I am challenged and want to overcome this fear of the dreaded beer store, I need to do this, so I drive on.

I round the final corner, I'm about 3 blocks from my destination and finally confronted with the insanity of it. The scene is like every End of Days movie I have ever seen. As far as I can see, in the direction I am traveling, and coming over the hill from the other side is a long endless shuffle of disheveled people and carts & bottles clanking, falling, spilling... everybody funneling into the mouth of the beer store parking lot. Everybody has arrived today to collect their prize. Today is recycling day!

At first I think I should just keep driving and try again some other time, but I know I might never be able to prepare myself to do this again, so I soldier on. Anyway, I reason, I'm fairly shopworn, used and disheveled looking myself, with my wine bottles and a few loose beer bottles in a plastic bag I will just blend in, I will be in a store full of others that don't belong there either. God has created this cover for me so that I can return my empties unnoticed.

Wait, it gets worse... I park the car and as I'm walking toward the front door clutching my sad offering of empties I notice a fellow who owns a bar just down the street from where my studio was a few years ago. We were neighbours for 15 years. He is loading up his empties to take back and replenish his restaurant stock for the day. He sees me for the first time in 4 years and I can see in his face he is embarrassed for me, for a brief moment I'm sure he wonders if he should ask me if I want any of his empties to help me out. He must think that I can certainly use the money more than he. Instead he decides the way to deal with his former indigent neighbour is to look away and pretend he hasn't seen me. Just as well, because I am now swept in the maelstrom of people and carts and empties sliding into the store. To try to turn back now could precipitate a disaster.

I am pushed into the store by the moving crowd, everybody with their carts and boxes full to the brim, all anxious to get this transaction finished, so they can go back out and find more treasure. As each arrived at the front of the line I notice that every bottle they are claiming is being argued over and fought for. The clerk reaches into bags and boxes and various other offering that he is presented with and rejects many and hands them back to the surprised supplicant. I am never able to determine why the various bottles are rejected and I doubt that the people they are returned to know, but suffice to say that for every pile of bottles that is inspected, more than half are handed back to the presenter as not refundable. They turn around after they get their money, shuffle outside and dump the bottles that are not accepted into the closest garbage bin, sometimes simply on the lawn beside the beer store and then go on their way. None of this seems particularly useful for the cities recycling plan.

My turn arrives and I hand my submission to the clerk and wait for my gold. I have no idea what the amount of loose change I am given totals, it wouldn't do me any good to count it anyway, I don't know what the empties are worth. I do feel a sense of triumph and am delighted that I have passed inspection, I've shown myself to be a worthy scavenger. They have accepted my humble offering, for a brief moment I am part of a group, I am one of them!

I panic briefly as I realize that I still need to get my new case of beer, but pull myself together and aim for the "Cold Room". I am able to quickly find what I need, snatch it in my arms and boldly stride back to the counter beside where I was a minute ago. The fellow that had served me interrupts his sad task of returning unacceptable bottles to the people that have reached his counter and calls into a microphone for "front counter checkout". Someone eventually arrives, takes my money and sends me on my way.

I figure in about 4 to 5 years I'll have some empties to return, maybe by then the scavengers will have cell phones on their carts and I can phone ahead for a pickup, I'm pretty sure I will never be able to do this again.

On telling this sad story to my bride, I asked her if she would give me a son, so that I would have someone to help me learn the ways of manhood. She just smiled, and then asked me if I would like a beer.

adrian-the-elder

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