My Blog

He tried to remember when he was a baby.  He could only visualize a Polaroid photograph of a party in his stepfather's basement.  There was his mother, all legs in a mini-skirt, his biological father, clueless, and, among an assortment of other mushroom-haired men, his future stepfather licking the edge of a hand-rolled cigarette. Lots of alcohol and joints were in play, and there he was, Paul,

Some thoughts about that: if not in an opera house then here under the girders of a new civilization in which the contemplative norm is that of a cheeseburger with a face full of sesames.  McCheese is one's neighbor and mayor, and his clown same-sex partner is a cook of sorts, and I guess a lot of people go there.  I have to admit I stopped years ago.  The fried fish sandwiches were about all I

Squished kitty.  Holstein kitty.  She was the only one marked as she was.  Calico I suppose with all the orange hid somewhere. I couldn't see.  So she was a black kitty with white patches or a white kitty with black patches depending upon how you thought.  First thing to greet you at 10th and Mason.  How do you know when you're home?  Look for the dead cat.  Bam.  You're home.

Flame skunks. They is a problem to most home owners, be all they don't know it though. Pesky little fellers, git in your basement and start feedin off the lint of most furnace filters. You can tell 'em by their plumpish skunk bodies, but they's head's just like a gas broiler with the flames all lit and lickin up the sides like whispy blue whiskery cheeks. Natural fire hazards. Burnt up a

While I'm up here in Canada waiting for my U.S. work visa to be processed, I figure there's no better time to catch up on the latest in Canadian Literature. Which is why, most Saturdays, I spend hours in Chapters (Canada's Barnes & Noble equivalent) and infallibly emerge with a fat stack of books penned by Canada's best. Some of the authors are likely familiar to American fiction