To Live In Hope

My Brand New DC Cap!

So I bought this new DC Comics baseball cap, and I just love it!!! I was so happy with it, I can't tell you!!

Then I heard that even though this a great baseball cap, and does everything I could ever want it to do, I have to buy another 51 one of them to get the 'full' baseball cap experience. They'll put out one a week, so I guess I'd better get down to the hat shop and get in line!!

But then I heard that the first twenty five caps? I should ignore those. They really don't add to the full baseball cap experience, and are more 'imaginary' caps. With the twenty sixth cap, things will get back on more solid baseball cap ground. These caps will count.

So, okay, I guess. Then I heard that there was going to be a Final Crisis DC Comics Baseball Cap, which will clear up all the confusion with all my other caps, since many of them contradict each other in terms of what's on them.

It's so crazy keeping up with baseball caps, isn't it??

The Only Reason I'm Sad The Netherlands Lost

...she had to go home.

For more highpoints of Euro 2008, check here.

Oh, and here.

The Sunday That You Cherish

Hey! Why didn't anyone tell me yesterday was RPG Day? What other secrets are you keeping from me?

So I entered a comic book establishment, and left with free stuff from various gaming companies, none of which were Dungeons and Dragons.
. Perhaps that free stuff was looted early. The material I spent last night going through was of various quality--the Tunnels and Trolls freebie was overpriced, and made me imagine the producers as being socially inept virgins who don't care if you like their stuff or not, since you smell like poo and you'll never get into the AV club. The Traveller freebie--which explained character creation and not much else--was more intriguing. I like a good SF RPG as much as the next dork, and this seemed to have some serious space legs. The rest of the stuff was enjoyable, but with Tunnels and Trolls setting such a low bar, anyone who ran a spellcheck on their work was shining in my eyes.

Still working my way through Spook Country, which I'm adoring, but it's Gibson, so that's to be expected. I don't want it to end, and I think Gibson could do me a huge favour by simply linking his computer to mine, so I can have fresh narrative every day. And so could Annja Creed, since she is my soul mate, I'm sure.

And here's why I haven't posted much lately, outside of the pic of my friend Steph giving me the finger. I've been working on a horror story called The Bungalow. Here's the opening few paragraphs:

THE BUNGALOW BY SEAN TWIST

Brian checked his watch again.
“Oh, fan-fucking-tastic,” he said, flicking his cigarette butt into the deserted parking lot.
11:45 p.m. If Gary hadn’t shown by now, he wasn’t going to. The complete asshole that he was. Not that Brian should have been surprised. He’d known Gary only two months, but it was long enough to realize the man was genetically incapable of performing an unselfish action. He would fart in Brian’s car, simply because it required too much effort not to. He never flushed a toilet. If he brought Brian a coffee, he’d not only ask for the money, but for an extra quarter for the gas. He would leave shifts early if he got a call about a party or decided he’d done enough, eight hours in or not. He was a pinnacle of selfish evolution personified in a brushcutted little Neo Nazi, the care for other beings completely eradicated from his DNA by genomes of indifference. He started at the police academy in the fall. Brian wasn’t surprised at that, either.
He could just imagine Gary’s thought processes, sloppily lining up like dominoes of selfish rationalization.
1. It was a Friday night.
2. It was a shit posting.
3. The night supervisor was off sick with shingles.
4.It was a Friday night.
Still, Brian could easily fuck Gary over. Quick call down to Dispatch, innocently ask all sugar and sweet if Gary had called in sick. Both the operator and he would know he hadn’t, just as they both would know Brian was throwing Gary to the dogs. Dispatch had their asses reamed out a couple of months ago when they didn’t send a sick time replacement for Matt on the City Hall overnight, and of course that was the night twelve drunk frat boys decided to beat the piss out of Jerry, who had gone outside for a cancer break just as the downtown bars closed. One person had been fired out of Dispatch over that, with three others getting nailed with a two week suspension. They were on their game a bit more now.
So if he called down, the process would start. Calls would be made. Files printed out. Absenteeism records would be checked. Come Monday morning, Gary would have his balls raked over the coals, get yet another warning in his file, maybe even got shown the door.
But Gary knew Brian wouldn’t do that. He knew Brian had his back. Gary ‘d come into work drunk, he’d come into work six hours late, he even once brought his girlfriend (at the time) when they’d been posted at the brewery so he could bang her between the beer vats. It had been a dream of theirs, apparently. Brian remembered she had a Motley Crue tattoo right above her ass. She’d shown him, yanking her pants and underwear down so he could have a look.
So Brian wouldn’t call in on him now. Not when he just decided to party instead of showing up at this bullshit post. Shaking doors at an outdoor education museum, way the fuck out in the middle of nowhere. Not even a Tim Horton’s within decent driving distance, let alone a bar where Gary could sneak out to make last call before coming back to finish his shift.
Brian sighed. He simply wouldn’t be the one to cause someone–even someone as vile as Gary–to lose his job. He’d been there, and wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
He glanced around. A solitary light stand illuminated the circle of four bungalows in front of him, identical in their chipping paint, metal sheeted windows and doors, and dejected air of long abandonment . Outside the weak circle of the light stand, there was nothing but five miles of patchy forest and a swamp. He could smell the rot of it on the wind.
Brian considered having another cigarette, but decided it was time to get to work. As he turned, he read the large sign outside the bungalow he was being paid to patrol.
The Blue Valley Outdoor Education Centre. Embracing The Natural World Since 1977.
“Yippee,” Brian said, and went inside.

The Blue Valley Outdoor Education Centre usually didn’t have security guards. They relied on a motion detector security system, but apparently the system was fucking up big time. It kept going off at night, generating onsite security calls, which were starting to add up in terms of cost. Brian had never got a call, but he’d talked to Linda, who’d taken three. She said there was never any signs of entry. The place was too far out from the city proper to get the usual break in suspects, like meth junkies looking to boost anything the pawn shops would take, or bored teenagers pissed on Maximum Ice.
“I thought I saw something on the last call,” Linda had said. “There’s a window looking in on this big meeting room, and I thought I saw something move when I flashed my light in. Nearly wet myself. So I go inside, turn on all the lights I can find, and go to the room. Of course there was nothing. Just a bunch of stuffed animals. I think my light caught one of them or something, made their shadows jump. Still, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I never liked stuffed animal. They fucking creep me out, especially at four in the goddamn morning.”
Maybe it was bats or rats, maybe it was really big spiders setting it off, but it was clear the security system had to be replaced An alarm tech Brian had met on a school break in call told him the Board always went low ball bid on security systems, then acted outraged when it turned out to be just a shade better than string tied with a bell. A new company had the contract for the Centre, but they were couldn’t install until Monday. Probably had to wait for their order of strings and bells to arrive.
He shut the Centre’s door behind him, his hand smacking the wall until it found the light switch. The fluorescent lights binged and tinged down the hallway to his right and left, illuminating dingy yellow walls and linoleum floors that had been factory new twenty years before he was born.
Brian glanced around, hoping to see some sort of map. When he did on-site security jobs like this, his standard MO was to find the janitor’s office and use that as a base. Maintenance crews usually didn’t get pissy about coming in the morning to find someone else’s jacket on their chair. Most everyone else though, even if all you did was leave your Thermos in the staff room.
Brian sighed. There was no map on the walls, no directory, no nothing to make his job that much easier. Just a few plaques honouring the work done here, all gold stars and signed by politicians long gone from the public eye. A poster of a wolf on some frozen plain, held on the wall by blue sticky tack. He roams the wild in freedom, with no enemy save man. A faded photograph of a bunch of smiling kids holding toads, their hairstyles and Styx T-shirts just screaming 1979. Brian remembered having one just like it.
He walked down the hallway to his right, checking the six wooden doors as he passed. They were painted the same piss yellow as the walls, with chipped ceramic door handles. He tried the keys he’d picked up from Dispatch, but none of them fit. Typical. He came to the end of the hallway, which terminated in a tiny window. He looked out , seeing only his reflection in the smudged glass. He headed back towards the entrance.
The hallway to the left ran about sixty feet before ending at a door with a circular window .It reminded him of a restaurant where he once dishwashed as a teenager, and of how the Greek owner would stare at him through the window, convinced he was stealing celery. The guy had a thing for people stealing celery. He should have been more concerned with the coke addict waitress stealing from the bar till. Place went under, and Celery Man went back to Greece, saying Canada was full of thieves and could fuck itself. Probably dead now. Brian hoped he died knowing his celery was secure.
There were three doors down this way .Even though he didn’t expect his keys to work, he tried them anyway. On the third door, Brian was surprised when the key slid in.
He opened the door, then immediately wished he hadn’t.
The smell was overpowering–the smell of old dust, mildew, and dead air. It reminded Brian of the smell from the cottages his parents used to rent back when he was a kid, these shithole slap together cabins down near Grand Bend. The places were all the same–dirty, filled with yellowed paperbacks, chipped dinnerware, and ratty furniture with stains his mother would quickly throw blankets over. Oh, and occasionally a dead squirrel, with claw marks on the doors and window sills, testament to its attempts to escape before it quietly curled up to die. It all combined to create a brutal stench that hit just as the door was opened. The smell had made him nauseous back then. Times hadn’t changed.

Brian took a quick glance inside–there were a few dingy mattresses, a folded up metal bed frame on wheels, and a green industrial lampstand. There was also something small and dark–blankets?–in the corner, but Brian shut the door before he could be sure. Judging by the smell, if it had been something alive, it was long past rescuing.
He suddenly wanted a cigarette, just to chase the smell away. Brian pulled out his red pack of native DuMaurier knockoffs from his shirt pocket and quickly fired one up. He wasn’t supposed to smoke on the job, but too bad. He wasn’t supposed to work alone, either.
Besides, wasn’t the nicotine supposed to be good for his colitis?
Brian took a long pull on the cigarette, then moved to peer through the window in the hallway door.
Dark. Imagine that.
Brian pushed the door open. The hinges squealed like something was caught in them, causing Brian to bite into the filter on his cigarette. He pulled it from his mouth. Yep. Bit straight through. Of course I did. A banner night just gets more bannerful.
Keeping the door with the rat death rattle hinges open, he glanced around for the light switches, but it was clear nothing was going easy tonight. It would make too much sense to have a light switch near a door. And of course, his batteries had pooched on his flashlight last night, and guess who forget to buy more? Genius Boy, that’s who.
He thought about just going back to his car and spending the night there. Listen to CBC Overnight, keep an eye on the place from there. If someone broke in, he could just say he didn’t hear a thing. Which wouldn’t be much of a lie. And what was there to steal here anyway? And if someone burned it down, would anyone really care? The Board files a big insurance claim, and the trustees get nice new plasma TVs for their cottages. Win win all round.
Still, that wasn’t Brian. He was paid to do a job, he did it. He was old fashioned that way.
He stepped inside, letting the door shut, the hinges howling their pain at an uncaring universe.. Brian closed his eyes to help them adjust. Something moved in the room.
“Fuck!” Brian opened his eyes and half ran, half stumbled backwards through the door. The hinges screamed again. “Fuck off!” he shouted at the door before he could stop himself. He ran halfway down the hall before he stopped. He stared at the swinging door, his breathing hard and fast. The hinges mewled into silence as the door swung to a rest.
Brian waited for something to come crashing through the door. Something rabid. Or a lunatic Manson clone with a knife. Something had made that noise, and that something was probably watching him now.
He took another step back. His cell phone was in his hand. He flipped it open, punched in the area code and had started on the first three numbers of Dispatch when he stopped. He looked back at the door.
It was still shut, the window as dark as a pit.
Nothing had come charging out, howling or spitting foam.
Four years ago, Brian had been scared this bad. Just started on the job after the Cami plant had let him and three hundred others go, blaming an economic downturn, telling them to see their unemployment as a new opportunity. This new opportunity translated into a lower paying job and a bowel clenching fear of being fired again. He’d been given a post in a church that had been hit repeatedly by teenage wannabe Satanists. They’d break in, tear up the hymn books, spraypaint OZZY on the altar, poo on the carpet. As religious statements went, it fell a bit short of Martin Luther. His partner that night-- some old ex- Canadian Forces guy who was supplementing his pension–had gone on a Timmy’s run, leaving Brian on his own.
It was about two a.m, and Brian had been walking past the front glass doors he’d heard the sound.
At first, he couldn’t understand what was happening. There was a ting. Brian had been lost in thought, and looked around, more curious than startled. Then he saw the glass in the door waving in the frame, every inch of it spider-webbed. As he stared, trying to process what he was seeing, there was another ting. Then the glass flowed into the church like a collapsing diamond ghost. Outside, someone was whooping.
When his partner returned with the coffee, he’d found Brian locked in an office, calling Dispatch, shouting to send the cops, that he was under attack, that someone was trying to kill him..The old army guy burst out laughing. “It was just a bunch of kids,” he said. “I scared them off when I drove back in.”
“They had a gun,” Brian had said. “They were shooting at me.”
“A B.B. gun,” the old army guy replied. “ I scared them off when I drove back in. You’ve wet your skirt over a B. B. gun there, chief.”
He’d apologized to Dispatch, but they’d already called the police. The next day he’d been given a fireside chat with the night supervisor. They didn’t want a repeat of this. Cool, collected, that’s what they liked. That’s what they wanted. If he couldn’t give them that, maybe it was time to move on.
Brian said that’s what he would give them. Since then, he’d done his best to stay off management’s radar. If he called in now, he’d be right back on it again. The grey fear hit him again, of unemployment offices, of forms, of facing the week with two bucks in his pocket. The same fear that pinned him to this job when he knew he could do better, but wasn’t sure enough to test it.
He put the phone back in his pocket, and went out to his car.
He popped the trunk on his Cavalier, looking for something vaguely weaponish. The best he could do was an ice scraper. If the monster inside was made of ice, he’d be set.
He went back inside, walking down to face the door again.
Something Linda had said twigged in Brian’s mind. Linda had thought she’d seen something in there that one night. Yeah, like that’s helpful right now. But she hadn’t mentioned it being difficult to find the lights. Guards always mentioned stuff like that when talking to other doorshakers. Tricky doors that won’t give you a green on the security panel, light switches that aren’t where they should be, these were the things other guards mentioned. Linda hadn’t said anything about the lights being a problem.
So why hadn’t he been able to find them? And why in hell hadn’t he bought batteries for his flashlight?
He stopped at the door, taking a deep breath. He clutched the ice scraper, then swore.
His guts had started to roil. The colitis was kicking in. He needed to find a bathroom, and he needed to find one now.
He pushed open the door.
“If there’s anyone in here, I’ve called the cops,” he shouted. “Leave now, and there won’t be any trouble.” Brian slammed his hand against the wall again before he remembered he’d already tried that, just reflex, and...his hand hit the light switch.
Surprised, he quickly flicked them on. The room exploded in light.
Then Brian saw the wolf, a scream choking in his throat.

The glass case was over twenty feet long, and about six feet high. It took up most of the wall to Brian’s left, and had he walked deeper into the room before he found the lights, he would have walked straight into it.
The wolf stood facing him, its fangs bared in an eternal growl. It had been positioned to look like it was about to leap, its back haunches coiled to spring, front paws in the air. Brian stood there, staring into its fierce yellow eyes, his heart just now beginning to slow.
The wolf wasn’t alone. Behind the glass wall, Brian saw a rabbit sitting quietly, staring into space about a foot behind the wolf. There was also an otter, standing beside a circle of rumpled blue paper that Brian supposed was meant to represent a pond. And beyond that, a female fox was curled up. Brian moved closer, bending down to peer, then recoiled when he saw that it was feeding three baby fox pups.
Dead babies.

See How Much My Friends Love Me?

No wonder I drink so much...

Doctor Wertham Was Correct!

So I enter a comic store establishment this muggy afternoon to purchase some reading material whilst I sip claret and ogle my chambermaid Maggie this coming evening.

As I had entered, I passed a young man holding forth with the vigour of youth on the freshly released Hulk moving picture. This young gentleman was quite loud, and vexatious to my spirit, so I hied myself to the issues of serial adventures of which I am most fond.

While I perused the graphically enhanced adventure stories on display, I did my best to ignore this young man's blathering opinions, which had veered from intelligent discussion to simple braying. I suspect I had done him a kindness by ascribing intelligence to his many digressions. I blame my upbringing, which, while stern, allowed for a grain of compassion in my dealings with idiots.

Suddenly I heard a shout. I looked up from my contemplation to see an employee of the store suddenly accost the young man. Accost, and to my shock, turn and kick the presumed customer. The owner of this establishment--which has heretofore been a quiet place of business, suitable for a gentleman of my means and disposition--looked on, smiling, although I suspect it was perhaps of the 'forced' persuasion.

The employee then did indeed resort to pugilism, his blows failing to connect. He then turned and ran from the store.

I stood, shocked. I suddenly craved the safety of my bedroom, with perhaps a draught of absinthe, and dear Maggie coming in for to provide comfort, for I was now indeed vexed.

Then the agitated employee returned to the store. A few seconds had passed, according to my fob watch, which I had for some reason opened. He glared at the young man, who had stood there, as if transfixed by the display of near death which may have befallen him. Another customer inquired as to what had caused this bother.

"He crumpled it," was all I heard, which solved this mystery not at all.

I quickly made my way to the counter, my hands shaking as I paid in the King's silver for my purchases. I bid the employee a good day, for even under the stresses of this modern world, I remain an Oxford man. I then hailed a coach, and hurried for home.

Upon entering the front door, I quickly ran to my chambers, my serial adventures in hand. Within minutes, my dear sweet Maggie entered the room, a crystal tumbler of green liquour in one hand while she undid her bodice with the other.

I am happy to report that my spirits have now settled. But I shall think twice about purchasing serial adventures in the East End of this city, I can assure you!

Right. Music Break!

Fuck, we're getting too serious here. We need to rock out. It is Thursday, after all. And hey! We can get drunk tomorrow night! Life is worth living, after all!

I blasted this song at six a.m. this morning whilst driving down York Street. Yeah, that was me. Sorry!

I've Got Bad Weather In My Head

I've had to deal with some very trying people in the last few days. Childish, selfish people who see reason as 'nasty-wasty' and think the best way to deal with a problem is to throw a temper tantrum and/or cry. People who have children so that they can be the centre of attention for nine months, and then blubber because having to now deal with said child is so hard. "There's no me time anymore." Boo fucking hoo. Keep your legs closed and your underwear on next time, 'kay?

Which may explain the bad weather in my head. And why I've been obsessing about the horrible ways writers die.

I think of Robert E. Howard. Shoots himself in the head, and isn't even given the grace of dying right away. The poor bastard lingers for eight hours. And I look around today at the impact he's made on the world--at a glance today, a MMO based on his work (The Age of Conan) is coming up close to WoW in popularity. There are still books being printed about his creations, there are still comics being made, as well as toys and statues. Would we have Dungeons and Dragons without Howard? Every writer wants to change the world, and in his own way, Howard did. But he would never know that, because in his own time, he was just a guy who wrote weird fiction that most people wouldn't touch with a bargepole. At least, not then.

I mean, the things that have sprung from his pounding away on a typewriter, alone. MMOs, video games--these would have been alien to Howard, and yet his impact on them is immeasurable. And he never knew. He pulled the trigger out of despair, and would never know. He was thirty years old.

Then there's Lovecraft. Okay, so he wasn't the friendliest person on the face of the Earth (or at least he wasn't the most social, face to face: he was a superb correspondent, though). Dies in near poverty at 46, wracked with intestinal cancer. Again, the impact he has had on fantasy, on gaming, and on the imaginations of millions of people. Even though I don't have any figures to back this up, I'm sure it's safe to say others using Lovecraft's creations have made far more money than he ever did.

I could go on. History is filled with people like this, people who give, who create, who in their own way enrich the world around them, but receive not even the barest of comfort for their work. If only we could make time machines, little TARDISes of mercy, and go back, and tell them how much they will be loved, how their work meant something, that they will be remembered. And maybe then disease and despair will not gain such a firm grip. Maybe final moments will not be so hard.

Bad weather thoughts, as I endure another round of sparrow chatter about cottages, and who had a brand new baby, and who's up for spinning class tonight?

Gunshots and closed books, fading into time, yet mediocrity skips along, humming a Gwen Stefani tune.

Hanging By My Fingernails

I am doing my utmost best to not give Wizards of The Coast more of my ever diminishing money, but I think I'm losing the fight. The more I hear about 4th Edition, the more I feel my hand creeping towards my thin, meager wallet.

My gaming group broke up about a year ago, ending a fairly steady four year run. At first I didn't miss it, since I was usually the DM, which meant I did most of the work and had very little of the fun. I enjoyed creating the adventures, sure, but as time went by, I felt it was just time I was spending not writing my own work. When the group rolled its last dice, I put my rulebooks and copies of Dungeon and Dragon away, patting my dice one last time before banishing them to a desk drawer.

But a few nights ago, there was a reference to D&D on Corner Gas. I was half paying attention, and I thought I heard Brett mention 'mage armour'. I mentioned this to Vulcan Ninja in passing.

Then, without a pause, she said "That gives you a +4 to your AC."

I looked at her. We hadn't played the game in well over a year. "How do you remember that?"

She smiled.

Later, I saw she'd pulled out her old Magic cards. I took this to mean she wanted to play, and even though I was never enamoured of that particular geek moneypit, I found myself enjoying the game. The need for tabletop gaming was beginning to grow in me. Then, I started receiving emails from friends, praising 4th Edition to high heaven. From people who really don't get fooled, who are far more cynical than I am. Among the best was a line from a friend in the MMO industry, who said '4th edition is like an MMO,', that he had been playing it for weeks (preview copies, the bastard!), and he was having a blast. Sure, if you wanted to play a more epic adventure, stay with 3.5, but for sheer fun, go with 4.

So I continue to hold on. Although, the thought of surreptitiously watching Vulcan Ninja as she pores over the rulebook, absently chewing her hair, will remind me why I married her in the first place. I think I've just failed my Resistance roll.

Jim Dandy UFC Drink and Feed Fest--With No Arrests!

We stumbled back from the inaugural JimDandy UFC Drink and Feed Fest yesterday, having survived the aural assault of a very loud sound system and a well meaning waitress who seemed to get easily distracted and forget we were there. But there was absolutely brutal UFC action (a knee to the face that will haunt me to my dying breath), good conversation with Mr. Jim Dandy, finally meeting the woman who keeps him off the absinthe, and the look of sheer horror on the face of the philosopher/Modest Mouse fan Erasmus Anderson at the milieu he found himself in.

Much was discussed--the sad state of crossover comics, Erasmus' dissatisfaction with current video games (to which I wondered if perhaps his soul was dead), Gormenghast, and Mr. Jim Dandy taught us all more about UFC than we had ever known before. Vulcan Ninja and I are now experts. We'll hold seminars. Erasmus laid down the Sunday Morning Hockey Challenge, in which Mr. Dandy and I would have to stand up from our keyboards and general Sunday hangovers and meet him at an undisclosed location to play a game of....I think I have the terminology correct--street hockey. Each of fears for our wasting bodies, and Erasmus believes this is the way we can extend our years. He reads many books, and we trust his wisdom. But such a sacrifice! Such....a sacrifice.

As we left, Mr.Dandy made offers to join me on a Wednesday Comic Raid, Erasmus promised to treat Vulcan Ninja and I to a night of Settlers of Catan, and Mrs. Jim Dandy would allow us into her home if we brought wine.

All in all, a success. And no tear gas! Which makes a change...

Masters of Sinanju!

It's been awhile since I picked up a Destroyer novel. It's nice to see that they haven't changed. No, wait, they have changed--they've become better. Dead Reckoning had me laughing out loud when I really felt I shouldn't, it had me captivated during the action sequences, and even though it failed to make me buy George Bush as a hero figure, I still rate it as one of the funnest novels I've read in a while. And if funnest isn't a word, it is now. I have its papers.

I freely admit that these novels are not for everyone. But if you hate political correctness, love crazy ass martial arts, (and I emphasize crazy ass, because you'd have to search pretty hard to find any more crazy ass than the ones here) and have a deep fascination and/or repulsion in regards to pop culture, then you may find a kindred soul in Remo and Chiun. Books like this and the Rogue Angel series from Harlequin...I mean...Gold Eagle...really carry on the pulp tradition. The current Destroyer team are incredible, with the tone,action and humour of the novel reminding me of Joe Lansdale's best Hap and Leonard novels. A pure, un-PC joy.

And it's just over a month until the next one!

And this was my 500th post! On guys who fight Death with arcane martial arts from the dawn of time! Seems fitting...

Instead of Prozac...

...this cheered me up immensely. I am a slave to the hook. And innernet snark.



And this made me feel like I was in Pattern Recognition. A dose of Charles Addams creepiness never fails to raise a morbid smile.

Not That I'm Complaining...

...but I have had a fuck of a day.

Here's the short version: in the last 12 hours, I've:

1) had my car rear ended by some idiot while I was paying for a coffee at a Tim Horton's drive through. A coffee, I will point out, that I was buying for a friend who was heartbroken and considering suicide because she had spilled her own previously purchased Tim Horton's Death Swill on her keyboard and pants. I was out doing a good deed, so you know how that ends.

As for the aforementioned idiot, she did her best not to look at me as I got out of my car. Like I hadn't noticed her bumping into me as she changed the channel to EZ Rawck or had just noticed a shiny penny on her floor mat.

2) While moving furniture in my Glorious Day Job today, my back went out with the same sound that a rubber band makes when it snaps. This was bad, since the furniture in question weighed as much as a neutron star.

3)Ended my day out in Delaware,hobbling around my old home. Didn't really even recognize the place. All the wild spaces are now gone, replaced by cramped yet expansive looking homes, doing their best to shove out the older homes that have been there for over thirty years. The houses of boyhood friends how hide behind massive pine barriers, as if not wanting to see the explosion of yuppie housing. The whole area feels under siege. It's like as soon as the old families finally sell, their homes will be leveled and six new crap houses will take their places.

Like I said, just one fuck of a day.