CHUBBY CHEEKS TAKES ON THE GRIM REAPER

Lately I have been reminiscing about my childhood experiences with death. Stay tune for some new posts. . . eventually.

A NEW HOPE

Have you ever started to start to say something and your mind goes blank?  That is how I feel with this entry.  I know I had something to say, but as I started to type the idea just vanished.  I am not too worried because if it was worth writing about it will come back to me.  If it doesn’t, then it probably wasn’t worth the effort anyway.

Instead of writing about some lost thought, I’ll admit that lately I have been wondering if blogging is worthwhile or not.  Yes, I have contemplated buying the metaphorical bus ticket and heading out of Earletown.  This I have threatened before on the site, but as I am pretty sure my wife is the only one that reads the blog, (she at least uses the blog to link to other blogs) the threats tend to go unheard.  My mother doesn’t even read the blog, at least not since I exposed her bird phobia to the world a few posts back.

This is not me trying to coax compliments for any readers that could be out there somewhere.  It is more to announce that I will NOT be stopping.  I have realized that I cannot walk away. Blogging makes me feel too much like Doogie Howser.  Well the similarities between us are outstanding. You remember how at the end of every episode he would write in his ‘computer diary’, well this is like my  ‘computer diary’. He was a fourteen old doctor who was out to save the world.   I am thirty something who sits in a darkened room alone to type and I live in the world.  He was an adolescent with so much intelligence and goodness in his heart whose stories could only inspire hope.  These he bottled up on his computer.  I spelt both intelligence and goodness without using spell check and my heart pumped blood as I was doing it.   Earletown is how I have been bottling up my stories of inspiration (of sorts) for a while now. Since Doogie no longer contributes, it is my responsibly to continue giving new hope to the world.

I know it is a lot of pressure on me, but I promise I will continue to do what I can and I will leave you with these simple words:  Damn you Doogie Howser . . . damn you all to hell.

SORRY OLD FRIEND

Television has always been a big part of my life. It has had a very influential role in my development. Up until the age of four I used to refer to channel four as ‘mom’. As an older child, I developed vast knowledge of TV sitcoms. This knowledge I retained into adulthood and used it as a novelty during social gatherings when I would impress people that I remembered facts like Arnold from Different Strokes had a pet fish named Abraham. This talent, however, was made obsolete by the new Youtube/Google world we live in. When I hit those terrible teen years, my life was dictated by shows like the Kids in the Hall. Stealing their jokes and making them my own made me one of the funny guys in my social group and I survived those tragic years. TV has helped me so much through out my life and helped me get through a lot. This is why it is difficult to write that the new season of TV seems to suck. Sorry old friend.

ROUND TWO

Paper cut on my lip.  Bad luck day number two.

BIG BAG OF SUCK

Have you ever had one of those days where one bad thing after another happens?  It is just one thing after another until that final thing happens.  The thing that makes you stop struggling to fight all the bad luck being thrown at you and all you can do is laugh.  Laugh because all this bad luck seems impossible with in the time frame of one day.  Even though unfortunate things continue to happen you face them like a punch drunk boxer with a big toothless smile on his face.  This has been my day.  I assume I am destine to have a bout of insomnia tonight, just to top things off.  I hope my hysterical laughter in the wee hours doesn’t keep my wife up.  HahahahahHaHaHaHAHAHAHAHaHaHahahahahahA!

BIRD BATTLE UPDATE #2 (A.K.A. MANTRACKER)

After my last pigeon battle posting, I figured I had to get away.  My wife and I decided to flee the country and go to some place where the neighbourhood pigeons wouldn’t be able to keep pestering me.  We planned our escape and late one night. Jumping into a cab, we headed straight to the airport.  We hopped on the first plane leaving the city and didn’t even pay attention to the destination.  The pictures below will not only show the result of the trip, but also illustrate that the bird conspiracy against me has gone international.

These pictures are the closest ones we have to pictures of me from the trip.  Enjoy.

On the grounds of the Eiffel Tower. The Eiffel Tower The Rodin Museum  The Louvre

Les Invalides

If you are looking to escape pigeons, I do not recommend a trip to Paris.  If you like other things, I highly recommend it.

Signed,

Uncle Travelling Earle

A GRAVE MISTAKE

Today I did a great wrong.  It has been weighing on my mind all day.  It is a wrong that cannot be undone and I am truly sorry for committing this travesty.  This morning, during all the hectic running around in the early hours of a Monday, it totally just slipped my mind.  I know what you are thinking, how could something like this slip your mind?  I can’t even make up an excuse for this behaviour.  All I can say is that I realized my mistake as I stepped on the subway.  By that time it was too late to set things right.  Yes, I had forgotten my morning coffee on my kitchen counter.  As I rode the subway, I could only think about its warmth radiating through the walls of my travel mug.

I suffered for my mistake all day long.  First the headaches came, and then the shakes followed.  Thoughts of the coffee’s delicious warmth haunted my mind. I left work early just to see if I could salvage the drink.  I was not above drinking it luke warm or even adding hot water to the mix to try and revitalize it.  I knew I would not be able to bring myself to the point where I would microwave it though.  I do not believe in playing God.  Barging through the front door of my home, I went straight to the kitchen.  I cradled the body of my coffee mug in my arms.  It was cold, so very cold.  I was too late.  I had murdered my coffee with my neglect.

Alone, I had a nice ceremony for the coffee as I sent its remains down the drain of my kitchen sink.  As it swirled down to its final resting place, many thoughts went through my mind.  Mainly, I thought of what I may end up doing to my poor evening cup of tea.

NORM AND E.

Oh, to be young again.  It would be a wonderful thing, wouldn’t it?  Recently an old friend of mine thought it would be a good idea to relive our glory days and spend a morning doing something we both loved during our adolescence.  Skateboarding.  I know what you are thinking.  This will be a funny story where two guys make fools of themselves.  A funny story this is not.  Nor is it the heroic story of the two old guys overcoming all odds and teaching a few young whipper snippers a lesson.  No, this is a sad tale simply about me hurting myself and feeling old.

Early on a Saturday morning, my friend Norm picked me up in his truck and we headed to the closest skatepark.  The park proved to be a monster, at least a monster by my standards. It had a big bowl with a section of over vert, hips, and tight corners. I have to admit I had never really had the opportunity to skate a concrete park like this before, so even in my heyday it would have been a little intimidating. Not having stepped on a board for an unmentionable amount of time, I found myself trying to swallow my fear as not to embarrass myself in front of my friend.  Luckily it was a chilly morning and I could blame the cool temperature for my body violently shaking.

I decided to go with the sink or swim approach and dropped into the bowl before I could really think about what I was doing.  It was a successful strategy.  Successful in the sense that I did not fall, but when I got to the other transition I had no idea what to do.  I discovered that body and board had gone through changes.   When I was younger I had excellent control of my board,  a simple flick of my ankle and the skateboard would dance underneath me with flips and twirls as I glided through the air. Unfortunately, my feet at some point since my skateboarding prime,  had been replaced things that felt like two beach balls and my board seemed to shrink to the size of a Popsicle stick.  Balance was not something that was going to be easy on this day.

After playing around for about thirty to forty minutes I was starting to feel comfortable.  That’s when they came.  The old skaters.  The old skaters are the ones that never quit.  They may not be as good as the young guys, but they usually have way more style.  These guys showed up and started ripping up the park.  Back in the day I probably could have held my own and my friend Norm was in there with them at times showing that he still had it.  I, on the other hand, became the thing I always hated.  I was a poser.  I sat there with my board, but didn’t use it.  I just sat and watched.  I am okay with this because I enjoy watching skateboarding as an art form.  I also realize that I am already making excuses to justify this behavior.  As I watched the ‘old guys’ skate, I realized that the old guys were at least ten years my juniors.   I had become one of the really, really old guys. Damn.

After some time of gawking, Norm and I decided to check out another skatepark.  This one had a larger street skating section, which was more my style.  I have to admit, although the second park was not as good, I was starting to get my legs back.  It was at a cost though.  The concrete in this park was like sandpaper, so the price I paid to have a small faction of my old skills return was a large portion of skin.  I left half an elbow on a pyramid ramp and a good chunk of shoulder on a funbox.

It has been a few days since we went out skating, but as I sit here typing this I can feel my shirt rub up against the wounds from that day. It is an interesting sensation.  It isn’t painful as wounds can be, but more of an itch.  It is an itch that reminds me of the fun I had and the only way to scratch it is to go out again. Maybe there is something left in this really, really old guy after all.  Maybe there is still something I have that can be used to teach the young whipper snippers a lesson.

Norm if you are reading this, what are you doing this Sunday?

WHAT’S IN A NAME

“Be Earl ready, Nova Scotians urged”

I saw this headline in the news today and felt I had to comment on it.   When I first read it, I thought wow, my home province wants me to return, but then I read the article (http://www.cbc.ca/canada/nova-scotia/story/2010/08/31/ns-hurricane-earl-ns.html) I realized it was not the case.  Instead of preparing for the delightful return of me, they are preparing for yet another September hurricane.

I don’t know whether I should be rooting for the storm or not.  If a storm shares your name, you kind of want it to be badass.  At the same time, you don’t want it to hurt anyone physically or financially.   I feel sorry for all the Katrinas out there.  They have a lot of baggage after their storm.

Having a hurricane share your name I am guessing leads to a barrage of comments about how you are a ‘blow hard’ or ‘full of hot air’.  I have been preparing myself for when my friends attack with these comments, but right now I am still in the calm before the storm as are my fellow Nova Scotians.

BIRD BATTLE UPDATE #1

I am off from work today and my day started great.  I went outside on my balcony to enjoy my morning coffee.  It was a nice morning until I saw it staring at me.  Those cold black eyes.  There was a pigeon on the other side of the street and it just kept staring at me.  I tried to ignore it, but it wouldn’t go away.

After some time I couldn’t handle it anymore and I went back inside.  Occasionally I would pass by my window and it was still there.  The bird was still glaring up at me.  I closed my curtains, and haven’t gone outside since.  I can still feel that the bird is there waiting for me.

Nothing has happened yet, but the tension is rising.  The bird is calling me out and it has become a waiting game.  Good thing I have a large supply of canned food.