Belly Button Lint

Where does it all come from? Toejam is bad enough, but belly lint? Why?

Hermits and More

I come from a long line of Hermits. We used to live in the Hermitage, but then the Revolution came and we had to find other accomodation. It wasn't much fun.

So then we moved to Scarborough, Ontario, near Victoria Park and Eglinton Avenues -- it was called "The Golden Mile." We could bowl, buy groceries and see movies. It was heaven.

The previous post was in Hindi

The previous post was in Hindi. It was my mistake. I don't even know Hindi, not that I wouldn't like to learn Hindi.

I'm sitting alone in my apartment, peering up at the sky from time to time, and writing this stuff.

I'm wondering how my friend is faring in Vienna with her son and sister. Hopefully things are going well.

What's with all this blog stuff, eh? I wonder about eloquence and I wonder about the time we take to peer at our own navels. I don't know about you, but navel gazing, while an important pastime in North America, becomes a little tedious after a while. It's like being locked into a room with Cher 'music' being piped in and you can't leave.

No, scratch that. I can stop navel gazing any time I like.

Can't I?

ई मिस हेर

Ennui in The Summer Afternoon

I wish that I were an overfed and pampered housecat lying in the warm sun. A dusty, fat black cat. That would be the life. No worries. No taxes. Just joy, death and disappointment.

The Heat

It's a wonder about the heat.

There was something amiss about Toronto today --- filled with sound and fury and stuff like that.

Women look better in the summer. There are fewer encumbrances that they must wrap themselves in to shield them from the cold-- and to prevent us from appreciating their pulchritude.

A Season in Hell

I've been to Sudbury.

I have the scars to prove it.

They are much better now, thanks.

What it's all about?

Thanks for the mangoes, Ariana. They were dee-lish.

The mango is a wonderful fruit. It calms and soothes the savage breast.

Are there mangoes in Scarborough? And, if so, where are they?

About the mayonaise

The mayo in the fridge had a bit of that yellowy colour that just offered a hint that it was best before sometime-- sometime before the dinosaurs.

We often forget that things spoil, like old socks, to be forgotten at the bottom of some well.

Rick Mercer never comes by anymore. He just collects his cheques and walks his dog and scrapes up the poop in a plastic bag. We should all be so lucky.

Melinda and Melinda

The Woodman's latest opus Melinda and Melinda is a welcome respite from the bats and hobgoblins that are currently showing in our modern movie palaces. Sure, there are no light sabres but there are waifish ingenues dancing about the screen fretting about their weight and the hollowness that they fear at the core of personal relationships.

Hey, as my friend Snoop Dogg says, "It's all good, baby. It's all good."

Larry Pine plays the earnest playwright who laments the paltry audiences for his offerings of tragedy while Wallace Shawn playing a screenwriter, the most successful lisping actor in modern history, revels in his comedic success not as an indictment of his esteemed colleague but a confirmation that humanity desires the sanctuary offered by laughter.

So what's this all about?

I'm sitting here in my penthouse apartment overlooking the abyss that is Washington D.C..

There is a package of 24 mangos sitting in a hamper to the left of me and a cage of chickens to the right of me. I have named each mango and now I'm working on the chickens.

Bob Dole is doling out Viagra to my sad looking guinea pig named Mason, who is in want of a little libido magic. Dixon, his sister, is non-plussed and not into the hocus-pocus world of pharmacology.

I remember my first beer.