Nutcracker

Bless UAW’s Local 444 because all of us Chrysler kids ended up with good teeth and mine is probably the last generation to have relatives with false ones. Not today’s veneers or implants but entire mouths quarried and replaced with full sets of uppers and lowers. How many of us had our childhoods mildly traumatized by Old Timers taking out their clackers and enacting some sort of Clem Kadiddlehopper kitchen gag? And they rarely fit. My own poor mom suffered through several versions, so on any given day her smile could range from Meg Ryan Chiclets to Trilogy of Terror.

Inspired by Baby Teeth. Photo by THEPALMER.

Baby Teeth

Tiptoeing in, I reached beneath her pillow to exchange her carefully-wrapped tooth with a shiny coin. The transaction would please her (Oh, the candy she could buy now!), but I had a quandary. Those little gnashers, like first steps, were momentous. It seemed callous to toss them out. So I secretly saved them all, till I realized that was kind of icky. What was I going to do, make a necklace for her Sweet Sixteen? That would cement her cool in the eyes of her friends. And so, I dumped them, un-commemorated and uncelebrated. Better callous, I decided, than icky. 

Inspired by Gap Kid. Image by Oxana Zaytseva.

A Pleasant Pause

Let’s shift from orange through tangerine and peach to bubble-gum pink and the deep crimson of valentine cards. Just a reminder, I prefer dark chocolate with no nuts. But don’t bother with the roses; cut flowers never last. And if you can’t get a reservation at that overpriced restaurant, no matter.

Turn off the news and come sit with me.
Let’s laugh and talk, even though after thirty years I know all your stories and you know mine. 

Let’s hold hands on the couch.

Let’s snuggle and soothe our chronically jangled nerves, and whisper to each other,

“I’ve got you.”

A reply to Orange Pizza Shit and inspired by a desire to change channels just for awhile, please! Image designed in Canva by Nancy.

Orange Pizza Shit

The tyrants are breeding too many fools
We’re all tired and it’s turning us cruel

They’re having another oligarch rally
It’s all fireworks and guns
It’s just a bit of fun
It’s all god and money
It’s all oh so sunny
It’s shiny trucks and combat boots
It’s billionaire business suits
All heiling every utterance of their fatuous keeper
Their very stable genius
Pussy grabber
Dictator
USA!
USA!

While all the world sees is
A nasty child howling, belligerent and inconsolable
An orange boy prone
On his big orange throne
Rubbing his little orange worm
Trying to make it spit

Inspired by February’s Cry. Illustration by Fred Ni.

February’s Cry

Early dawn breaks
Body heavy, eyes wide and too alert
Looking out to the bleak barrage of gray sky

Soothing sounds of Vivaldi, harshly interrupted
Black hawk down
Young lives gone
Families broken
In a fleeting second

Never mind the tariffs, turmoil, tyranny
Piercing twangy sound bites
Overreactions and condemnations
All too simplistic
For life’s true tribulations

The dark cold Potomac
Enveloped their innocent hearts
And cascaded fears into waves

Early spring sun will settle the river
And awaken their souls
They’ll make peace with the cherry blossom petals
Floating silently along

Quiet the outside and listen within
Humanity’s calling

Inspired by Sereni-tish. Image by Image Creator.

Sereni-tish

So, why did it take me so long to figure this out: that there’s really not a goddammed thing I can do about the politics down there? It’s not my fight; I cannot vote. I can’t even make a miserable campaign contribution without breaking their laws.

     So, instead, I’ve already given a few hundred of my Canadian dollars to support Wikipedia and the Internet Archive—nerdy, I know, but I fear that they’re due for some unwanted attention.

     And I’m already hard at work to send another proud Parkdale socialist to Queen’s Park on February 27th.

     This I can do.

Inspired by The Miskopalian Church of Parkdale and the Serenity Prayer. Cross-stitch by Steotch.

The Miskopalian Church of Parkdale

Since late November, Rich and I have been back to a three species household and the timing could not be better. 

Worried that the world is forgetting about Kyiv? I hug a dog.

Fragile ceasefire? I hug a dog.

Gobsmacking global return to fascism? Incipient existential horror?  I hug both dogs.

Grateful for my six decades of health and happiness? I kiss our old dog.

Manifesting life as a river where good things can happen again for Everyone? I kiss our young dog. 

Reminding myself that the sun does not shine out of my solipy arse? I feed our cat. 

Inspired by Speak Truth, Stand Tall. Image: Me and Misko at High Park by Laurie.

Speak Truth, Stand Tall

With callous and sadistic pleasure
The tiny-handed king will savour
The chaos, the hating
The dog-whistle baiting
The cruelty rendered
And the weak who surrender—

Especially them.

Abandoning principle and self-respect
They’ll kiss ring, kiss ass, and genuflect
Straight-faced, they’ll walk back criticism
Shake heads, deny, and eat some shitism.
Pundits in media will denounce and proclaim
The tragedy, the horror, the pitiable shame
Of edicts, breached treaties, and raids in Chicago
While bosses tee off at Mar-a-Lago

Made-up truths and policies dumb
Everything a zero-sum.
What best to do, midst lies and schlock?
Resist, speak truth—or tug forelock?

Inspired by So, What Do We Do Then? Image: Ron Berg’s Innocent 2.0, which is inspired by artist Francis Bacon’s reinterpretation of Velázquez’s Innocent X.

So, What Do We Do Then?

How do you navigate through a world full of monsters but not become one yourself? The temptation is there to wall yourself into your condo like a medieval hermit or a modern anchorite, passively resisting the onslaught of rampaging narcissists, by not noticing them. That will work, right? There’s nothing to say you have to engage. You could turn off your cell. Refuse to comment. Don’t watch them. Don’t give them the satisfaction. You could practice pranayama breathing. Give up red meat and strong drink. And only binge watch the sitcoms of your youth. But is that resistance or capitulation?

Inspired by (or a reply to) Peace Is Not a Love Song. Illumination from Ancrene Wisse, courtesty of Corpus Christi College.

Peace Is Not a Love Song

Left and right used to describe handedness
Used to be used as direction
Used to mean the logical half and the creative half
Now that windmills, diseases and trucks are politicized
Now that America is oligarchic
Left and right signify the other who must be shamed and silenced
Enemies who must be mobbed and trampled, jailed and shot
We are a body, with knives in each hand trying to cut the other arm off.

Democracy cannot be toothless
Who still holds the ideal together?
Where rises the radical centre, the militant core?
So, fight.
Peace is not a love song

Inspired by Gumption and the Inauguration. Illustration by Fred Ni.

Gumption

As I sit here, recovering from a fracture and read my fellow corpses’ pieces, I find myself wondering what it would be like to be toothless. A one-handed Safari misstep results in several links to toothless blowjobs. Curious, I dare not open. It’s my work phone.

Called gumjobs I’m not quite sure how “gum” replaces “blow.” There was no conventional blowing in my Scarborough upbringing.

  If you’re an aging actor needing reinvention or a hottie who’s lost all teeth in a car accident, I can see how this can be a way to make your mark (without a mark).

Inspired by Gap Kid. Photo by Nina Malyna.

Gap Kid

The boy waits for his first tooth to work loose. Behind some of his friends, he wants desperately to be a part of it, this basic rite of passage. Because now he can push it right over—with a bit that still clings to his gums, bleeding a little—the grown-ups cringe. They don’t remember, can’t even imagine the thrill of losing something they now work so hard to hang onto.
     Finally, come morning, it lays by his pillow to be found, so small, but somehow too special to lose. His grin made all the broader with one tooth missing.

Inspired by Abby Normal. Photo by the author.

Abby Normal

“Can he bring it home?” Jane‘s husband was about to have a large nasal polyp removed, and I wondered about a souvenir.

     We were a family of LET ME SEE ITs. Simultaneously intrigued and repulsed by our own effluvia. Our house was full of pickled specimens, mostly Gerry’s: Tooth extractions, kidney crystals, gelatinous abscesses that floated like jellyfish.

     If pressed, where would obliging surgeons draw the line? 

     “Surely,” says Jane, “they wouldn‘t let you bring an amputated limb home.”

     Maybe. But they let Dad keep a huge calcified gallstone in a baby food jar that you could shake like a maraca.

Inspired by Mark’s Polyp. Photo: Cucumbers by Laurie.

Democracy: The Musical

I hear their tinny, amplified voices across Kraków’s Main Square, and wander over to see what’s happening. They are young Ukrainians, singing patriotic songs and raising money for their country’s struggle against its invader. They are few but their spirits are high. They gather every night. Days later in Warsaw, I encounter another thin crowd of energetic, singing, flag-waving youths. They are Georgians, protesting their government’s anti-democratic tilt. All this in Poland where, just months before, voters ousted an autocratic government. My takeaway? When times are least encouraging, there’s an alternative to apathy: it’s taking a stand for your beliefs.

Inspired by Elevator Pitch and Courage. Photos by the author, Spring 2024. 

Elevator Pitch

“It’s like Twilight meets Arrested Development meets Avatar set in space in 2450. Essentially, the preserved brain of Stephen Hawking is accidentally melded to the brain of someone like GOB Bluth and they get put into this Iron Man suit and sent out to a mining colony on Mars to hunt down Martian vampires, who are trying to eliminate the colonists because the mine is poisoning the planet. And then the beautiful female leader of the Martians falls in love with our hero because of his brilliant, self-absorbed mind. But they’ve both sworn to kill each other. It’s a musical.”

Inspired by Tis the Season. Image by Image Creator.

Tis the Season

Heading down for lunch, the elevator stopped on the 29th floor. Cal walked in. He had just come back from a Christmas fête.

We made awkward small chat about the weather, his kids, the busy-ness. It was a long ride down. I was holding my breath the entire time and trying to carry on a conversation, almost fainting. I wondered what he was thinking, was he holding his breath too?

     His bowels had aired a turkey-cranberry combo that followed him into the lift joining us. He didn’t look embarrassed, so in the holiday spirit I looked embarrassed for him.

Inspired by ASA. Image by Shutterstock.

ASA

Even after all this time, I can still spoil my Christmas a little remembering the years where I had to spend every moment leading up to the holidays studying for exams and worrying myself sick about how I would do. Throughout high school, I’d invariably be suffering through the latest flu, laughing along with my fellow consumptives as the tissues piled up under our desks, ending an essay question on acetylsalicylic acid with the line: “. . . and boy could I use a couple right now!”
     In university the fear eventually moved to my bowels, and the chemistry was far more complex.

Inspired by Olive, the Other Reindeer. Photo from the collection of the National Museum of American History.

Olive, the Other Reindeer

On our evening dog walk Richard looked at a window decorated for Christmas. A frosty stencil of a sleigh pulled by reindeer sailing through the night sky.
     “How many reindeer are there?” he asks.
     So, I break out in song and finger-count, “You know Dasher and Dancer and Comet and Cu—”
     “Not the Rudolph song,” he interrupts me, “Rudolph is made up!”
     Who knew? A myth of a myth separated by about 100 years.  Next thing he'll tell me is that Hermey the Elf didn’t become a dentist. Some people just have to suck the joy out of the holidays.

Inspired by Global Logistics for Carefree Consumption. Illustrations by Celesse.

Global Logistics for Carefree Consumption

It was produced in Yiwu, Zhejiang Province, and on April 26 it began its journey towards its end-user, travelling 215 kilometres to CNE Express’s East China Sorting Facility in Pinghu. There, it underwent various sorting processes and re-scans until April 28, when it was trucked to Shanghai's Pudong Airport, a distance of 123 km. Overnight it was loaded on a plane. In the morning it began its 11,407 km air voyage to me, arriving at YYZ, via an intermediate airport, three days later. It travelled with methodical precision, like a moonshot, and today I can’t even remember what “it” was.

Inspired by Tussöy and a shipment routing summary received from CNE. Distances cited are derived from Google Maps. Image from Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981).

Memory Tree

Eliza looks at our tree crowded with ornaments, many chipped and broken, and comments: “Some people curate their trees.”

     But how can I pitch the ornaments from my childhood? The ones Mom made with my kids? Nathan’s birds he drew on cardboard when he was four? The crumbling baked-dough fish? Every ornament my kids made at school and brought home to me so proudly? Or the hanging card inscribed by my mother-in-law: “Xmas 2001, love from Nanny & Grandpa”? She would die of a heart attack just after New Year’s.

     I tell Eliza: “It's not about art. It's about memories.”

Inspired by the season. Photo by Nancy.

Bona fide

The word boner came up over dinner with friends recently.
     It conjures up unique childhood, teenage and young adult memories. Grade 8 awkward slow dances to Stairway to Heaven. A variety of flasher encounters—men in cars with no pants, men streaking through parking lots and nude men in apartment windows. Countless TTC boners. Against arms, butts, close to the face while sitting on the old crowded streetcars.
    Maybe I’m depraved, repressed or suppressed, psychologically maladjusted, to find this hilariously entertaining. Or maybe it’s just the comfort laughter that women share of city life in the ’70s and ’80s.

Inspired by Keep it in Your Pants, Sailor. Photo of the Beury Building in North Philadelphia, PA by Dunning∿Kruger FX.

Tussöy

Mary just wanted it out of the house, but I thought it might fetch $80.00 online, except I’d first need to sew the seam that had popped, but after a year of putting that off, I was ready to give it away, because at least then I could make them come and get it as-is, except the first person was housebound, and the second had no car, so I offered to squeeze it down to a more luggable size, but then his kids got sick, and I ended up delivering it anyway.
     Just to get it out of the house.

Inspired by Keep it in Your Pants, Sailor. Photo by the author.

Keep it in your pants, sailor

I found a FedEx bag stolen by a porch pirate, ripped open then dumped under the viaduct by No Frills. UNIQLO. Leggings and a sweater.  As it wasn't an oversize cashmere sweater in a nice green, I'd locate the house and deliver it back. Enroute, I noticed a smell, not that plastic off-gassing, but an unearthly fermentation of dirty gotch and Stinking Bishop. Where on his person had Jack Rackham stashed this bag? Had this package met his and canoodled into a brief but unholy alliance, an olfactory abomination that sat somewhere between a rotting whale and post-November 5th democracy?

Inspired by Reality 24/7 and UNIQLO’s corporate policy regarding porch pirates. iPhone template by Ivan Effendi.

Reality 24/7

Unrestrained by the wise, abetted by toads 

The Day-One dictator will soon have the codes

He’ll knock allies, break treaties, he’ll trash global order

Impose big new tariffs and stiffen the border

At home, with his helpers (all in on the grift)

He’ll cut rich folks’ taxes and kill the green shift

He’ll cancel, dismantle, untether and wreck

Sometimes to score-settle, sometimes just for heck

He’ll name-call, dog-whistle, he’ll insult and brag

So the base will hold firm and believe him on MAG

And we’ll watch it non-stop, ’cause we be what we be:

Credulous suckers hooked on reality TV

Inspired by Tunnel Vision. Image by Ron Thompson, based on a photo by Oleksandr Delyk and the ubiquitous dumpster-fire meme, photographer unknown.

Tunnel Vision

When our old console TV broke, my mother, in the belief that you never throw anything away, and that she’d have the money to fix it someday, borrowed a smaller black-and-white set with a finicky bunny ear antenna, and placed it on top of the old set. I watched reruns of Star Trek, Gilligan’s Island, and I Dream of Jeanie in fuzzy grey tones. A year later, when the second TV broke, she got her hands on an even smaller set and placed that on top of the second. I carried on watching reruns—not noticing the tragicomedy around me.

Inspired by Autumn Moon. Illustration by Image Creator, character design by Filmation.

Autumn Moon

It was during the autumn moon, and she came calling

She took me to the tower top to catch a breath and see the city lights

How could I refuse those lights?

She took me into the streets to feel the city lights

And how could I refuse to feel those lights?

She walked me through the electric lights to a place where there were no electric lights to a place where there were only lights from within.

How could I refuse her then?

With my love I sleep, in her arms I keep.

How could I refuse her then?

Inspired by Getting Back to Her. Photo by Fred Ni.

Getting Back to Her

She forgot how to have fun

She forgot how to smile

Moaning, griping, bitching

Tired, dirty wasted place

No one seems to give a shit

Busy buried in internet space

7 am

She wakes alive

Her heart’s beating 

She’ll do something different today

Baby, she’s running

And you’re holding her hand

She’s all glittered up and laughing

Masses of friends

Enveloped in joy

Gentle touches, grateful eyes

Dancing and singing

Throats parched dry 

Feet aching, backs tweaking

Don’t let it end

Cool damp air

Rushes upon them

Wrists twinkling with traffic lights

Wanting to walk forever 

She found herself tonight

Inspired by My Secret Garden. Photograph by Lars Van de Goor.

My Secret Garden

Fear of identity theft got me worried enough to purchase my own paper shredder, figuring that if I was still expected to recycle my personal records, at least I could discourage the more casual fraudsters.

Next was to hide those shredded records at the bottom of the blue bin and pile it high with junk mail and fliers. Finally, the best advice I heard was to mix all the most critical stuff up with your compost—a stupid mistake, since now, every spring, when the wind blows through the garden, it whispers those secrets to every one of my neighbours.

Inspired by Food for Thought. Image by Image Creator.

Food for Thought

Phil and I were texting about hispi cabbage. Seconds later, the offending vegetable appeared on his Insta account.

     “Like, chill guys,” he said.

They won’t. Last year after a few Misko admonishments of ”None of your sass, Jordan.” I got a Ticketmaster ad. Currently, I’m flooded with knitting, Deadly Uncle memes, and uber atavistic period pants. Period Pants? Since I’m also targeted for incontinence products and thigh shapers, I guess it means I’m not completely profiled.

     So how about I throw them a bone? 

     Siri, where can I buy:

     — Caged glass

     — Vintage Tool

     — Merino Balaclavas

     — Mary Beard

     — World Peace? 

Inspired by Eat, Live, Whatever. Image of Nipper and His Master’s Voice by Francis Barraud.

Eat, Live, Whatever

I relish new culinary experiences, but I found cooking Kraft Dinner and pork ’n beans in one pot a disappointment. I ate it anyway. When I lived without refrigeration in Africa, I learned that piri-piri chilies can mask the taste of rotten meat; also, that overcooking is your friend. Those were good times. While backpacking in Scotland, I discovered canned haggis at Tesco. The ingredient list was off-putting, but the product was passable, if overly grey. Recently, watching me cook, my daughter asked, “Are you ‘live to eat,’ Dad, or ‘eat to live?’” Poor lass. She already knew the answer.

Inspired by Ode to Bread. Image scavenged from Reddit.

Ode to Bread (or Gluten-free Toast Tastes Like Slightly Warm Rice Loaf)

The evening before I took the blood test for Celiac, I pigged out on bread—a crusty warm-from-the-oven slathered in real butter sourdough. Toast had been my comfort—morning, noon, and night. Whole wheat with banana, eggs on rye, grilled cheese, Montreal bagel with cream cheese, pain au chocolat, baguette, pumpernickel—all turned against me, churned my stomach, made me choke on acid reflux, hurt my head and fogged my brain. I knew I had Celiac before I took the test, and long before my doctor confirmed it. But like a junkie, I had to have just one last fix.

Inspired by Superhero Diet. Photo by Nancy.

Superhero Diet

3:00 p.m. rise

3:05 Mountain Dew while on Insta, X

3:45 tiktok

3:50 another can of Mountain Dew, vape

4:05 cup coffee, vape

4:15 tiktok

4:16 Mountain Dew, vape

4:30 tiktok

4:54 tiktok

5:05 tiktok, X

5:11 Mountain Dew, vape

5:30 grape soda

5:45 tiktok

6:00 CBD to take the edge off the day

9:00 start commenting on tiktok seriously

10:00 THC

11:00 Mountain Dew, tiktok,THC

11:30 tiktok, etc.

12:00 commenting on TikTok, X

12:05-6:00 a.m. THC, coffee, vaping, Cheetos, vitamin C powder, continuous pornographic movies

6:00 bath tub - Mountain Dew, Lindt chocolate balls, Popeyes chicken leftovers

8:20 sleep

─────────
Inspired by Hunter S. Thompson's Daily Routine and Le P. Photo by Fred Ni.

Le P

Dinners out with my aunt and cousins in the early ’80s are memories that linger fondly. Eating at a restaurant was a rarity for us—my then 33 year-old single dad with three kids under the age of 12.
     It was woody, dark and cavernous with tacky saloon doors and an over-powering aroma of gravy.
     I barely remember the dinners, but I do remember the desserts. Holding my cafeteria tray, I would stare in awe through the finger-smeared plexiglass at the deluge of choice. Mostly jellos of various artificial colours with perfectly placed globs of chemical whip cream.
     Ponderosa. 

Inspired by Voss. Photo by 2womenwithapast on eBay.

Voss

Wrapping up the company, we needed some expenses to offset our sales, and so I’m sitting in the Harbour Sixty steakhouse asking for just water.
     “Sparkling or still, sir?”
     And although I’m about to indulge in The Most Expensive Meal Ever, part of me is hanging back at Swiss Chalet with my mother, who always considered beverages an unnecessary expense when the water was free and, figuring that “still” is just fancy talk for “tap,” makes what I think is the most frugal choice . . . and ends up with 800ml from an artesian Norwegian well and another $12.00 on the tab.

Inspired by A Causality Dilemma on Roncey. Image by Voss.

A Causality Dilemma on Roncey

A couple cans of beer
A tablespoon of fishy blancmange in a tepid yellow sauce
A potato pancake
A small bowl of beets
2 playing card-sized slices of pumpernickel
And a sliver of apple pie . . . $82
And the music. My God.

That’s 41 words and coincidently my share of the bill. 

I will now leave the remaining space, where fifty-nine words should be, for quiet self-reflection over my most recent money piss-away. What came first? The ridiculous concept of “Small Sharing Plates” or the entitled foodie-stooge willing to pay $16 for a pickerel quenelle the size of a Queen olive? 

Inspired by A Postmodernist Hundred. Photo by Noblige.

A Postmodernist Hundred

First Fred goes away and takes a pass on his turn. Then Nancy does, and I’m unexpectedly due to post next on the Corpse. But it’s Thanksgiving (Canadian, that is), and everyone’s visiting, and I’ve also got some work to finish. Really, I’ve no time, nada, to drabble, but I hate missing deadlines, and it’s only a hundred words. So, what should I write about? Someone suggests AI, but that’s depressing. I consider doing one on Trump, but he’s even money or better to win, and that’s truly depressing. So what’s that leave me? Three, two, one. There. I’m done. 

Inspired by circumstance. Image by Laura Chick.

Pride & Prejudice

The Church Lady on Garden still hovers.
     I brought her mixed nuts but she refused. Another day she offered me $5.00 and politely asked to buy her a “medium black coffee with a raspberry danish from Hot Oven Bakery.” She was that specific. She rejected the sugar. And implored me to take away an unopened bottle of Polish grape juice.
     I was humbly and sheepishly reminded that everyone can have a preference despite their life circumstances. During this weekend’s delivery, I truly wondered how her body continues on, but it does and so does her will, as she asks when I’ll be back. 

Inspired by Thanksgiving.
Photo by Wendy Whelan.

Did he fall or was he pushed?

Just as I suspected: trees can control when they drop their leaves . . . and maybe even if. In fact, it appears they don’t so much drop them as push them away. Of course, I base this entirely on an observation of the single tree in our front yard, upon which, after all its leaves had fallen this year, I noticed a single dead, dangling branch with every leaf intact. They were also all dead, of course, but still sticking fast. The tree had probably wanted to get rid of them too, but couldn’t.
     Is there a metaphor here that I’m missing?

Inspired by The Return of Little Gerry. Image by Image Creator.

The Return of Little Gerry

L.G. is 14 years old.  He grew quickly, then left home to live with Angelika when he was six. This summer he returned to us because he was feeling poorly.
     “He's better,” I said to her. “You should take him back.” But she refused, so he lived outside.
     The fall nights are getting colder, obviously he had to come in.  But now he’s a hefty sixty pounds, and it’s very hard for him to get up the stairs, thus we emptied the back room.
     For a plant.
     We’re squished like sardines. Gerry got an $850 chair to keep him company. 

Inspired by Mums. Image—Can I pee on it?—by Laurie.