St. Clair West

We seemed to be hitting it off, so I offered to get her home. All I really wanted was to extend the evening a little, a walk through the snow, and maybe enough time to screw up the courage to kiss her goodnight. 

She lived past that middle-of-nowhere entrance to the St. Clair West station—a long way from Yonge, but then she had said she liked walking. And I don’t know why, at the door, I declined her invitation; nor, given she’d just asked me in, why she turned away as I kissed her.

     I took the streetcar home.

Inspired by La Vache Qui Rit. Photo by Evan Schaaf.

La Vache Qui Rit

Back in my card-carrying PETA undergrad, I played a rainy-day game called “Splash the Bunny”. I’d drive my Dodge Dart dangerously close to someone wearing a fur coat and tsunami the hell out of them.

But why? Was it rebellion against my French-Canadian roots? Or because my dad trapped muskrat and raised greyhounds for the Florida circuit? Residual guilt over that kippered bathmat that was once a Reitman’s fox jacket? I don’t know why I did these things, but I did, and afterwards I’d sink my sophomoric arse into our leather chair and chew a cheese sandwich with quiet complacency.

Inspired by Snow, Slush, and Honour. Photo by Laurie Leclair.

Snow, Slush, and Honour

Sully was running late for an 8 A.M. That was the thing about beer league, you took ice time when you could get it, even 10 P.M. He was still annoyed about the game. A guy had snowed his goalie. Sully’d levelled him for it. You never snow a goalie. It’s against the hockey code of honour. 

      Sully was late. He sped up. The road was messy. Slush had pooled everywhere overnight. He whizzed past something colourful and glanced back in his mirror. It was some doofus with a rainbow umbrella, shaking his fist at him. Sully burst out laughing.

Inspired by Beneath the Snow. Image by Bristolpost.co.uk. “Snowing a goalie” is this.

Beneath the snow

New snow covers all sorts of eyesores—garbage, dog poo, the debris of life littering my yard, general dilapidation. A wonderful façade until the inevitable southern Ontario thaw and freeze, thaw and freeze. By early March, the old snow has solidified into chunks of black guck at every street corner. Then, forced to see this mess and ugliness, I feel the necessity to clean house. I can’t ignore anymore what isn’t working. It has to go. I seldom make resolutions, but when I do, I don’t make them in the New Year. I wait for the clear light of Spring.

Inspired by Fifty Words for Snow. Photo by Cristian Bortes.

Fifty Words for Snow

It had been snowing again when I fell asleep, then some hours before dawn I was awoken by a bright light. Maybe a car had pulled into the driveway and one of its headlights was shining in through a window. I opened my eyes and saw, instead, the swollen moon casting its light over a field of snow-silvered grass.

I got up, slid open the patio door an inch. Cold air. Months later, life would again push out from the earth and unleash its cacophony, but at that moment, I listened to the night’s frigid silence and counted to fifty.

Inspired by If Only. Photograph by Fred Ni.

If Only

If only we paused Netflix and took ten minutes to clear that measly strip of snow, so our elderly could walk.

If only we didn’t treat our streets and parks as giant ashtrays, so our children and pets could scamper and play.

If only we picked up our dogs’ excrement instead of pretending we didn’t see it, so our new neighbour to Canada didn’t ruin a pair of winter boots.

If only we ceased judging each other from our front windows and addressed our own hypocrisies.

If only we could all be nice. That would be different. Let’s be different.

Inspired by Be Nice. Image by Nick Fewings.

Be Nice . . .

With the house came an extra sixteen feet of responsibility I hadn’t anticipated—not after years of soft apartment living, insulated from the rigours of the Toronto by-law that compels landowners to clear snow from the sidewalks in front of their property.

The city plows the streets, sure—often pushing snow back over the curb—still we must guarantee a safe passage for our fellow citizens no later than twelve hours after the stuff stops falling . . . or do as I do and follow the forecasts in the hope, that if no one disturbs it, it will melt on its own.

Inspired by tonight's oncoming storm, Ben Wicks, and this commercial from 1985.

You’re Not Funny . . . You’re just a Nudnik

“Horseshit” was dad’s word. Mom, with her Enfant-chien-de-merde preferred her own strangely compounded French. My Detroit cousins cursed in Yiddish, and although I didn’t understand a word, it was funny and I wanted in. So, I tuned into The Tonight Show and boned up on Shecky Green and Don Rickles. Finally, over a holiday dinner, I tried my routine on the Goldsteins. Raising my milk while hoisting my own polyglottal pétard, I shouted “Uncle Al, you’re the biggest schmuck around!!!” Schtum. So much schtum. And that’s when I learned that Context and Timing were the two pillars of comedic vulgarity.

Inspired by Salty in Certain Circumstances. Image by Chris W. Bissell.

Salty in Certain Circumstances

Dad was not one for salty language. He dropped occasional mild blasphemies and a scatological term of German origin in moments of crisis, like when he did carpentry. Otherwise “Aw, hell,” was as coarse as he got, “hell” being acceptable, him not being a churchgoer. When Platoon premiered, he claimed to be appalled. “Soldiers don’t talk like that,” he assured Mom, which was striking, because I’d served in the reserves and knew how soldiers talked; and he’d been in the army all through the war. He definitely knew the richest, most expressive Anglo-Saxonisms. He just chose not to use them.

Inspired by Get Out of Bed. Image by Chloe Cushman, National Post.

Get Out of Bed

Hearing is muffled after a blast. Saturated by bright flames, your eyes hurt and you shut them tight. You swallow smoke. Taste it on your tongue. Your body is covered with sweat and ash. You lie amongst the debris wondering if you should just give up—knowing there are more conflagrations in the future. We are the ones who stoke this hot bed of hate and indifference, so perhaps we should lie in it. Perhaps we deserve annihilation. You think there is nothing good left. But then someone’s hands help you up and you begin to cough out the poison.

Inspired by Happy MotherF’ng New Year. Image by Roy Schulze, with lots of help from Image Creator.

Happy MotherF’ing New Year 😊😊😊

The fuel burning furnace shot out a spark. I see it land on a newspaper pile and catch.
I tell my housemate this.
They say, “You’re an extemist.”
I say, “You’re anti-science.”
We smell the smoke now.
But the fridge door still leans against the wall.
I’d wanted it mounted left.
They’d wanted it mounted right.
Fire alarms go off now.
I take one down, remove the battery.
They grab a broom, smash the other.
I hold a knife to their throat. “You’re a fascist fuck.”
They hold a pot of boiling oil over my head. “You’re a commie cuck.”

Inspired by Bravo, F! Illustration by Fred Ni.

Bravo, F!

The word Fuck has stood the test of time. Other vulgarities have come and gone, and for good reason. Take “Douche Bag” for example. Fuck is a constant. Never politically incorrect or cancelled. Gender neutral. A classic really. Up there with It’s a Wonderful Life. Now in vogue courtesy of Taylor. And quite versatile. A noun, verb, adverb or adjective. Capable of evoking a wide range of visceral emotion from eroticism to rage. It is complimented with the most revered figures—Mother and Jesus. And when used with Holy it is all powerful and divine. Good for you, Fuck.

Inspired by Sometimes used in the present participle as a meaningless intensive. Illustration by Yuliya Shavyra.

Sometimes used in the present participle as a meaningless intensive

I’d learned most of my off-colour vocabulary by my seventh birthday; but I was always looking for proof that all those dirty words were, in fact, real. The first big dictionary I found had its own pedestal in the middle of the Yorkville library, but it didn’t have what I was looking for.

The Compact Oxford included all thirteen volumes of the 1931 edition, but it didn’t include the word “fuck.” Years it took, but I finally did find it, in my grandmother’s humble Webster’s, where the editors had somehow come round to approaching those words just like the others.

Inspired by Ban Small-Mindedness, Not Books. Image from Merriam-Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary, eighth edition.

Ban Small-Mindedness, Not Books

Recently I’ve discovered shelves of banned books in some bookstores. They are proudly displayed, a poke in the eye to the small-minded—and a reminder that our freedoms are never assured. Attempts continue to cull books from stores and libraries around the world. Perish the notion that anyone should suffer free thought! The American Library Association keeps a list of banned or challenged literary classics. Read it and weep—then get angry. Those who ban books are rarely on the right side of history. If imagination, storytelling, and free expression can be deemed offensive, I'll proudly stand with the guilty.

Inspired by Box of Old Stuff and my incessant search for books to give at Christmas. Illustration by Erik Drooker on Freedom to Read. The American Library Association’s “Banned & Challenged Classics” list can be found here.

Box of Old Stuff

Who gets the ornaments? The crushed wire-frame angels Carly and I made. The paper-accordion stars that rain glitter when you pick them up. The baked-dough reindeer heads with crumbling red noses. Which one of us wants the dinged tin star for the top of the tree? My house is too cluttered as it is, and they won't go with your blue and silver colour scheme, and I’m not shipping them cross country to Carly, even if she wants them. Should we chuck them? God knows we couldn't sell them even at a rummage sale. They're not worth anything, are they?

Inspired by What Am I to Believe? Photo by Nancy.

What Am I to Believe?

What am I to believe, my dear?
Everything is sacred up here
Do you still speak to God, my dear?
Does he know we're still here?

Save your words, my dear
The truth has consequences here
Beware of the angels you hear
Halos tend to rust up here

Are we on our own, my dear?
To be made is to be alone, I fear
Who do we hold to account my dear?
Or has it just been us all along?

What should we do now, my dear?
Maybe it’s time to get out of here
Maybe it’s time to go

Inspired by Those Old Emotions. Photo by Fred Ni.

Those Old Emotions

December is here.
The days dark and cold.
And it brings back again.
Those old emotions.

Memories of childhood, magical and sweet.

Hanging in the twinkling of lights.

When the family fractures were so soft and unseen. 

Now grown and commuted, further splintered with time. 

Obligation in lieu of self-preservation.

Our superficial smiles perfectly placed.

Uncomfortable feelings simmering in anticipation.

Slated for eruption December 24 to January 1.

Privately yearning for our young free minds, and carefree days.

The innocent child is still within. 

Leading us with her heart if we surrender. 

To where we can be held and discovered. 

Inspired by the season and The Spoons. Image by Athiyada.

Minutes

Location: The Commoner, 2067 Dundas Street West.

Time: December 7, 5:00 P.M.

Attendees: Nancy, Ron, and Roy—plus Fred and Wendy.

Absent: Laurie.

Unfinished business: None.

New business:

—Impressions and engagement are essentially unchanged. Our two recent pledges expressed their enthusiasm, the veterans their acceptance.

—Problematic stories and f-bombs.

—Dog stuff, both pro and con.

—Complaints regarding neighbourhood infrastructure, mostly water-related.

—The fastest way to get downtown.

Actions:

—Going forward, members are asked to announce their posts in the regular group e-mail, including the due date for the next contribution, so that Roy isn’t always stuck being the deadline bully.

AI image by Gencraft.

You Wish

Before there was online shopping, even before there was the Internet there was the Sears Christmas Wishbook. Thick with potential, its arrival sparked a frisson of excitement among us Webbwood Estates snipes. I’d pore over those still-cold pages with the discerning eye of a Harrod’s merchandiser, nodding over the artistically back-lit dinosaur and Hot Wheels dioramas. I’d submit my list—with purchase order codes—in plenty of time. I rarely got anything I asked for, but disappointment never dampened my enthusiasm each year, when I could nestle that catalogue on my chubby little lap and pretend we had money.

Inspired by Virtual Therapy. Picture of the much coveted but never possessed Easy Bake Oven, from the Sears Wishbook, 1972.

Virtual Therapy

Feeling empty. 

Check social media

Scroll...

Scroll...

Everybody so happy, so fulfilled— 

Close IG, close Facebook, close TwitterX

Surf internet 

Deals, DEALS, DEALS— 

Click

Click

How did they know I needed that!? 

“Three left in stock” 

Gotta have

“Sixty-five people are currently viewing this product” 

Gotta have. Something, anything, to fill this emptiness

Hold it. Wait. Stop! Need to think…

“Take another 10% off at checkout” 

Now! Hurry! Click to get there

“Expedited delivery?”

Yes! I want it now!

“Your order is complete”

YES!

Close tab, rub hands, look out window

Feeling empty. 

Check social media. Everybody else so happy—

Inspired by Here’s a Day. Photo by Cliplab.