The Secret to a Great Wake

Long-time readers of this blog will remember Howard ("Howie") Engleman who passed away back in the March archives (the Remarkable Life entry.) Anyway, they finally had his memorial service last night. George Clark told the funniest story. It seems a priest, a rabbi, Howie and a duck walk into this lesbian bar and there's a kangaroo pouring drinks. But I forget the punchline so there's no point in telling the rest of the story. .............. Pretty good turnout and we gave Howie a fine send-off, if I do say so myself. But it always amazes me what you learn at this kind of event. For instance, Newt Riley got up and talked about the days he worked with Howie at the Dominion store downtown on York Street when they were in high school. Both had started out as bag-boys but Howie had a bad habit of juggling the cans before he placed them into the paper grocery bags, invariably on top of the customers' bread or fruit prone to bruising - but never on eggs, pointed out Newt. Howie had a great respect for eggs. ........ So Howie was promoted to part-time produce clerk. And that's when he realized that he could no longer work for 'The Man.' Actually, this information was imparted directly to Howie from the store manager in the form of a pink slip and this clever quip cruelly delivered in front of all the check-out girls. "In this store we are family. We are a team. And Howie, there is no 'U' in 'team.' Now, beat it." .... And what had Howie done to be rewarded in such a callous fashion? He had tried to increase sales. He had gotten a black magic marker and wrote on all the watermelons - "Guess the number of seeds - and win a prize!" Turns out you're supposed to run that stuff by management first. .... Well, it all turned out for the best. Howie realized then and there that he wasn't a time-card person. He couldn't work for anyone else but himself as the boss. Of course, this was long before the years that would produce not one but two Nobel Prizes. ....... Interestingly enough, it was Howie's time in the deli-section of the supermarket which led to those Nobel prizes and why his memorial wake was such a success last night. As stipulated in his will, the only food to be served was egg-salad sandwiches. And this is the important part (and also plays no small role in why he was awarded the first of those Nobels,) - the sandwiches must be cut on a diagonal. Howie revolutionized the way in which sandwiches are presented as apres-funeral food and this concept was quickly adapted by planners of bridal showers and corporate lunches everywhere. Prior to this, the 'straight cut' was considered by the upper-crust of society to be the only way to slice a sandwich in half. But from his days as a teen working in the market, Howie realized that with the straight cut, egg salad would fall out of the sandwich right after the first bit. However, if you were to cut the bread on a diagonal, then one can hold the triangle-shaped section in one hand, take a bite from one end, a bite from the other end and then polish off the remaining centre section in your fingertips by simply popping it in your mouth. This method not only prevents egg-salad mixture from falling out the sides of the sandwich (which invariably begin to droop after that first bite,) but also frees up the other hand so that one can hold a drink at the same time. .... Of course, at the time, his unorthodox methods earned Howie the wrath of the old-guard of the catering world - and the nickname "Slash." But eventually, the beautiful simplicity of this utilitarian approach to sandwich cutting caught on. Before long, Howie had expanded the concept with equal success on devilled-ham sandwiches, salmon, tuna and eventually even deli-sliced turkey and roast beef with a twig of lettuce in between. In time, he also pioneered the practice of "quartering" those sandwiches to yield four mini-sandwiches instead of two, thus doubling both quantity and the enjoyment of the funeral guest. .... They once called him "Madman." In the end, they all called him "Nobel-Prize Winner." .... And I can personally attest to his genius - you just can't have a good wake without a good egg-salad sandwich.

Overheard at the Press Club

Went to the Press Club on Friday night. They were having a membership drive for local media types and as a quasi-journalist, I thought I'd go have a little look-see and check them out. George Clark told the funniest story - it seems a priest, a rabbi, Bill Brady and a duck wandered into this biker bar. There's a kangaroo behind the bar pouring drinks and he looks at the duck and says, .... Oops. Almost forgot the first and only rule of the Press Club - anything said in the Press Club stays in the Press Club. Nothing goes further than those four walls. ... But what the heck. I'll save that story for another time. In the meantime, I did learn something that's just too exciting not to share. I met a couple of kids there, ("Hey Butch, hey Kathleen!") and they let me in on a little secret that is going to lead to a whole new way of looking at what you read on this blog. Now, a lot of you have written in lately wondering why I never indent paragraphs. Is it a stylistic thing or a Jack Kerouac affectation? Are my thoughts written down in one Kerouacian spontaneous burst of energy that flows as one long unbroken paragraph? No. The sad truth is that I simply didn't know how to indent.
Until now! Thanks Butch & Kathleen!
Apparently, to indent, all you have to do is hit the 'enter' key and that allows you to do what is called a 'hard return.' Kinda like physically hitting the carriage-return key on an old-fashioned typewriter. And I can tell you, that one tip has revolutionized all my correspondence since then.
Not only can I now start new paragraphs, but I can also leave a line in between paragraphs - just by hitting the hard return key two times. Watch this -

Cool, eh?

I tell you, this new concept is going to change my life. Ya gotta love the hard return. I am the King of the Hard Return. I'm even thinking of changing my porno-movie name from 'Dick Divine' to 'Hard Return.'

Oh, incidently, turns out I was turned down for membership on Friday night. Apparently, I'm jut not "Press Club material." Of all the gall. Of all the nerve! Can you imagine that? Turning down a nice guy like me?" Well, it's just as well. I have my own outdoor social club for writer guys. Know what it's called? I can't tell ya.

But I can hardly wait for our next meeting just so I can tell that Bill Brady story.

Flattened Squirrel Update

Regular readers of this blog (all three of you - "Hiiii kids!") will be happy to hear that there has been some movement on the dead squirrel story featured in my March 25th post. At that time, poor Rotty J. Squirrel had lay stiff as a board near the curb of Perry and Stanley streets for nigh on a week and getting flatter with every day and car that rounded the corner. .... Well, God forbid someone from the City come out and scoop up the poor guy's pancaked carcass and toss him into the back of a City Works truck. ... So I decided to leave the matter in the hands of my fellow man, knowing that Earth Day was approaching and no self-respecting tree-hugger would let such an indignity continue in this neighbourhood. ..... Well, today is Earth Day and let's just say that the local do-gooders are great at picking up stray pop-cans and other assorted litter - but a dead squirrel?!? "Eeeuuuww - how gross!".... So I took matters in my own hands. Got a shovel, dug a grave in my wife's front garden, scooped him up, tossed him in an old shoe-box, mumbled some sacred shit about what a fine squirrel he was (his lack of fear when it came to cars notwithstanding,) and buried him next to my old pet-squirrel, Sparky. .... You know, I've always wondered what happens to squirrels when they die. Now I know. The good news is that I got thank-you notes from both June Foray and Rotty's mom. .... But next time some green environmentalist complains to me about filling up my SUV while wearing my mink coat, I'm gonna put a dead rodent's head in their bed. Trust me, I know where to get one and I know how to use it.

Yet Another Blow to Federal Liberals!

Still reeling from the news that Bud Polhill would not forsake London Board of Control to run provincially or federally as a Liberal candidate, Grits were today shaken to find out that Joe Fontana has decided not to run for the leadership of the party. When contacted by the Sonny Drysdale Media Empire, Liberal party president Michael Eisner was still so stunned at the news that he asked, "What, was Joe running?" ... When contacted by the same reporter, leadership hopeful and newly-electedToronto MP Michael Ignatieff said that altho he had not been back in Canada long enough to have personally met Fontana, he was sure that Joe was a fine person and the loss of such a candidate is always hard and that the party needs more new fresh voices from youngsters like Joe. ... Fellow leadership hopeful Maurizio Bevilacqua, a new Toronto-area MP, sighed with relief at learning of Fontana's decision. "As someone else who no one has ever heard of," he said, "I would like to thank Joe for giving me a shot." .... When asked the reason for his decision, Fontana, a married family man and new grandfather said that he made the decision for "family reasons." After 28 years in politics, he explained, it was time to start paying attention to his family. Apparently one of them had the sense to point out to him that he didn't have a chance in hell of winning the leadership race, let alone of ever becoming Prime Minister.

The Latest on Bikers Massacre!!!

Since I know next to nothing about motorcycle gangs, as a quasi-journalist, I feel compelled to comment on the recent bloodbath of eight members of a motorcycle gang up Shedden way. In other words, I cannot stand the thought of being the only media player who hasn't shared his uninformed speculations with the reading public. So first off a little background and what I do know about bikers. A couple of summers ago, I read Hunter S. Thompson's 1969 non-fiction book, Hell's Angels: A Strange and Terrible Saga. And that's it. Which is obviously more than most of the current crop of self-styled motorcycle experts have done. In the book, Hunter rides with the Angels and hangs out and parties with them and makes it very clear that these people are the very scum of the earth. The absolutely lowest scum-suckers in existence. Walking pieces of human excrement. And they know it - and are proud of it. Yet, until you get "stomped" on by them, as Hunter was - you can almost understand the appeal of their life-style. As one member so poetically put it prior to a big-run to terrorize a few small rural California towns enroute to a camping weekend - "There's nothing better than heading out on a run and flying down a stretch of two-lane black-top with a beer in your hand and your ol' lady hanging on behind you. You just grab a bag of pot and your banjo and go, man, go!" Um, excuse me - but did he say "banjo" ? Geez, no wonder no one takes these guys seriously. As a quote, it's almost as good as Barney Fife commenting on the appeal of motorcycle riding in Barney's Sidecar. "It's just you and the wind and the wheel. You know what I discovered when I was out there on the ol' 'cycle, Ange? If you drive downhill straight into the wind at 60 miles an hour, it's almost impossible to pronouce a word that begins with the letter 'S.' " ............... Anyway, back to my speculation about the murders - I typed 'Hunter S. Thompson' into the London Public Library's on-line cataloque and under the entry for their one copy of "Hells Angels," under 'Status', it read "Missing." That's right - missing. As in 'suspiciously vanished,' mysteriously disappeared.' Which brings us to the inevitable logical conclusion - has anyone seen London Public Library CEO Darryl Skidmore, lately? Or Mark Richardson - who works for the library and has written a book about London's Police Department? I haven't seen his weekly column in the London Free Press' op-ed page recently. Is this just a coincidence? ............ Speaking of LFP opinion writers, teen InkBlogger Miranda Emmerson had another gem in yesterday's Free Press on the biker situation, in which she warns us not to respond to the tragedy by unfairly labelling others. To quote: "Leather vests and grizzly haircuts don't necessarily mean 'Watch out, I could be trouble.' " Well, you know honey, maybe it's just the social circles in which I move, but every bag of pot I've bought in the past four decades has been from a guy who rides a motorcycle not in an Armani suit but a leather jacket. He also has a grizzled beard and hair and he answers to the name of "Butch" - or "Saucy Susie," depending on his state of drug/alcohol-fuelled inebrieation at the time. Miranda has another jaw-dropper in today's Free Press in which she supports London Knights manager Mark Hunter's wish to force Rogers Television to fire any on-air broadcaster who isn't a big enough Knights cheerleader. She bases this on the fact that even tho she's been to a London Knights hockey game before - "I've never watched a London game on television." (!?!?) Simply amazing. You know, I'm all for encouraging young writers but maybe one should be a little older than 15 before you are allowed to embarrass yourself so publicly in print. And shame on the editorial board of the London Free Press for allowing the poor girls to do this to herself. But Miranda at least has her youth as an excuse. There's no excuse from another Free Press story quoting another expert in yesterday's paper about the excitement and glamorous appeal to joining a biker gang - "Just look at it. All the women you want, all the money you want. There are a lot of attractive features," says biker authority James Dubro. And you just know that some unemployed numbskull lunkhead with bullying-and-thug-like tendencies is going to read that and go join a gang. Well, if you read about the lives of these 8 murdered bikers, their lives don't seem too glamorous. All of them had broken marriages, worked at crappy jobs and were so lonely for female companionship that they would have considered themselves lucky to bang the occassional hooker. As for all the money - well, their national leader lives in a rundown chicken shack out in the middle of nowhere. ..... But the media is right when they say that no one deserves to die irregardless of their lifestyle - or crimes and murders they may have committed as a member of any particular club they belong to. Each of those murder victims was someone's son or father or brother. They were also incredibly bad role-models. Maybe now some impressionable little kid will think twice about joining a biker gang after seeing what happened to his dad or big brother or 'Uncle Jimmy.' No, Mr. Media, no one deserves to die. Just don't expect us to shed any tears over their deaths. The undeniable truth is that with eight of them gone and hopefully four more about to be put out of commission for a long time - the world is a better place.

Harper Reveals Secret Agenda in Throne Speech

Bowing to left-wing media pressure, Prime Minister Stephen Harper has finally released the long-awaited Conservative's 'secret agenda,' in yesterday's throne speech. For Canada's liberal media, it was worst than expected but not as bad as they had feared. For one thing, the Supreme Court decision allowing same-sex marriage will be overturned. Gay marriages that took place prior to that time will be allowed to remain on the books. However, those recently married same-sex couples have to return all their wedding gifts. ....... Regarding abortion laws, a woman's right to choose will not disappear. No new legislation will be introduced which would make it illegal to have an abortion. However, it will be illegal to perform an abortion. ..... Direct child-care allowance will be tied to new child labor laws. Children under the age of 10 must perform a weekly minimum of 20 hours a week of community service to be entitled to the annual $1,200 stipend stipulated to go towards room and board. .... A new line of succession bill will reflect efforts in maintaining good relations with the United States. Should a Prime Minister die or become incapacitated before his term is finished, he will be replaced by the current reigning American president. Even if that happens to be George Bush ....... As for his promise to "Get Tough on Crime," which many feel was largely responsible for the Conservative landslide victory in the recent election, it is now legal for all Canadian citizens to carry hand-guns. However, only white property-owners over the age of 40 will be permitted to purchase ammunition. ........... New libel legislation will be introduced to enforce that any Toronto smarty-pants journalists or media gad-flys named 'Leah McLaren' who make fun of Harper's waist-line or wardrobe shall have to wear a fishing vest to work for no less than one week, but no more than a month depending on the severity of the snotty remark. ........ Harper also managed to enrage monarchists and Quebecers alike in one fell swoop by eliminating the position of the Queen's Representative - that of the Governer-General. The one bright note of the whole speech was when current G.G. Michelle Jean read her own lay-off notice.

"Smug, Glib, Impertinent" AND Immature

FLASH - Just got back from NYC where I snuck in the back door and saw previews to the biggest thing to hit The Great White Way since one of Tommy Tune's rhinestone tap shoes broadsided Truman Caput's swelled noggin at the opening of Cabaret:The High School Production. Of what do I speak? Why Brokenback Mountin': The Broadway Musical, of course! ........ Taking its cue from The Lion King, The Producers, The Three Stooges in Outer Space and Lord of the Rings, apparently this show too, is based on a recent Hollywood blockbuster. It's all about cowboys - and the cowboys who love them. If you know what I mean. Storywise, it's not all that original an idea. The producers could have staged the same love story in any males-only field - a Turkish bath or a pirate ship or the Stephen Harper's cabinet. ................ But this is Broadway, baby - and it's all about the music! From the opening strains of Oklahomo to that rousing barn-burner of a closing number, the fiddle-fueled line-dancin' foot-stompin' Cowboys In Love, this show is one knee-slappin' good time! I always assumed that gay cowboys were good at ropin' and brandin' and bronc-bustin' - but I never dreamed that were such whizzes at choreography and show-tunes. Quel surprise!!! These boys put the 'hoot' back in 'Hootenany.' Walking out of the theatre, there was nary a soul who wasn't humming the show's centrepiece, the poignant If I Were a Cowboy (A Rootin' Tootin' Tootin' Tootin Tootin' Tootin Cowboy, Too,) in which 'Big Gun Cavendish' accompanies himself on ukelele and sings of his dreams as he wanders a moonlit set of giant cactii. ..................... That said, kudoes to the set design people for their breathtaking recreation of the Canadian landscape. In the scene where 'Big Gun' first meets the new ranch-hand, a grain elevator magically rises from the taut, washboard flatness that is the Canadian prairie - well, let's just say, 'Dorothy, I have a feeling we aren't in Ontario anymore.' As for the lighting, the whole spectacle dazzles and sparkles like sunlight gleaming off Gary Cooper's hot rod in High Noon. ......... And speaking of big guns, Broadway newcomer Chas Odeller is outstanding as the veteran ranch hand 'Big Gun Cavendish.' As his love interest, the similarly relatively unknown Wil Wheaton proves more than capable as the newly-arrived wannabe cowpoke 'Tom Cruise.' For comic relief, the show's producers have wisely tapped that old-time vaudevillian Billy Crystal to goose things up as head chuck-wagon chef 'Saucy Stevie.' .......................... The buzz has it that this show has legs. If it proves to have the stamina and staying power that its been showing recently on a nightly basis (and twice a day on Wednesday and Sundays!) industry insiders are predicting that Brokenback Mountin' will likely do for gay cowboys just what Vampyros Lesbos: The Off-Broadway Musical did for lesbian vampires. So put that in your pipe and suck on it all you naysayers who claim that the musical is dead. ................ In the way of constructive criticism - Note to the producers: the only part of the show that left a bad taste in my mouth was when 'Big Gun' does his first solo, the surprisingly limp This Prairie Son Always Rises Early in which a good stiff wind suggestively blows tumbleweeds amoungst neon-lit prickly cactii. We get it, okay. No need to hit us over the head with a sledge-hammer. You only cheapen yourselves when you resort to overly-obvious stereotypes and cheap jokes. Tsk, tsk. ........ Other than that, this show has moxy! In fact, it's got it coming out its ears!