Sonny D. Answers 20 Questions

What with all the cutbacks and lay-offs at the London Free Press, I figure they could probably use some copy. So I'm sending them my own '20 Questions' list. Besides, I'm tired of waiting to be asked. Here's a sneak peak.

1. What was your first job?
Forest ranger. Two hundred miles north of Wawa. During my 'Back to Nature' period. Mostly, we set the woods afire for 'controlled burns.'

2. Have you ever been in jail?
Surprisingly not. It's pretty common knowledge that I once killed a man with my bare hands over a gambling debt in Monacco.

3, Do you belong to any clubs or social organizations?
I've had my own library card for years.

4. What was the last movie you watched?
I recently accidently rented that home-made sex tape of Dustin Diamond who played 'Screech' on Saved By the Bell in a threesome with two chicks.

5. What is your greatest fear?
Accidently renting Dustin Diamond's other sex tape. The one with the threesome of him, 'Urkel,' and that guy who played 'Horshak' on Welcome Back Kotter.

6. Have you ever had to pay a late fee on a video or library book?
Just on that sex-tape with Screech.

7. What was the last book you read?
Does 'Archie's Digest' count?

8. What would you like the epitath on your gravestone to read?
"I heard the Greyhound call my name."

9. What keeps you awake at night?
Wondering why the letter 'W' is pronounced "double-u," when on the printed page, it is clearly a double-'v.' Why isn't it pronounced "double-vee." What's up with that anyway? And what's the deal with peanuts on airplanes? They call that a meal? Half of them aren't even salted.

10. What historical figure or person from the past would you most like to have dinner with?
My dog's parents.

11. What TV show do you never miss?
Deadwood, the HBO cuss-alot cowboy series on Monday nights. And then to purify myself, reruns of The Wonder Years on weekdays.

12. Who would you pick to play you in a movie of your life?
The two Davids - David Cassidy for Sonny Drysdale: The Early Years. And David Crosby for Sonny: The Middle-aged Years.

13. What disc is on your CD player right now?
The Partridge Family. Duh.

14. Describe your perfect day?
Spending the morning in bed with my naked wife. After that, who cares?

15. What do you wear to work?
I work the night shift in a group home. So I show up in my pajamas.

16. What was the last play you attended?
Brokeback Mountin': The Broadway Musical.

17. What is your idea of a fun night out on the town?
Setting the alarm for midnight. Get up, poach an egg and then catch a cab to Call the Office to see '63 Monroe and hope they hit the stage sometime before dawn.

18. When and where was your last vacation?
The Jet Set Motel outside Ingersoll near the 401 a couple of Valentines Days ago. Caught a glimpse of the ghost of Jackie O.

19. Will you vote in the coming municipal election?
Voting for Robert Vaughn, the Man from U.N.C.L.E. for councillor for Ward 12; voting for anyone but incumbents on Board of Control. And I always vote the Daddy Ivan Warbucks ticket for Mayor. If Mel Lastman can do the job, so can Ivan. And he can't be any worse than the two front runners in the campaign.

20. What is your biggest regret?
Got real loaded a couple of New Years Eve's ago and woke up married to Britney Spears. Didn't work out.

Well, That's a First

So I'm out on a dog-walk this morning and I'm propositioned. Right on my street. Right to my face. At 8:30 in the a.m.

Down near the Cinderella pedestrian-bridge where the river Thames separates my neighbourhood from the western end of downtown Hicksville. Me and Rover are headed home and passing all the sad sacks headed to their offices downtown.

I always cross to the other side of the street when other people are coming towards us on the sidewalk because they may be intimidated by Rover. He's a Great Dane, you know. Anyway, I cross the street to be polite and damned if this young girl heading towards us doesn't cross with me. And actually comes up to us. And says she wants to ask me something. Actually a couple of things. Like does your dog bite? "Occassionally," I say - even tho Rover's bark is worse than his non-existant bite. I pretty well know what's coming - altho you never expect to be hit up for spare change in your own neighbourhood no matter how close it is to downtown - even tho, now that I think of it, someone actually did that to us just last weekend.

She's about 20 at the most. Hair pulled back in a pony-tail, dressed like me (shabbily,) and looking like she just woke up or hasn't slept for a while. Her hands are slightly shaking as she drags from the cigarette she just lit and her eyes have that looking-right-thru-you vacancy that all strung-out drug users have in common. I can guess what the last question will be at this point.

"Where are you going?" A dog walk. "Do you live around here?" Nearby. "Who do you live with?" My wife and family. "Can you get me a job?" Huh, no. "Can you at least help me out with like, even five bucks?" Sorry, no - I really don't have any money. ... And I didn't. So me and Rover take off, hoping she doesn't follow.

And about ten steps away, it finally sinks in - Hey, she didn't ask if I could get her a job. She asked if I wanted to get a blow-job!

Well, that's never happened before. Not on my own street. Certainly not when I mention that I live nearby with a wife and kids. Well, actually, it's never happened. For some reason, I'm not constantly accosted by women offering to service me. Or by guys for that matter. I could run naked thru a gay bath-house and no one would even have the decency to make that request. Okay, well, now it's finally happened. But since there would undoubtedly be a financial transaction involved, I suppose I shouldn't feel too flattered. I guess it doesn't count. Not that I'm keeping score.

Don't matter anyway. What really shocked me about all this was not that it happened in my neighbourhood - the Free Press had done a story just a couple of days ago about downtown becoming the new East London with an invasion of drug addicts, prostitutes and homeless neer'do-wells.

No, what was upsetting was that this girl was no prostitute. She wasn't dressed like one. It took her 10 ways to Sunday to even get to the point. She was so embarrassed to ask that she looked at the ground and mumbled that whole business about a job. And she was so inexperienced at it that initially I didn't even know what was being offered. She was just a hard-up desperate drug addict.

You know, I wish I did have $5 on me that I could have just handed her and walked away. I know that she would have spent it on whatever drug is making her stoop so low in the first place. But at least that's better than the thought of her having to proposition fifty-year-old slightly-balding/about two pounds overweight men out walking their dog at 8:30 in the morning.

Sheesh! After all, the next guy she offers to perform oral sex upon may not be as scrupulous - or hard of hearing as I am.

A Tree-Hugger's Lament

Had to have the giant poplar in our backyard cut down this week. Either that or wait for it to fall on my neighbour's house. Or mine. But it's old and was about four stories tall and would sway with just the slightest breeze - and its time had come. Meaning I had money in the bank to waste on something like a project like this. It was either that or blow the whole wad on new eavestroughs. And if the tree fell on my roof after that, well - where would I be then? Homeless, gutterless and treeless. Therefore, the tree had to go.

So we gathered the family around, reflected on what a fine tree it had been and thought of all the hours of shade it had provided us with. And then I said some sacred shit and buried an axe into its trunk as a symbolic way of saying 'Goodbye.' Then the tree-cutting company boys came in and did their work.

Today when you need a tree cut down, it's not like the old days when you get your friends and neighbours over for a tree-cutting party where everyone gets loaded and then scampers up the tree with chainsaws. Even with rope safety harnesses, I've seen too many severed limbs that way. And I don't mean tree limbs. A good rule of thumb for any home-improvement project is 'Chain-saws and drinking don't mix.'

So we hired in the professionals. And I gotta tell ya, it's an amazing spectacle to behold. These days it's all done with space-age technology. No one even actually climbs a tree and they don't even use ladders. Or chainsaws for that matter. The actual cutting is done from the ground using 'lasers.' A tree-cutting technician aims this 'laser' beam at the top of the tree and starts chopping off three-foot long pieces of trunk. To keep it from falling on your neighbour's car, the pieces are held in place by a 'force-field' device and then gently and slowly guided to the ground with some kind of 'ray.' Probably the same kind of free-energy principle used by Uncle Martin in My Favorite Martian when he moved objects around just by pointing his finger at them.

It's all impressive as heck but it kind of makes me nostalgic for the old days when some guy would climb up to the top of a tree and dig in with those boots with the pitchforks attached to the heels - and then start sawing away. Bit by bit in three-foot pieces until he reached the bottom.

Life is a lot like that sometimes isn't it? Sometimes we feel so 'big' that we end up just too above it all, with only the birds, the stars and giraffes for company. With our heads so deep in the clouds, we occassionally have to lop the whole top off to see more clearly. To see open sky again. To see The Big Picture. Or simply to see into the bedroom window of the couple who live behind us.

And occassionally, we just need someone to knock our block off so we don't make fools of ourselves over a bad decision. Sometimes it's best to be cut down to size before it's too late. Have there ever been times you felt that way? Are you listening, Joe Fontana?

All in all tho, I'll miss the old tree. It was but a youngster - and about 50-feet tall when Mavis and I moved in a bit more than a quarter-century ago. In the meantime, it has been home to squirrels and bees and finches. And copulating racoons. It's true. One night, Mavis and I heard a horrendous screeching like a cat being run over by a steam-roller in slow motion. After a minute of silence we looked out the upstairs bedroom window and there on the long extended horizontal branch were a couple of raccoons lounging, not a care in the world - and smoking cigarettes.

Over the years, that same branch has glowed with Christmas-tree lights and has helped provide the light source for back-yard evening soirees by holding up hanging Japanese lanterns and pinatas.

At various times, it has supported a traditional flat-panel one-seater double-rope swing; a Tarzan swinging rope and most recently, a good ol'fashioned Goodyear tire swing. ... Oh well, life goes on.

On the bright side, I timed it perfectly. No yard full of leaves to rake this fall. No back eavestrough to clean. (Points to head,) Always thinking.

My Stupid Stupid Parents - Again

Dear Blog diary,

And a big shout-out to all you readers and bloggers out there in Blog-land. We rule!

Or did.

Alas, dear readers, this may very well be my last blog entry for a while. Just because some asshole in Montreal shot a buncha people yesterday at school, my old man is threatening to stop me from blogging any more and only lettin me use the computer for homework. And my Moms' like all "Honey, are you okay? Are you sure there isn't something you want to talk about? Are you really sure you're okay?"

Geez, just cuz I broke up with Ramon and he started going out with my best friend Ray-Anne, it's not like I'm gonna go out and start shooting up the cafeteria at school or anything. God knows there's been days that I've thought about it tho. But who hasn't, you know?

Actually, forget I even wrote that last paragraph because that's just the sort of thing that's going to convince Pops to pull the plug on my blogging life. Or as Anderson Cooper called it last night from Montreal - "Blogs are the Rock and Roll on-line diaries of middle-class kids and the fantasies that they don't want their parents to know about!"

Thanks again, Anderson. You know I used to think that guy was so cool back in the day when I actually believed that a resemblance to David Duchovny was sexy. My old man actually watches Anderson every night but even worse is that he listens to the small-town 'Andersons' who do open-line radio shows right here in Hicksville, Ontario. And that's why I'm gonna be banned from blogging probably by Friday night.

I'm sittin' in the kitchen this morning, groovin' on some poached eggs that Moms whipped up and readin' 'Funky Winterbean' in the Funnies and my old man starts turning about twenty shades of purple listening to this Andy Noodleman guy who hosts a talk show on the radio. So - just because this guy in Montreal shot up a buncha people, Andy seems to be most upset that the guy was a blogger. And that anyone with a bit o' sense coulda predicted what was going to happen because the nutjob posted comments like "Work sucks. School sucks. Life sucks." Well, Fuk me dead Lois, but that's not exactly an original thought. What self-respecting kid never had those feelings? I bet even kids who have never even read Catcher in the Rye have occassionally even made the same observations.

And all the time that Andy is ranting that we have to "police the bloggers so this kind of tragedy doesn't happen again!" my old man is going "Yeah, yeah that's right." And while he's holding the phone in one hand trying to get thru to Andy, he looks over at me and says, "And another thing Missy, I want to have a look at that MySpace blog of yours before you leave for school!" I swear to God, it's true!

But he can't get thru to Andy so he turns the radio dial to the other AM-radio open-line show and there's another knee-jerk over-reacting alarmist named Yawn Wilson railing on about the need to "start monitoring the blogs and maybe even pay these people a visit."

God knows what's gonna happen this afternoon when the current Number 1 Talk Radio wing-nut, Charles Addled gets on the air and starts screaming and yelling about "the Blog culture.' Ya know tho, it would be kinda cool tho if someone called up and pointed out to him that he too, is a blogger. Maybe the guy that writes it for him should mention that to him before he goes on the air.

Too bad the ol' man will be at work when that happens. You know, what happened in Montreal is just awful. But it happened not because he was a blogger. Or because no one paid any attention to his suicidal "cries for help." It happened because he was just a fukked-up loser (whiskey with eggs and toast for breakfast? Gimme a break, everyone knows that's a beer breakfast beverage) who hated everything because he got tired of being picked on at school and so he struck back.

Personally, I think the parents have to share a LOT of the blame. Where are they when the kid is doing shots for breakfast? Where are they when he's out registering his automatic weapons? And ya know, you stick a kid with a first name like "Kimveer," you can pretty well imagine what things are going to be like for him at school. Well duh, ya think?

But I've seen Rebel Without A Cause and Pretty in Pink enough times to know that misfits have always been getting pushed around and made fun of by the jocks and cool kids at school. It's been going on ever since attendence figures were taken for the first time in the first home-room ever. But after yesterday, maybe for some of those people it may have finally sunk in that pay-back has become a trend.

Next time you see that weird girl in the cafeteria with the crimson red-dyed hair, dressed all in pink with black lipstick and nail-polish, do me a favor, don't shoot any sarcastic put-downs over in my direction. Don't come over and try to be my friend and get me to join the 'Scrapbooking Club.' And don't feel pity on me just because my Dad is about to shut down my only artistic outlet by pulling the plug on my blog. Just continue to do what you normally do. Just ignore me. I'll be alright.

Gawd, I can hardly wait till I'm old enough to get out of this Gwengontonamo prison.

A Picture Says a Thousand Words

Yep, a thousand words - but volumes about media bias.

Take this morning's London Free Press.

On that weird third page "Jump Start" opening section we've got Paul Berton's weekly "From The Editor's Desk" column where he reassures us faithful London Free Press readers (all 543 of us,) that even tho Joe Fontana is (probably going to contest Anne Marie for the Mayor's chair - because in Joe-time - it'll be a coupla weeks before he actually files his papers with City Hall,) running for Mayor - while that may be great for a news organization to now have an election worth having its reporters cover and how it's always good for them to actually have something to do instead of hanging around the Freeps cafeteria or watching porn on the company computers or build up speculation as to will He or won't He run? He'll announce next week - that you, Dear Reader need not worry because we will provide you with fair and balanced coverage on both candidates.

And the visual image they use to illustrate his point is a photo of Anne-Marie in a Santa Claus hat being kissed on the cheek by Joe Fontana himself.

Kinda makes her look a bit of a lightweight. But not as much of one as what they do to her on Page A-12 of the Opening section which is a "Special Report." As part of their background/strenths/weaknesses profile, there's a file photo of Jumpin' Joe from a couple of decades ago wearing boxing gloves and standing on the railway tracks visibly upset about some sort of cutbacks to London's rail service.

Then to balance this, right next to that photo is a pic of Anne-Marie - not with the gloves off and ready to take Joe on bare knucks - but holding an obviously unfamiliar golf club and wearing an expression on her face that suggests that she's more than marginally retarded. And I work with people who do have intellectual disabilities - so I apologize to them for that - and also have to point out that I've never seen a more moronic expression on any of their faces. You mean to tell me that's the only appropriate photo they had on file?

But who from the Free Press is going to apologize to Anne-Marie?

For anyone who didn't know before, from that photo-spread alone, it's obvious just who the Free Press is backing.

So vote accordingly.

Or like I always do - vote the Ivan Warbucks ticket. At least you know where he stands. And at his age, he's happy to be standing anywhere.

Eating Haggis

You know, even tho he's a multi-Academy Award winning writer/director, is the current Hollywood Golden Boy, lives in Santa Monica and has Clint Eastwood's private phone number, when Paul Haggis returns to London this Monday, I tell ya, I just gotta feel a little bit sorry for the guy.

Since winning the Best Screenplay for Million-Dollar Baby which was also named Best Film at the Oscars two years ago - and then following it up this year by directing The Best Film, Crash from his Best Screenplay, well since then, London City Council has been up at least a couple of nights wondering how to properly honor Haggis and take credit for his success - even tho he fled here long ago.

At first they thought of having a special presentation at City Hall during a City Council meeting. "Just hold on there, Paul, we'll get to you right after we debate the new sewer surcharge. And don't forget - there'll be cake and photo-ops afterwards!"

Then, of course the inevitable occurred to them - 'Let's name a street after Paul,' (after winning a few Oscars, all of City Council are on a first name basis with you.) But as Butch McLarty, the Hollywood correspondent for the SonnyDrysdaleMediaEmpire has already reported, Paul's dad, Ted Haggis told him that "I quickly put the kibosh on that because the property had no real connection to Paul."

Note - the street they had picked out for him was a new street in a southwest part of town that wasn't even around when 53-year-old Haggis grew up here.

So what do the geniuses at City Hall decide to do after that? As a "special surprise" on Monday, they're going to name a park after him. At the moment, according the the Free Press, this "future park is in a still-undeveloped area of the city" on the outskirts of town.

Wow, what an honor. A chunk of green space out near the highway in a new suburb that doesn't even exist yet!

That's right. After his dad turned down the empty gesture of naming a street after him because it had no connection with his youth and childhood in this town, this is what they come up with. Only in a rinky-dink hick town like London. Geez, even Brantford wouldn't come up with such a lame and insulting idea.

You might think that someone from the City would have done a bit of research into where the guy actually grew up. And chose a tribute that might actually mean something to the man.

According to McLarty, Haggis was born on Blackfriars Street near the heart of the city and today the name of his production company pays tribute to the Blackfriars Bridge. This is obviously a guy who takes his roots seriously and has some fond memories of his days here before fleeing about three decades ago.

When London honors him with such a gesture totally lacking in thought and sensitivity you can't blame the guy for leaving.

According to Friday's Free Press, when father Ted was informed of his son's soon to be bequeathed tribute of untouched farmland in the middle of nowhere, he replied, "I guess that's wonderful."

I guess that says it all.

This Monday, Paul baby, I feel for ya. God-speed to ya, man.

As for the rest of you - don't forget, even tho this town has had problems with proclamations in the past, according to City Council, this Monday - September 11th (no less,) is officially 'Paul Haggis Day.'

And no, you don't get the day off work.

Musings on the Nature of Shit and Joe Fontana

Out for a dog walk this morning thru the park that runs along the river Thames. 'Rover' did his business, I scooped it up in a bag and then we went in search of a garbage can. We spotted one and from 20 feet away, I made an underhand pitch and the bag landed right on the rim of the can. Neither in or out.

Life is sometimes like that, isn't it? Neither in or out. Sitting on the fence. Unable to be one thing or the other. Unable to make a decision. Are you listening Joe Fontana? Time to shit or get off the pot.

Is Joe running for Town Mayor or not? The suspense is nerve-wracking. If no one else is running against Queen Anne-Marie, does this mean I'll end up voting for Ivan Warbucks? Again?

Of course the question on everyone's mind is - just where does Joe stand on the question of The Arts in London? Is he fer 'em or agin' em? Judging by the cutbacks his federal Liberal government gave to our cultural institutions over the past decade or so, it seems likely that The Arts aren't big priority with Joe.

Joe was noticeably absent at the first All-Candidates meeting that was held a few weeks ago and devoted entirely to the question of supporting The Arts. Of course, not being an electoral candidate at the time, Joe is excused. Of the 25 who showed up, the usual incumbents were there as well as a bunch of newbies you never heard of before. The incumbents that you know don't give a crap about Art weren't there. Their absence says everything you need to know about the subject.

Of those speaking, the usual platitudes were said and were forgotten as soon as they left the speaker's lips. They sure won't be remembered come The Morning After in November.

The highlight of the meeting was when Ivan Warbucks got off a few good jokes he ripped off from George Burns or Jackie Mason or Jack Benny or Milton Berle - "I'm happy to be here today. Of course at my age, I'm happy to be anywhere!" Oh, that Ivan! A joke so old it has dino-shit on it. And of course everyone just roared in response.

Speaking of fecal matter, the other day I was walking down the street and there in the middle of the sidewalk was a big mound of freshly deposited dog-shit. Covered in flies. The next day it was still there. Sans flies. In fact it remained there for days until a rainstorm turned it to mush and someone stepped in it and thankfully carried it away.

But it made me think - why were the flies gone within a day? Probably within hours. Just what is there in fresh dog shit that attracts them? What kind of nutrients are to be had that are gone so soon. Why aren't they eating the stuff till the whole damn mound is gone? Frickin' flies - what use are they anyway?

They're only there while the going is good. When there is something to be had. Kind of like politicians at election time when they are talking about The Arts. They're drawn to the subject like well, flies to shit. But it's only a fleeting interest and after they've taken everything they can, they move on. Before an election, The Arts are a Number One Priority. Afterwards, they get treated like Number 2.

Now, before I am accused of bad metaphors and making cheap crude allusions - "How dare you compare The Arts to dog shit!" - let me say that if I had stumbled upon a sweet mound of golden honey covered in flies on that sidewalk, I would be noting the same similarities.

That said, I've seen some good art and some bad art in my day. And I may not know a lot about 'Ahht,' but I do know shit when I see it.

Life is sometimes like that, isn't it?