Cock of the Walk
Not much new here at Chez Drysdale, other than the fact that Sonny is still on strike after eight weeks and getting more pissed off with every day.
Every day that I get up at the crack of dawn to head off to the picket line, I have one recurring thought on my drive in - "I don't care which one it is - but I want to get into either an accident or a pillow-fight this morning. And then I'm done for the day."
So, of course I haven't had any real news to post here. Because I've had NO news to post here. And contrary to popular misconception, No news is NOT Good news.
True, my life isn't totally eventless. I ran into my middle-aged balding, slightly-portly, socially-awkward and totally unhip friend Dwight Schmidlapt the other day. True to form, Dwight was complaining about his love life - or, rather his lack of one. Turns out that Dwight didn't get laid throughout the entire week of PRIDE last month. According to the openly-heterosexual Schmidlapter, "the town was seething with lesbians - and not even two of them were interested in a three-some. I don't know, maybe it's just me."
Well, as prior posts on this blog will attest, maybe it IS him. But even I had a hard time believing Dwight's other claim - that he went to the McLarty Farms' Annual Pig Roast and Peyote-Button Gazin' Happening - and didn't get laid there! Shit man, that's like the Burning Man Festival - except it's located in the farmland outside Delaware, Ontario and only goes on for 33 hours. People come all the way from Amsterdam.
Sorry, Dwight, but you're obviously doing something wrong when you can't get laid at a Butch McLarty party. Butch is a great host. Always introducing people to like-minded folks. And even if an individual is obviously socially-inept, Butch will point them in the direction of the sheep pasture.
Put it this way, if you can't get laid at this Event - even with the guiding hand of Butch McLarty - well you might as well stuff your dick in an old shoe-box and store it in that corner of the basement with all your old high-school yearbooks, hockey sticks, collection of vintage '60s copies of 'Playboy' and other memories - because like them, you sure don't need it anymore. It's 'Best Before' date has done expired.
But now that I think of it, on a purely bizarre note - something interesting did happen recently. Two days ago. And then again this morning. Why the same thing didn't happen yesterday is beyond me. Curiouser and curiouser.
TRUE STORY ... so I'm out doing my usual dog walk Monday morning and - well, actually, I don't walk HIM - and even though he's a Great Dane, he doesn't walk ME - oh, how I wish I had a thousand bucks for every time I've heard THAT witticism by well-meaning smiling passers-by.
No, the truth is that we walk together. It's not hard. There's no straining on the collar involved - because he doesn't wear a collar. Nor a leash. After all, that would be kind of demeaning, because he walks upright. And converses in verse. And has a kind of a slightly high-pitched voice with just a bit of a lisp. Yeah, that's right - he sounds like London City-councillor David Winninger.
Anyway, me and Paxton (his name is Greek for 'humble and loveable,') are out strolling Monday morning, shooting the shit and looking for a scenic spot for him to move his bowels - and we're in the park at the end of Becher Street, just the other side of the Sleeping Beauty's Castle pedestrian bridge - and we hear a rooster.
Now, for you out-of-staters who may be reading this, I should point out that I live in a city of almost 400,000 - and I live on the 'cusp' of downtown. It's true that we're only a couple of blocks from the Farmers' Market, but the Market is really just a glororized over-priced Food-Court and all the meat and produce is there courtesy of Farmer Jack and Loblaws. They ain't seen a live chicken in that place in decades, let alone a rooster.
And then again we heard him - The Cock - this very morning. At about 6:20. No idea where he lives - but he gives out a good ten to 15 sleep-piercing 'cock-a-doodle-doo's' before shutting up. My guess is that he's someone's pet and being kept on the balcony of one of those high-rises at the forks of the Thames. Or perhaps he belongs to a poor farm-boy passing through in hopes of joining up with The Three Musketeers and needs a bribe to get him in. Or wants to sell him to the regional Dog/Cock-fighting Circuit and get booked into the JLC.
Either that or I'm slowly but surely losing my mind.
But let's keep a happy thought, shall we?
Every day that I get up at the crack of dawn to head off to the picket line, I have one recurring thought on my drive in - "I don't care which one it is - but I want to get into either an accident or a pillow-fight this morning. And then I'm done for the day."
So, of course I haven't had any real news to post here. Because I've had NO news to post here. And contrary to popular misconception, No news is NOT Good news.
True, my life isn't totally eventless. I ran into my middle-aged balding, slightly-portly, socially-awkward and totally unhip friend Dwight Schmidlapt the other day. True to form, Dwight was complaining about his love life - or, rather his lack of one. Turns out that Dwight didn't get laid throughout the entire week of PRIDE last month. According to the openly-heterosexual Schmidlapter, "the town was seething with lesbians - and not even two of them were interested in a three-some. I don't know, maybe it's just me."
Well, as prior posts on this blog will attest, maybe it IS him. But even I had a hard time believing Dwight's other claim - that he went to the McLarty Farms' Annual Pig Roast and Peyote-Button Gazin' Happening - and didn't get laid there! Shit man, that's like the Burning Man Festival - except it's located in the farmland outside Delaware, Ontario and only goes on for 33 hours. People come all the way from Amsterdam.
Sorry, Dwight, but you're obviously doing something wrong when you can't get laid at a Butch McLarty party. Butch is a great host. Always introducing people to like-minded folks. And even if an individual is obviously socially-inept, Butch will point them in the direction of the sheep pasture.
Put it this way, if you can't get laid at this Event - even with the guiding hand of Butch McLarty - well you might as well stuff your dick in an old shoe-box and store it in that corner of the basement with all your old high-school yearbooks, hockey sticks, collection of vintage '60s copies of 'Playboy' and other memories - because like them, you sure don't need it anymore. It's 'Best Before' date has done expired.
But now that I think of it, on a purely bizarre note - something interesting did happen recently. Two days ago. And then again this morning. Why the same thing didn't happen yesterday is beyond me. Curiouser and curiouser.
TRUE STORY ... so I'm out doing my usual dog walk Monday morning and - well, actually, I don't walk HIM - and even though he's a Great Dane, he doesn't walk ME - oh, how I wish I had a thousand bucks for every time I've heard THAT witticism by well-meaning smiling passers-by.
No, the truth is that we walk together. It's not hard. There's no straining on the collar involved - because he doesn't wear a collar. Nor a leash. After all, that would be kind of demeaning, because he walks upright. And converses in verse. And has a kind of a slightly high-pitched voice with just a bit of a lisp. Yeah, that's right - he sounds like London City-councillor David Winninger.
Anyway, me and Paxton (his name is Greek for 'humble and loveable,') are out strolling Monday morning, shooting the shit and looking for a scenic spot for him to move his bowels - and we're in the park at the end of Becher Street, just the other side of the Sleeping Beauty's Castle pedestrian bridge - and we hear a rooster.
Now, for you out-of-staters who may be reading this, I should point out that I live in a city of almost 400,000 - and I live on the 'cusp' of downtown. It's true that we're only a couple of blocks from the Farmers' Market, but the Market is really just a glororized over-priced Food-Court and all the meat and produce is there courtesy of Farmer Jack and Loblaws. They ain't seen a live chicken in that place in decades, let alone a rooster.
And then again we heard him - The Cock - this very morning. At about 6:20. No idea where he lives - but he gives out a good ten to 15 sleep-piercing 'cock-a-doodle-doo's' before shutting up. My guess is that he's someone's pet and being kept on the balcony of one of those high-rises at the forks of the Thames. Or perhaps he belongs to a poor farm-boy passing through in hopes of joining up with The Three Musketeers and needs a bribe to get him in. Or wants to sell him to the regional Dog/Cock-fighting Circuit and get booked into the JLC.
Either that or I'm slowly but surely losing my mind.
But let's keep a happy thought, shall we?
posted by Sonny Drysdale at 1:58 AM
2 Comments:
Sonny, despair not. The strike will be settled within 12 days. That's the word I heard from two union bosses lapping up the draft beer at the Delaware Legion last Saturday night.
Regarding that rooster, there's a guy that lives near the river that does a spot-on imitation of a rooster.
I think his name is Ted Goodden. A stained glass man stretching his vocal chords just to let everyone know that it's a another lovely day in the neighbourhood.
Word is that Ted's latest work features a Bantam Rooster in an urban setting. I hear that Kellogg's wants him to do a series of them for their "Best to You Each Morning" commercials.
Thanks for the inspiring words there, Butch.
I hope Ted G. includes Huck Hound, Yogi Bear and Quicks Draw in some of the stained-glass piece you refer to.
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