HE DID IT! Almost...

On his third attempt, he manages to actually get inside the balloon! If only for a few moments.

My favorite line? "What now?".

Indeed, sir. What now? Isn't that the question that we're always asking?

Anyway, enjoy.

Recycled Writing Exercise Piece

Yo,

I gotta write shit I get paid to write today, so here's a repost of a piece, using a lovely little writing exercise that anyone can do. It was introduced to me by my friend, Nug.

The challenge is this:

1) Flip through a dictionary and randomly pick a word.

2) Google the word under images.

3) Pick the image you most fancy. Use it as your inspiration for Step 4.

4) Write a ten line riff, using the definition of said word in the first five lines.

Here's what I wrote. Of course, I did it in Microsoft Word, so it might appear to be more than ten lines on this post.

I guess you gotta believe me about that.

If you don't...piss off.

My word was MACHINE.

MACHINE: n apparatus combining the action of several parts to apply mechanical force for some purpose; person like a machine from regulation or sensibility; controlling organization; bicycle, vehicle, or automobile.

My image:

And here is my story:

It's down here, somewhere. Somewhere, in this godforsaken wheat field, my fortune waits to be dug up. Somewhere, underneath all of this dirt, and wheat chaff, and cow shit, there's a ticket off of this farm, and if I want it, all I have to do is dig. For three generations, my family has sweat on this piece of land. Three generations of dirty fingernails, sunburned necks, and sorrow. But the right hole, dug in the right place is going to change all that. You see, my Great Uncle Charlie perfected the impossible: a perpetual motion machine. An apparatus that combines the action of several parts, forever and ever. Never needs fuel. Never needs to be wound up. Just flick a switch and off she goes! Of course, this was just before the war, and he was paranoid of Nazi spies stealing his ideas. He took several precautions to prevent this. He even started wearing metal pots on his head, to stop their satellites from reading his thoughts. Eventually, he dismantled his machine and buried it in this field. And I'm going to find it. Then those bastards at the bank, with their "past-dues" and "foreclosure" threats can kiss my ass!

Hope you liked it.

Jim Out.

HOBBY!

I found this on youtube.

I'm at a complete loss for words.

It takes all types to make a world, I suppose...





Jim Out.

Dangerous Animals

Some animals are really dangerous.

If you were a person with a death wish, there are all sorts of animals out there that would happily dispatch you. You could get strangled by an octopus. You could fight a bear. You could even just pick up a turtle, not wash your hands, and then die of salmonella.

Here are some other animals that are extremely dangerous.


1) A Bird With a Really Hard Head

I work on the ninth floor of an office building. My desk is right in front of a window. A lot of people might think that I’m lucky to be so close to a window, but I disagree. So far, I have seen no less than 5 birds meet their demise by running into this window.

The problem is the window washers. They do too good a job. My window is kept so clean that birds can’t see the glass. One minute they’re flying along, singing a song, thinking their little birdie thoughts, then…BAM!

Right into the window.

This makes me very sad, because I really like birds. But it also makes me a bit scared.

I happen to believe in the process of evolution. I think that Charles Darwin was onto something when he suggested that, over time, various species will inherit various characteristics to give them more of an edge for survival.

Which makes me think. If I were a bird, and I was evolving, the first thing I would work on is getting a much, much harder head. That way, if I ran into a window, I’d just fly right through it!

One minute I’d be flying along, singing a song, thinking my little birdie thoughts, then…SMASH!

Right through the window!

And probably straight into the skull of the guy who is sitting behind the desk nearby.

Smashed in the face by a Hard Headed Bird. Not exactly my first choice for a way to go.


2) Land Mine Squirrel

Last summer, when I was riding my bike to work, a squirrel darted out in front of me. I didn’t have any time to stop, and I ran the little guy over.

Don’t worry…he was okay. Somehow he just got thrown up in the air, and when he landed he ran up a tree and gave me a very dirty look.

But this made me think. What if he had been a landmine squirrel? What if squirrels evolved in such a way that they exploded if they were exposed to a sudden impact?

It would make sense for them to do this. Predatory birds would certainly think twice before swooping down and snatching them up. Cars and bikes would definitely put on their brakes if they saw a squirrel in their path. This is probably the most logical evolutionary move the squirrel could make!

It is going to really, really suck when squirrels turn into landmine squirrels. Our parks will be full of casualties. Cats will be horribly maimed. Skippy Peanut butter will need to find a new mascot.

We need to stop this madness before it starts!


3) Talking Dog

A lot of people think that having a talking dog would be great!

I beg to differ.

Sure, at first it would really nice if your pet dog could talk. You’d be able to reason with them when they tried to eat your food, or drink out of the toilet. They’d be much better equipped to communicate their needs to you, such as when they need to be fed, or go outside. And if you had a talking dog, you’d always have someone to have a conversation with! You’d never be lonely again!

But I predict that, before long, the disadvantages would start to outweigh the advantages.

Think about it. Your dog is privy to some pretty sensitive information. A lot of people get naked in front of their dogs. Some people even have sex in front of them! Your dog has probably seen you whiff your own farts, pick your nose, and eat a whole container of 5 cheese dip, right out of the container.

If you do drugs, your dog knows. If you look at internet pornography, your dog knows. If you practice yoga, just to see if you can give yourself a blowjob…guess what? YOUR DOG KNOWS!

Right now, all that doesn’t matter. Because your dog can’t talk. Well…he can probably talk to other dogs, but that’s not so bad. Dogs put up with a lot of crap from people, so I’m not that worried if they want to share a bit of a laugh about us, between friends of the same species.

But, if dogs learned to talk, it wouldn’t be long before they learned to blackmail. Owning a dog is already very expensive. Do we really need to add hush money to the equation?

I say no.


4) Land Shark

Saturday Night Live can joke about this shit all they want.

But if sharks figure out how to walk around on land, we’re all fucked!


5) Ninja Chimpanzee

Oh, man…

I think the only thing scarier than a real ninja would be a Ninja Chimpanzee. This creature would not only have the stealth and skill of a ninja, they would also have the primal instincts of a chimpanzee!

A Ninja Chimpanzee would be worth at least 10 regular ninjas! They could climb trees way better than people. They’re smaller, but probably just as strong. They’re probably way faster.

And they could fling their poo with deadly accuracy!

Ninja Chimpanzees are probably the greatest potential threat to humanity as we know it.

And the bad news is…they’re already training!





It's the beginning of the end, everbody!

Despite the overwhelming odds against us, I shall stand by you all against the tyranny of our Ninja Chimp oppressors.


Jim out

Good Ol' Greenie

These days, I make my money as a writer. I love what I do, and I consider myself lucky that I'm able to do it. If somebody told me, at ten years old, that this would be my vocation, I wouldn't have been surprised. But I may have been, just a little disappointed. I've always loved to write, but at ten years old, my first love was stunt biking.

And I have the scar to prove it.

I had several bikes growing up: an ugly purple one, a 10 speed, and a Super Cycle Gemini, from Canadian Tire. But the best bike I ever owned was a lime-green banana-seat-special that my parents bestowed upon me at the age of ten. I loved that bike, and although all my other friends had BMX's, I rode Greenie everywhere. I was fiercely proud of Greenie.

Good ol' Greenie.

The thing I loved most about Greenie, apart from the fact that it was all mine, was that it was a spectacular stunt bike. Greenie was, far and away, the best ghost-rider in the whole Morden Municipality. For those who aren't in the know, "ghost-riding" is a trick used by us stunt bikers to thrill and awe audiences and passersby. It is a highly complicated trick that involves just the right amount of skill and experience, coupled with a great deal of savvy and courage. To ghost-ride, one must peddle furiously, gaining a good head of speed down a perfectly straight road. When you are going as fast as you can, jump off. The bike will then continue on its own, as if driven by a "ghost". Greenie went farther then any other bike I knew of.

It was my pride and joy.

Naturally, I was very upset when Greenie finally ascended to that great bike rack in the sky.

The day began like any other. I bolted down a bowl of Cheerios and headed out into the sunshine. It was summer then, and my days were very, very busy. On today's agenda, my friends and I were headed to the bike jumps to hone our bike stunt skills.

The bike jumps were on a vacant lot, not far from my house, right behind my friend Heath's place. Some big kids had originally built them for their dirt bikes. But, since they hadn't been using them for quite some time, my friends and I adopted them. The great thing about the jumps was that they were set up along a circular track, with a start/finish line, and everything. We'd run the track one at a time, and time ourselves, seeing who got the most air, and who could run the track the fastest. The only rule was that you had to hit every jump.

Every jump, that is, except the BIG ONE.

The BIG ONE was the last jump, and we considered it optional. So optional, in fact, that nobody ever attempted it. The BIG ONE was too steep, too scary, and it ran over a giant dried mud pit that was like concrete.

The BIG ONE was suicide.

It seemed that even the big kids avoided the BIG ONE since a trail had been worn around it.

Heath's parents were pretty rich. He was a bit of a dork, but he had a really nice bike. It was a BMX Scorpion: an institution of European design and sleek stunt bike technology. Two hundred dollars at McClouds! Since the ramps were closest to his house, and since he had the most expensive bike, Heath always ran the track first.

There were four of us, that day. And, since all of the other kids were a bit bigger than I was, and had nicer bikes, I had to go last. For fifteen agonizing minutes, I waited for my turn. Watching all my friends: Heath, Trevor...Kent, taking spectacular jumps on their lightweight silver and blue beasts of beauty. They seemed like angels, leaping towards the Heavens!

They had bikes that were fearless steeds. Mine was a big green billy goat.

Finally my turn came. I knew that it was now or never for good old Greenie.

Sure, he maybe didn't look as nice as all those other bikes. Maybe instead of straight handlebars, they were long and curved like a snake whose middle has fallen off the branch. And perhaps my torn, stuffing leaked banana seat was an eyesore to behold. And maybe lime green isn't the ideal colour for a stunt bike.

But Greenie was my bike! My dad gave him to me when I learned how to mow our lawn! And Greenie was just as good as those expensive BMX's!

It was time to show those gawking, grinning friends of mine what a real stunt bike could do!

I tore off onto the track, headed to jump number one with a good head of speed. As I leaped into the air, I could feel the power I had over my captive audience. I could taste their awe as Greenie arched into the air. I landed perfectly and didn't loose speed as I hit jump #2.

The wind whispered against my face and rustled my orange windbreaker as the sun backlit my flawless performance.

Jump after jump, Greenie was an extension of my body. Together, we were a well-oiled machine. Greenie and I weren't just jumping, we were dancing! Creating! Making stunt bike art! I rounded the corner in triumph, heading for the finish line, Heath, Kent and Trevor cheering me, their red, hoarse faces shining in the afternoon bright.

But I was not finished yet.

As I approached them, I looked over at the hardly-tread path that lead to the ultimate finish. The BIG ONE loomed to my left, beckoning me.

Suddenly, I understood what needed to be done.

This final jump was my gateway to glory. To attempt, and conquer the BIG ONE would put my name on the lips of every child, grades three to five at Boissevain school! I would be a hero...a legend. I veered off the worn path to my friends and started up the lonely trail that ended with a steep sharp incline, and my certain victory.

Kent, Trevor, and Heath grew silent, understanding the gravity of my actions. They watched me head towards the BIG ONE...our hearts beating in unison at the monumental event that would take place.

A collective gasp arouse from the crowd as I hit the jump and rolled to the very lip of the BIG ONE'S ramp, my bike and body tilted at an impossible angle. Never before had a stunt-biker reached such height.

The world seemed to stand still for a split second, as I piloted Greenie's nose to the ground. My friends, the geese squawking in the pond nearby, the lawnmowers buzzing over half of the yards in the neighborhood froze as a new god was born!

Slowly, the ground started towards me. The impossible had been accomplished! The BIG ONE was feared no more! I, and my faithful Greenie had done what no other stunt-biker had the courage to do!

Pride coursed through me as I brought Greenie closer to the ground, preparing for a three point landing. Trevor, Kent, and Heath broke out in cheers as I prepared to touch down in that Prairie field, and into the hymns and hearts of Boissevain forever!

That's when the front wheel fell off my bike.

I don't remember the landing, but I still have the scars on my hand from that day. My mom made me wear gauze on it for a whole week.

My best friend Jason signed his name on my bandage in pencil, and my cuts got infected.

My Dad sold Greenie to a bike shop a couple of days later. The guy said some of it could still be salvaged for parts.

These days, I make my money as a writer. I love what I do, and I consider myself lucky that I'm able to do it. But when I was ten years old, for a few, short seconds, I was the greatest stunt-biker who ever lived.

And I have the scar to prove it.

Outside

I want to be outside. Very, very badly.

Outside there is a giant orange crane. It goes right past the window behind my desk, and towers beyond my immediate vision.

I work on the ninth floor. This means that the crane in question is at least 10 stories high!

There are guys climbing all over the crane. They are wearing construction hats, but they are not wearing their safety harnesses. One guy is lying on the roof of the cab, catching some sun.

My desire to not be me, and be one of those guys instead, is pretty damn strong right now.

One guy just scampered all the way to the top of the crane, adjusted something, then just stood there, straddling the very top of the crane, surveying his world. There is not an ounce of fear or trepidation. He looks completely at peace with the Universe. I can see his smile from here.

Right now, at this exact moment, that guy is the luckiest s’umbitch in the whole wide world.

Down on the ground, there are guys driving around in little tractors. They shovel pick up bits of dirt, shuffle off to another area, dump the dirt, then rumble back to the big dirt pile.

If I was in one of those tractors, I’d race the guy beside me. We may even do laps around the construction site. I'd definitely buzz past the foreman, who's standing close-by, looking at blueprints. I'd snatch off his hat. I'd whoop like an idiot. And I'd probably get fired.

If I was on that crane, right now, I’d stop for a moment and see just how far the city stretches. I’d look up at the CN Tower, and wonder how far I could see if I was on top of that instead. Then I’d look in the window of the CBC Building, look at the guy who is trapped behind his desk, looking at me out his window, doff my hat, and give him a nod.

I’d be such a smug bastard.

Because I’d be outside.


Jim out…er…in. Fuck.

Clown Project

Hey.

Today I’m afraid, I have to dedicate my writing efforts to the children.

This isn’t a bad thing. I like writing for the children. The children are very nice people, and they deserve good writing. However, it also means I can’t write much on my blog today.

Shucks.

Anyway, I figured I’d take this opportunity to re-discuss a project that is very close to my heart.

I call it “The Clown Project”.

Let me begin by revealing to you my inspiration. In New York City, there is a very special improv troupe. This group is comprised of, literally, hundreds of performers who volunteer their talents and efforts to a truly great cause.

This company does not (usually) perform in a theatre. They choose the various public spaces, businesses, and streets that make up the Big Apple.

They don’t do what they do because they want to be rich or famous. They improvise for the pure joy of creating an experience for the average passerby.

They give the gift of a story to their onlookers, most of whom, no doubt, will not forget what they’ve seen, and will regale the events to their friends and families.

They are called Improv Everywhere. If you’d like to learn more about them, here is their website:

http://www.improveverywhere.com/home.php

These guys are fucking awesome. Toronto could really use something like this.

I like Toronto. I really do. But, let’s face it…this city has a gigantic stick up its ass. Sometimes, I get a little sick and tired of everyone in Toronto being hung up on their own shit. We do all live together, don’t we? How about a little human contact, every once in a while? How about, instead of everyone in this city not rocking the boat, we ALL rock it?

Just a little?

How about we stop being boring? Even if it’s just for a little while?

That’s why I thought up “The Clown Project”. It works like this:



REQUIREMENTS:

1) Up to 50 Willing Participants

2) Lots of Clown Make up, Wigs, and Costumes (I think the participants will have to provide these for themselves)

3) A few people to help me organize the event, and who have cell phones

4) A big block store, in a central location, where lots of people hang out and browse. A book store would be ideal…

5) A designated location that is close to, but not in sight of, the above store, where the participants can gather and get ready.



WHAT HAPPENS

1) The Participants gather at the designated location. Here they will be able to change into their clown costumes, and apply their makeup.

2) Once they are dressed and ready, the Clowns will be divided into several smaller, more manageable groups. A small orientation session will be held, re-iterating the goal of The Clown Project, the rules, and words of encouragement and thanks.

3) The Clowns will then be matched up with a Clown Wrangler, who will lead them to within striking distance of the store.

4) When the word is given, the Wrangler will send in the Clowns.

5) One by one, the Clowns will enter the store, and begin to browse.

6) IMPORTANT: At NO TIME will the Clowns act like clowns! They will not juggle, or caper around. They will not dance, throw pies at each other, or do tumbling routines. They will simply browse. They will not interact with their fellow Clowns as if they know them. They will act like an average, run-of-the-mill customer. If an onlooker or employee asks them what’s going on, they will respond as if it is completely random that so many clowns happen to be in the store. They will also be very careful not to get makeup on any of the merchandise.

7) At a designated time, each group’s Wrangler will be sent into the store. Once the members of the group spot the Wrangler, it is their signal to leave. The Clowns will then pay for any purchases they may be making, make their way to the door, and exit in an orderly, yet scattered, fashion.

8) The Clowns will return to the Designated Area, where they will get back into their civilian clothes.

9) We will all go out and get drunk, breathlessly recalling the looks on peoples faces, any interesting interactions we had, and telling and retelling our stories for years to come.


And that, in a nutshell, is “The Clown Project”.

Now that summer is here, I have every intention of doing it.

And I hope that I can enlist many friends and friends-to-be to help me.

It isn’t for money. It isn’t for prestige. It’s just a collective pull on that metaphorical stick, stuck in T.O’s ass.

If you would like to be a part of “The Clown Project”, then let me know. If you know of anyone that may be interested, please direct them to this blog entry. When I have all the details sorted out, I will get in touch with those who want to assist me.

Let’s give a few Torontonians an experience they’ll never forget.

Jim Out.

Action Figures

I’m thinking about action figures.

First of all…why are they called action figures? They just sit there. They’re, in no way, active. Unless you grab them around the waist and bop them up and down, like they’re walking down the street.

“Bum-de-bum-de bum. I’m bopping down the street. Man…that’s a big stapler!”

It seems to be fashionable for writers to have lots and lots of action figures. Pretty much every writer I know has scads of them spread out on their desk. They amass writer’s bookshelves and plead at you, trapped in unused coffee mugs, their arms raised in an silent howl to the Gods.

They used to stare at you from computer monitors, too. Than the lap-top was invented. It was a frontier lost to the action figure forever. Damn you, technology!

Why writers? Why collect toys? Is it a statement? Do you want me to ascertain, from your collection, that you prefer the D.C Universe over Marvel? Does having more C.O.B.R.A figures than G.I Joes make you some sort of bad-boy?

I'm not mocking. I appreciate collectors. I enjoy their passion and enthusiasm. I like their diligence.

Truth be told, I’m a bit jealous of collectors. They’ve found something small and personal that they believe in. They have carved a little niche of joy for themselves that I’m outside of.

Collectors populate a world of their own. I think that’s cool.

FLY, MY PRETTIES! FLY!

I, personally, am not a big action figure/pose-able collectable guy. I only have three: Sir John A. Macdonald, the first prime minister of Canada (thanks, Nug), My favorite super hero, The Flash (thanks, Ming) and Rowlf, my favorite muppet, complete with grand piano and bust of Beethoven (thanks, Lauren).

But there are lots of people, out there, who are really into collecting miniature figurines of their favorite comicbook/television/wrestling/historical characters. And it is to these citizens that I make my pitch.

I think somebody should make collectable action figures of well-known Torontonians.

Now, when I say “well-known Torontonians”, I don’t mean famous Torontonians. I’m quite sure that there is a (limited) market for “Mayor ‘Combat’ David Miller” and “David Suzuki: With Eco-Footprint Stomp Action!”. But these wouldn’t be Torontonian’s I would collect in action-figure form. The Torontonians that I would like to immortalize in miniature are the ones that we all see every single day, and recognize as those oft-passed over, unsung, characters that make Toronto great. My first line of figures would include:

1) ACTIVE SURPLUS GUY

Where would Queen Street West be without the sweet sound of this herald of miscellany?

“Active Surplus! Check it out, folks! You never know whatchagonna find!”

Every single day, rain or shine, Active Surplus Guy is there, handing out flyers and singing the praises of Toronto’s strangest, yet most useful, shopping experience. If ANYONE in this world deserves to be an action figure, it’s him!

Active Surplus Guy comes complete with removable orange windbreaker, and storefront background. GORILLA IN T-SHIRT Figure sold separately.

2) ZANTA

Poor Zanta! Everybody’s favorite knuckle-pushup, Santa-hat-wearing, muscleman has been banned from most of the downtown core. What a bunch of Zcrooges, they are, over at CITY TV, to ban him from doing push ups in the background during their telecasts! Well, Toronto, it’s time for us to push Zanta back up into this city’s limelight…with his own fully pose-able action figure!

The Zanta figure would come with (of course) a battery-powered push-up platform, and a removeable hat.

3) THE PUZZLER

This fine fellow is, by far, my absolute favorite Toronto personality. To encounter him, you must go deep underground, into the city’s subway system. If you’re lucky, you will encounter a meek, yet friendly man, who will silently approach you, and hand you a pencil, and a newspaper crossword puzzle. Nothing brings him more joy than to watch you solve a few clues as you wait to reach your stop. Some commuters feel threatened when he appears, but you have no need to fear the Puzzler. Once you’re finished, hand him back his paper, and he’ll search for another willing participant. The Puzzler is one of the reasons why this city is so awesome…and it’s time we render his greatness in action figure form.

The Puzzler comes with a tiny pencil and a copy of the Metro Crossword page. Touch the pencil to The paper, and watch the Puzzler clap his hands with glee!

4) DRUM GUY

Swing a cat in this city, and you’ll probably hit a busker. Most of them are pretty good, but Drum Guy is one of the best. You can usually find him camped out at Dundas and Younge, just outside the Eaton Centre, but sometimes he treks down to the corner of Dundas and Spadina. Drum Guy beats on a set of drums he’s constructed from various plastic buckets, and he’s John Bonham, Keith Moon, and Tommy Lee, all rolled into one. I’m not sure I’d want this guy practicing anywhere near my apartment, but he’s damn entertaining in a public space, and just the sort of thing to get stuff Torontonians tapping along to the beat.

The Drum Guy pose-able sits behind his very own bucket drum kit, and is fully motorized! Play music, or clap your hands, and watch Drum Guy pound on the skins…er…plastic with you!

5) SHAKY LADY

Easily the most controversial figure in my line.

Fewer stories are more tragic than the fall of this tottering Toronto icon. The Shaky Lady was a street person who camped out in front of the subway station, at Younge and Bloor and sat pitifully on a blanket, trembling. So sad was her appearance that Torontonians and tourists alike opened their hearts and their wallets, showering her with bills and coinage…rarely less than a twoonie.

Then it all came tumbling down.

It turns out that the Shaky Lady was really Margita Bangová. And she didn’t live on the cold streets of Toronto at all! In fact, reporters Mike Strobel and Alex Urosevic followed her after a hard day’s begging…into a chevy Lumina, and all the way to a luxery apartment in Toronto’s east end. To add insult to injury, it was discovered that Margita had appeared in a documentary on Czech television, healthy and well-fed, urging others to immigrate to Canada.

We were played!

Nevertheless, no matter what you think of Margita Bangová AKA Shaky Lady’s antics, the fact is, she proved that, no matter what the rest of Canada thinks, Torontonians are good-hearted people who give to those in need. For that, she gets an action figure.

If you want to place her in your rogue’s gallery, that’s entirely up to you.

Shaky lady comes complete with blanket and a cardboard sign that reads “PLEASE HELP I AM VERY SICK I WILL PRAY FOR YOU THANK YOU”.

Batteries not included.

Okay, readers, it’s your turn. I predict that my first line of Toronto Character Action Figures is going to be an overwhelming success. We’ll need to come up with a second run, and I’m out of ideas. Who would you like to see make the next line?

No Maple Leafs allowed, though.

Except maybe Wendel Clark. He was kind of cool…

Jim out.

Yep...Makes Sense

Yo,

I frequently check out the Onion's AV Club website. This week they posted an interview with Chuck Palahnuik, author of Fight Club. Here's what he has to say about making art:

Here’s my theory: Anyone who makes a career in writing, music, painting, or whatnot succeeds as being a constant witness, always harvesting from the world. Any “artist” makes a living by expressing what other’s can’t – because they’re unaware of their feelings, they’re too afraid to express those feelings, or they lack the skills to communicate or be understood. Being fucked up isn’t required. In fact, it tends to cut careers short.

Wise words, Chuck. Wise fucking words.

You can read the whole interview here:

http://www.avclub.com/content/interview/chuck_palahniuk_answers_your

Enjoy.

Jim out.

On the Road...Part three of the Trilogy

Okay...One last road story. I had to reach a ways back for this one. Enjoy!

Why I'm not a Fire Breather

Having a magician for a Dad is pretty fucking cool.

It wasn’t just because my birthday parties were the envy of every kid in town…although that was pretty sweet, too. There were a lot of advantages.

For one thing, my Dad had the coolest den in the world. Especially when we were living in Boissevain. We didn’t call it a den, though.

It was the Magic Room.

This is the room where Dad kept all his magic tricks and books. The walls of the room were adorned with posters of past shows, and of other magicians: ones that my Dad knew, and ones that were famous and historical. On a long table in the corner, my Dad would spread out tricks he was building or repairing. We’d spend hours in the Magic Room, perfecting tricks, fixing props, or just talking about magic.

I was Dad’s assistant. I took my work very seriously.

The best part about having a magician for a Dad, though, was the out of town shows. About every second weekend, or so, Dad and I would pack up the car and fling ourselves to the farthest reaches of Manitoba. We'd unpack our equipment in church basements, town halls, outdoor festivals and (sometimes) legitimate theatres. Part of my job, during the show was to be a stick…also known as a “plant”. I’d hang out in the audience until I was picked as a volunteer for one of Dad’s tricks, then I’d go onstage and do my shtick, screwing up my Dad’s act until he pulled out the real illusion at the end. Then I’d head backstage and start getting the next trick ready, or packing the last one up.

It was a hell of a good childhood.

But the very best part were the drives.

I got to sit with Dad in front seat. Sometimes he’d let me pick the radio station as we bombed up and down the highway. At roadside restaurants, I’d get to order a hamburger and fries for lunch…as long as I ate a healthy supper that night. And we talked about anything and everything. Whatever we felt like.

On those trips, Dad wasn’t just my Dad. He was my friend, too.

Most of these father/son conversations are mashed together into a hearty, comfortable stew. But there was one conversation we had that I doubt I’ll ever forget.

I was seven years old, and we were on our way to Morden Manitoba. It was a yearly pilgrimage. Every year, Morden held the Corn and Apple Festival, and my Dad held a prominent spot on their outdoor stage. It was a windy day, and Dad and I were having a chat about what tricks were sturdy enough for the gusts, and which would likely blow away. I was carefully jotting down the tricks we should probably do. I felt this was very important, although I doubt Dad would have been able to read my scrawling, unsteady printing.

This done, Dad starting telling me about some of the magic shows he did in college, long before I was born. He reminisced about some of the acts he shared the bill with (including Doug Henning...Remember him?), and told me the tragic tale of a fire breather he knew who met his demise in mid-show. It seems the poor fellow was holding in a sneeze, and involuntary sucked in and swallowed the lighter fluid he was holding in his mouth.

The gravity of this tale was not lost on me. I nodded very seriously as my Dad recalled the horror. Showbiz was a dangerous profession. It was full of perils and pitfalls. One must stay alert, in order to survive.

There was a silence. It seemed that some wisdom was about to be imparted. My Dad looked very, very somber. It seemed that my friend was becoming my Father again. He reached over to the radio and turned down the volume. This was a sure sign that what he was about to tell me was incredibly important.

I was all ears.

He spoke.

“I want you to promise me that you’ll never. NEVER. Breath fire.”

I wasn’t sure what to say.

On the one hand, I could understand Dad’s apprehension in me taking up this profession. After all, he knew a guy that died! This was, no doubt, an incredibly traumatic experience…one that he would definitely want to repeat with his son.



But on the other hand...fire breathing was really, really cool

I squirmed in my seat, trying to avoid Dad’s gaze.

This would have been easy, if we didn’t live in Manitoba. The highway was straight, flat, and empty. Dad didn’t need to watch the road very closely at the moment. He could almost completely dedicate his attention to me.

I tried to reason with him.

“But lot’s of people do fire breathing, and don’t die…” I started.

“It’s dangerous”. He replied.

“But maybe if I really practiced…” I argued, weakly.

“Promise me.” He said, firmly.

I looked out the window. Telephone poles whipped by as I pondered the weight that our conversation had suddenly taken on.

It was the very first time I ever felt like Dad might be wrong about something. What if I did do fire breathing? What if I became the best fire breather in the world? What if I used my fire breathing powers for good, instead of evil? What if my fire breathing saved the world?

Although I had never considered the vocation before, Fire breathing suddenly became extremely important to me. It felt like might be my Destiny. And I didn’t want to have to choose between my Destiny and my Dad.

I choose my words very carefully.

“What if I did do fire breathing? Would you be mad?”

“Very mad.” He said.

That wasn't good. I decided to elaborate.

“But…what if I was all grown up? And I was a fire breather. And I was careful. And I got really good. Would you still be mad?”

My Dad considered this.

“I wouldn’t be mad.” He answered. “But I’d be very worried that something might happen to you.”

This didn’t sound as bad.

“And I’d still love you very much.”

That eased things considerably in my seven-year-old mind. The fact that my Dad would still be my Dad, even if he found out I breathed fire, was pretty much all I needed to hear. I nodded my head and tossed away my new-found destiny.

“Okay. I won’t”.

My Dad nodded and turned up the radio.

It was a quiet drive for a while. Then Dad remembered a funny story about a juggler he did shows with, and we were friends once more.

To this day, I’ve never breathed fire, and I don’t think I ever will.

But it’s nice to know that I could…if I really wanted to.

I hope you enjoyed some of my road memories.


Jim Out

On the Road...Again!

Okay...Here's another one. Enjoy.

2) Port Elgin

Port Elgin was my last stop as a member of the Second City National Touring Company.

I wrote a lengthy entry about the Second City on one of my other blogs…which I’m sure I’ll pilfer and put up on this one, some day. For this reason, I won’t delve into my time at Second City very much, here. It’s enough to say that, while I had a terrific time as a member of that prestigious comedy company, the fit wasn’t quite right, and we ended up parting ways.

I liken the Second City to the ex-girlfriend, that you love very, very much, but who you know you just can’t, and shouldn’t, be with right now.

GIT IN THE VAN!

But I met some pretty fucking good friends, while I was there. And I have some pretty incredible memories. This is just one of them.

On this particular trip, I didn’t start out in the greatest of moods. It might have been the right time for me to leave the company, but that didn’t stop me from feeling sad and pissy.

But it’s hard to maintain a disposition like that, when you’re surrounded by such great pals. And Rummy, Matt, Lauren, Derek, and Lesley are, to this day, great fucking pals.

And then there’s Smokey.

He's another one of those people that I honestly couldn’t do justice to without writing a library's worth of words.

Smokey’s real name is Jim, too. When he joined the Tourco, there were already two Jims and a James. Nug and I decided that we needed to give him a nickname, so we applied my theory that all great nicknames come from bare knuckle boxers, from the 1890’s.

We christened him “Smoke Stack”. It was later shortened to “Smokey”. He's one of those people who is so good that you feel that he needs to be shared with the whole wide world.

Everyone has those quirks, habits, and characteristics that can get on your nerves, after a while…except Smokey. He’s one of those friends who, when you’re hanging out with him, you feel like you’re at the exact place that you’re supposed to be at that exact moment.

He’s the type of guy that never has to do another nice thing as long as he lives. And you’d still take a bullet for him, because you just couldn’t picture living in a world without him.

Anyway…enough of the mushy shit…you get it. Smokey’s a good friend. On with the story.

Now, I’m not sure if these guys all conspired to make my last tour with them memorable. But that’s exactly what they did. To a person, they made me feel like a million bucks, and reminded me exactly why I loved working and hanging out with them. It started with a terrific show, that ended in a standing ovation.

And followed with an epic celebration.

One of the things you get pretty used to, when you’re in the Second City, is drinking. You tip the wrist A LOT at the Second City. And this night was no exception. We started out in one of the hotel rooms, but the festivities quickly spilled out into the Hotel Bar.

Where there was Karaoke.

Nothing is more appealing to a drunken actor than Karaoke. Hand an actor a microphone on an average day, and they’ll leap into the spotlight and start belting. But on this night, we became Karaoke legends! The assualt was bookended by two fantastic performances: Derek’s soulful spoken rendition of “Dude Looks Like a Lady”, and Lauren’s weepingly funny “Total Eclipse of the Heart”…ala Old School. Apparently the Karaoke Lady hadn’t seen the movie. She placed a shocked hand on the volume knob every time Lauren uttered “fuck”. One of the regulars even asked we were "Karaoke Ringers".

Does such a thing exist?

Then we wandered down to the beach. I think it was Rummy who found the swing-set. We spent the next hour or so pendulating through the sky, and swapping stories of all the places we’d been and trouble we had gotten ourselves into.

On the walk back to the hotel, Matt and Smokey improvised a sketch involving the inn’s vending machines. I had to sit by the side of the road for a while…weak with laughter.

I was truly sent off in style.

The Second City can be a ridiculously stressful place to perform. There wasn’t a second that I spent on that stage where I didn’t feel eyes watching me, judging me, and testing my skill and resources.

But there also wasn’t a second where I didn’t feel valued and loved by the people I was working with.

I wouldn’t trade my time there for all the sapphires in Sri Lanka.

I’ll try to crank out another one of these tomorrow.


Jim Out.

On the Road...

Back! From High River, Alberta!

It seems like I’ve spent at least 1/3 of my life in a van, on a plane, or chilling in a hotel room.

I’m not complaining. I don’t think I’d have it any other way. When I took my current writing gig, I figured…that’s it. No more tossing a duffle bag into the rear hatch, cracking a comic book, and watching the world go by.

No more highway bathroom breaks, or small town diners. No more games of “Deniro” or belting out songs that magically appear on the radio at the exact right moment.

It’s the end of the tour. The road’s disappeared (thank you, They Might Be Giants…).

But I was wrong. Thanks to this job, I’ve made it into provinces I never got to before…and a territory! I’ve sweated in a plush astronaut costume, climbed 20 foot screen mounts, screamed over flying banners, and cobbled together a broken projector with nothing but duct tape, a chunk of wood, and a prayer.

I’ve laughed as hard as I ever have in my life, memorized lines from The Simpsons (and many, many Bill Murray movies), sampled microbrews from all over the country, and eaten more plates of nachos than I ever thought possible (it’s tough in the Maritimes for a vegetarian).

Holy fuck....I think I might still love touring!

Now that my most recent tour is officially over, I’ve decided to write some stuff about my absolute favorite memories from my short life on the road. I hope you like them. Here’s the first.



1) Red Shorts Borges

Most of you already know this. Back in the mid-to-late 90’s, I was part of a comedy troupe called the Spleen Jockeys. Those of you that know this also know how much that time meant to me. Ray, Darren, and Justin are family. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for them. If I dedicated any more space describing how much I love these guys, this entry would be a fucking novel.

Me...and three of the most beautiful bastards you could ever hope to meet.

It’s difficult to conjure just one single memory from our time together. It’s like drawing a tiny strand from one great big ball of awesome.

But there was our Fringe Tour, in 1998…

When I started the Spleen Jockeys, I never saw us as a touring group. In my youthful naiveté, I figured we’d do a couple of sketch shows, get picked up for a television show, become Canadian cultural icons, move to the States, and make a movie with Mike Myers.

I figured we’d break up at the height of our fame, in a fire-storm of malevolence and controversy, I’d go in and out of rehab, before dying a spectacular death, and rest of the Spleens would re-unite 10 years later, and maybe do a show at the Hollywood Bowl.

But it didn’t really go that way. Thankfully.

Justin was the guy that wanted to go touring. So we did. Our first venture was the Edmonton Fringe Festival, in 1997. Nobody was more surprised than us when our show was a hit.

I’ll be honest. We weren’t the best troupe in the country. Hell, I don’t even think we were the best in Winnipeg. But we were damn good friends, and we always had as much fun at our shows as our audience did. And I guess that counted for something.

After our success in Edmonton, we felt invincible! In 1998 we quit our jobs and scheduled a Fringe Tour across Canada. We (sadly) missed the deadline for Montreal, so our grand debut would be Toronto. Then it was back to Winnipeg, up to Fort McMurray (instead of Saskatoon), down to Edmonton, and over to Victoria.

The only hitch was that our long-time stage manager, Adam, was moving away.

This was upsetting. Adam is one of the best stage managers I have ever worked with. Nevertheless, the show had to go on, so Justin suggested another friend of ours to accompany us on the tour.

His name was Rob Borges, but we never called him that. We always called him “Gorgeous” Robby Borges.

At the time, Rob was an actor, like us. But he seemed to have a much better handle on stage-manager-type stuff than we did, so we figured he’d be a great fit for our merry little gang. And we were right. In his own, unique, way, Rob provided the Spleens with some of our most hilarious memories.

Rob’s most prominent personality trait was that he loved to argue. He wasn’t confrontational, or aggressive. He just loved the subtle art of debate. Except he wasn’t subtle. Rob’s favorite thing to do, when in conversation, was to make an utterly ridiculous statement, then refuse to back down, no matter how much (or how long) the rest of us argued with him. Among his incredible theories were…

1) A car is a time machine, because it gets you someplace sooner than walking.

2) You can get drunk if you drink enough water.

And my personal favorite:

3) Paul Newman and Axel Rose look a lot alike.

Rob delighted in saying stuff like this, and we delighted in taking the bait. The result was hours and hours of heated, circular, hysterically funny conversation. The miles on the road flew by as we tried our best to best the Gorgeous One. But there was no converting him.

Borges was a pit-bull of parley.

And then there were his red shorts.

Rob was a frugal man. And while, I’m sure, he has since changed his habits, at the time he didn’t feel the need to change his clothes very much.

After all, we were on the road for most of the summer. Why would he bother weighing himself down with a suitcase full of clothes?

For pretty much the entire tour, from Lake Ontario to the Pacific Ocean, Rob’s uniform consisted of a Spiderman Sweatshirt and a pair of red shorts. We teased him about this mercilessly.

Rob defended himself by saying that he had packed 5 pairs of red shorts. Ray tested this theory by making a small ink mark on the seat of the shorts, one night, after Rob had gone to sleep.

Miraculously, the stain showed up on all 5 pairs.

Exhibit A

Rob took the brunt of our ribbing like the gorgeous gentleman that he is. But by the time we hit Edmonton, he had had enough of the comments about his red shorts. He made it quite known that any more comments about his attire would not be met with pleasure. So we gave him a bit of a break. After all, we had been on the road for a long time and, like all tours, eventually you all start to get on each others’ nerves. It was quietly agreed between the four of us that all red shorts comments should be curbed.

And that was that.

So we thought…

Apparently, Ray felt there was still some gas in the red shorts engine. And one night, onstage, he gave the pedal one last push.

He, Darren, and myself were onstage, in mid-sketch. Justin was backstage, getting into costume, about to enter. Ray was supposed to rattle off the names of famous musicians. And that’s when he slipped it in.

“And let’s not forget Red Shorts Borges”.

The reaction from the booth was swift, immediate and loud.

“FUCK YOU, RAY!”

And I collapsed.

The laughter started with me and spread quickly. Before long there were three Spleen Jockeys lying on the stage, gasping for breath, with tears in our eyes. Offstage, Justin lay prone, helplessly shaking on the floor in his costume, felled just before his big entrance.

The audience might not have known what was going on, but they understood that, for us, this was a profoundly hilarious moment, and they joined in. Even Rob could he heard hooting loudly from the booth, quickly recovering from his wounded feelings and joining in the mirth.

After ten minutes of laughter, Rob mercifully brought down the lights.

It was the only sketch of the night that we didn’t complete, but it was easily the best received.

Great pieces of theatre will change how you think and feel. They will drive home messages that you never saw before, and spur you to be the change that the world so desperately needs.

This was not a great piece of theatre. It was just five good friends laughing their guts out over a pair of ink-stained shorts. Nevertheless, it remains one of the most profound, most memorable moments I've ever experienced onstage.

And the man I have most to thank for it is Rob. Borges, you are truly, truly, the Gorgeous One.

Thanks, man.

More tomorrow. Maybe.

Jim Out.

Happy (Belated) Fortieth, Oh Greatest Album Ever!

I was planning on doing this, like, a week ago, but fuck it, I’m busy.

It’s like John Lennon said: “Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans”.

An appropriate quote, given the following entry, I think.

June 1st was the fortieth anniversary of the greatest studio album ever made.

This album also happens to be my all-time favorite album so, in my own tiny little tribute, I’d like to re-post an entry I wrote about it about six months ago.

Enjoy:

I will never forget the first time I heard this album.

I was five years old, and I knew nothing about rock. Up to this point, my innocent little life had been filled with happy, upbeat children’s entertainment. Fred Penner was my favorite musician. Raffi was a close second. I tolerated Sharon, Louis, and Bram.

It was the afternoon, and I was home from my morning kindergarten class. My sister was in big kids’ school. It was just me and my Mom. I was laying on the floor of our living room, listening to records. My Mom, probably sick to death of “The Cat Came Back”, asked if she could play one of her albums, and I reluctantly agreed.

She put on Sgt. Peppers, and my life changed forever.

I remember listening, open-mouthed. I asked my Mom “What IS this?”, and she showed me the album cover. Up to that point, it was the longest I ever sat still.

I just listened. Both to the music, and my Mom’s stories about these four amazing guys from England. From that day on, Fred Penner and his friends simply ceased to exist to me. I would spend hours, sprawled out on the floor, listening to the Beatles, and staring at their album covers. My Mom made sure I was well-schooled in their music, and played all of their albums for me, but Sgt. Pepper’s was, far and away, my favorite. I played the Beatles for all my little friends, and they agreed. These guys are AMAZING!

A year or so later, I was in big kids’ school myself. It was a Monday morning, and, when I sat down for breakfast, my Mom served pancakes.

That was weird. Pancakes were my favorite breakfast, and they were usually reserved for Saturdays, only.

My Mom sat beside me and took my hand. I noticed she had been crying.

“John died today.” She told me.

We went to the stereo, and she put on Sgt. Pepper’s. We sat on the couch, and I opened the album cover. I stared at John. At the time, he was my favorite Beatle: not because of his talent. I was too young to understand his caliber as a songwriter. He was my favorite because he had glasses, and red mustache, like my Dad.

Mom told me about how somebody had shot him in New York.

At first I was angry, but Mom explained that the man who shot him was very sick. John was a peaceful person, she told me. He wouldn’t want me to be mad at the man who did this.

We sat and listened to Sgt. Peppers, and stared at John’s picture. When it was finished, Mom drove my sister and I to school. She told the teacher it was okay that I was late.

I could rattle on and on about the merits of this album.

I could yak about how this album was made at a difficult period of the Beatle’s existence, and how their departure from touring helped to meld them into the greatest studio band ever created.

I could point out how this album’s influence has spawned countless bands, inspired millions of musicians, and will go down in history as a definitive marker in musical history.

I could launch into my well-worn tirade that this isn’t “classic rock” it’s classical music.

I could write a monologue about the Hammond organ, the fuzz box, and the wah-wah peddle. I could point out that this album marks the first time a musician ever plugged their instrument into a DI box for a recording session (Paul McCartney).

I could even wax philosophic on George Harrison’s passion for the sitar, or the songs that didn’t make the album (Strawberry Fields Forever, Penny Lane, Only a Northern Song. Don’t worry they all got their play on “Magical Mystery Tour”. Carnival of Light never did, though…).

And don’t even get me started on Robert Fraser’s jaw-dropping cover photo.

The truth is, I tend not to think of these things when I listen to this album.

When I listen to this album, I think about being five years old, and the moment I realized just how big and beautiful the Universe really is.

Give it a spin.


Jim Out.

Useless Trivia Factoid!

Prior to the late 1880’s, boot and shoemakers did not use rubber. Instead, the soles of most footwear was made of leather, wood, or both. Often tiny nails called hobnails, were driven into the sole of work boots, to protect the leather soles, which wore very easily.

It wasn’t that rubber hadn’t been discovered. Actually, rubber had been used from as early as the 1770’s…mostly to erase pencil marks.

The very first instance of rubber being used on boots was in 1888, in the form of an outer shoe, to be pulled over a hobnail boot.

The reason?

A police officer in the Whitechapel area of London got the idea. The rubber absorbed the sound of his footsteps when he was on patrol, making it easier for him to creep up on Jack the Ripper, perhaps catching him the act of murder.

Constable Chuck Taylor, on patrol...

The idea caught on.

And the name these police officers gave to their overshoes?

Sneakers.



Jim Out.

This Conversation Has Ceased To Be Interesting, Now That You've Mentioned Your Boyfriend

Whoa...did you just feel that? What happened? There has been a shift in our universe. Things have suddenly become much more bleak...almost gloomy. Seconds ago, our conversation could not have been more engaging. It was as if the words were bubbling from our mouths like a giggling brook. But now every syllable you speak hits the ground with a sickening thud.

It cannot be denied. This conversation has ceased to be interesting, now that you've mentioned your boyfriend.

How could this have happened? When your gaze drew me across the room, I was certain that your prose would hold me riveted. Since we're both guests at Sheila's party, I correctly assumed that she was a mutual friend. My inquiry of this fact was the launching point to a tete-a-tete that promised to leave us drunk with cognition.

Everything was perfect! You laughed at my wit, and I admired your vocabulary. We maintained eye contact throughout! It was as if the forces of yin and yang had stopped their swirling to hold court over mutual interests! Time stood still as we danced the giddy dance of linguists! Chet Baker! Australian Shiraz! Our hatred of "Tomkat"! These topics conspired together to produce a work to rival Shakespeare! Our hearts raced! Our breath came in short gasps, as our chatter rose to a crescendo, promising to burst forth like a geyser of impassioned speech, leaving us panting like spent swimmers, eager to snatch a moment's rest before diving back into the tepid river of colloquy!

And then, like the Hindenburg, it all came crashing to the ground. Oh, the humanity!

It was during our discussion of the war in Afghanistan. I was waxing philosophic on the Qajar Dynasty, when you said the words that would careen our palaver into the pitch.

"My boyfriend watches the news, and he says...".

Now all I hear is garble. How could this have happened? Why was the elegant sandcastle of our conversation felled by such a clumsy, backhanded swipe? How quickly the sweater of our parley has unraveled! The sound of your voice, once music to my ears, has now taken on the muffled quality of a Charles Schultz teacher.

And I am trapped! Doomed to see this hellish correspondence to its bitter end! Like Tantalus’ antithesis, I am forced to gorge on an endless feast of chatter! Release me from the limp and leaden bonds of this mundane yak! I MUST BE FREE!

And then it ends. You depart for a powder, and I refresh my drink. And I am left to ponder, how could things have gone so sour? Our talk burst forth from the gates like a champion thoroughbred, only to snap its ankle on a rut in the track. A pothole that, apparently "watches the news". A cavity whose name is Chad, and who wears the same cologne as me. How sad that his spectre has ripped the head off the delicate flower that was our conversation.

And yet I cannot help but smile. What we had created was more than just a series of stories punctuated by awkward pauses. And we didn’t just wait for our turns to talk…we listened. On any other day we may have gone through the motions: pretending to care while staring at each other through self-made walls. But not tonight. Tonight we had a dialogue. And that is something that is, these days, unfortunately rare.

God-speed you dynamo of discourse! You enchantress of exchange! And much happiness to you and Chad! As for me? I had a delightful conversation.

And we’ll always have Chet Baker.