'Cause The Moon Is Very High

I recently looked at the Meyers-Briggs Personality online tester thingy. After suffering through the incredibly vague questionnaire, I'm convinced that I am either an ISFP, or an ESFP. Personally, I think they'd be getting warmer if they had a STFU, or a DIAF category. As much as both results showed a certain grasp of the obvious, they both neglected to note that I also like kittens, am a Pisces, and can make the best garlic-scrambled-eggs this side of Stanley Tucci in Big Night. At the end of it though, I think the whole personality judgment is simply a large amount of hooey.

This is an ISFP.
This is an ESFP.

And, just to toss things up a little: This is the most bizarre website I've seen in quite a while.

In other news:

• I'm seriously debating taking a job as a "before" picture. (Insert rim-shot here).
• A recent interesting discovery: I'm at least mildly claustrophobic, as evidenced by my sordid behavior during the MRI of my hip this morning. I also suspected as much on the long, long flight while crammed in like a sardine from Spain to France to the UK to Canada all in one day in June, now thankfully, my psychosis has now been confirmed as the real deal.
• That fucking hack Murphy ain't got nothing on me.

Speaking of Murphy:

This past Sunday, I went out to Uncle Stan's to do my weekly lawn-mowing, dinner-cooking, laundry-doing, good-nephwey, good - karma thing. The funny part about it was that in the morning, a few minutes after leaving my apartment, I thought to myself "I haven't had a flat tire in a while now..." My friends, here's a tip. Don't ever think that to yourself.

Anyway, back to Stan's. I did some yard work, hung out, and did all the things I all purport to be. (Editors note: There used to be two dutiful nephews, but my younger, more impressionable cousin has either by virtue of some fairly lame shortsightedness, or his apparent questionable taste in women has caused a somewhat of a ruckus, and has since dropped out of sight) has left me doing this all on my own. Anyway. A good time was had by all of the both of us. We got some yard work done, burnt some branches he had been saving in the garage to make some good healthy ashes for his raspberry bushes, and I got out of there when the sun was going down to hopefully arrive home to decompress, and to catch David Attenborough's "Planet Earth" which was running on the CBC later that night.

While driving back home on highway 99, I was a few kilometers south of the Massey Tunnel, when the car started vibrating, and by the sounds of it, I seriously thought there was a helicopter hovering over me. In the 10 seconds it took me to realize that I had a flat, the sound and vibration had escalated so much where immediately pulling off the road was not a choice, but a necessity. Sure enough I had completely roached my back tire.

"No Problem" I said to myself. "I'll just change it, and I'm only 30 minutes behind schedule". Well my spare? She was flat. So still being optimistic, I said "So problem" and called a cab to take me into the nearest city (Richmond), inflate the tire, go back to the car, change it (in the pouring rain) and none's the worse for wear. I waited for the cab to find me on the highway, and eventually got to a gas station to fill up said spare. The real fun began there. My spare tire had a defective seal or something, so I couldn't fill it up. Now, I was sort of fucked.

While at the gas station though, a very nice guy named Harvey (with a mechanical aptitude) noticed me trying to fill up my spare, decided to help and spent a good 45 minutes trying to get it inflated, all with no soap. At this point, it was coming up on 11:00 PM, and we both knew there was no garage open to fix the leaking bead of my tire. Harvey though, had me dismiss the cab, and drove me back down the highway, and waited with me in the pouring rain for the tow truck which he had called on my behalf, and remained until all was well and I was safely on my way. I was flabbergasted. Not only did this guy see me at the gas station struggling with the spare that wouldn't inflate, but he also took me under his protection, arranged a friend that had a tow truck (who was about to call it a night), but Harvey talked him into driving out to hell's half acre to pick me up (Late on a rainy Sunday night when he wanted to be home with the wife & kids), and then tow me all the way to downtown Vancouver at at midnight.

Harvey though, was all over it, but for nothing else but a handshake, and a promise of me buying him a beer the next time he was downtown. We had some time to talk during the downpour while waiting on the side of Highway 99 for his tow truck friend to arrive so;

• I told him my story about the girl with a flat tire in the Stanley Park Causeway during rush hour who was backing up traffic all the way to the North Shore, and I changed her tire in my nice Armani suit because no-one else could be bothered enough to stop and help.
• I told him the story of the old guy who fell and broke his arm and that I was the only one to stay and help until the ambulance arrived.
• I also told him of when years ago back in Alberta, I stopped a girl from jumping off a bridge.
  

After hearing all this, He simply replied "I'm paying it forward, and that good karma is good karma. You did it, so I'm doing it too".

Here are some pictures of flowers from Uncle Stan's garden from Sunday.

Thanks Harvey.

Bloomy

I got an email that said "For once it would be nice to read something positive that comes from your daily living and breathing. That blog was loud and angry. I immediately closed it after I read it..." Etc. Etc.

My response is that I've always tried to about stuff that largely is positive and such - but also it's very possible I didn't see the forest for the trees, or had low blood sugar or something. So without further ado - This was my long weekend:

With the sun drenching my apartment, I woke up alone and lay there staring at the ceiling and pondering what today's super-fantastic-action-plan would entail. Some coffee, morning news, and some morning music (I highly recommend Oscar Peterson's "Last Call at the Blue Note", Stevie Wonder's "Songs in the Key of Life" (disc 1), anything by Neil Finn / Crowded House, and depending on how much you've had to drink - selected Walter Ostanek (The Polka King of Canada).

1) Action Plan: Long weekend! Party with friends!
Result? Failed. They're all married and out in the 'Burbs.

2) Action Plan: Go out and trip the light fantastic!
Result? Failed. All friends are married, otherwise emasculated, and living in the 'Burbs.

3) Action Plan: Call friend in hopes of arranging long weekend beer. (He just had a vasectomy, and now is well and truly emasculated both literally and metaphorically. He bought a mini-van a few years ago for his growing brood of demon-spawn that could only loosely be categorized as "children”, and we all used to joke that with purchase of the 2002 Dodge Eunuch - he got a free vasectomy with purchase. Little did we know how eventually, chillingly accurate we were). I think for his next vehicle purchase, he should get a vial of holy water and a free exorcism tossed in for free (and the extended power train warranty, 'Natch).

Result? Reference #'s 1 & 2.

So there it is. The long weekend. The swinging single bachelor life. The excitement! The glamour! The excruciating boredom! Today though, I have it all planned out. With the acute decrease of any pending social engagements, I have had the time to clean out my cupboards, empty the fridge, clean the freezer, and thusly have a plethora / pant-load of old frozen bagels / wheat-based, freezer-burnt organic matter. I'm going to take them down to Stanley Park and hand feed the rats. (Cute little guys). After which, I'm off to White Rock to have dinner with my octogenarian Uncle, do some of his housecleaning, then join him in yelling at those damned kids to "Stay the hell off my lawn!"

It ain't all mindless plotzing & kvetching though. There are a few good things that have happened along the way; Case in point: Bloomy. With my apparent inability to either acquire or maintain anything resembling a relationship with upright, breathing, bipedal humans of the female persuasion of the species, I have though, quite accidentally stumbled into the realm of plant care & management. (It’s like they say – when you least expect it – it happens).

I indeed have an African violet named Bloomy. She was a housewarming gift in 1993 or so, and against all laws of probability, and it also being quite possible that I skirted several laws set forth in the Geneva Convention about cruel & unusual punishment – I’ve been able to keep her alive throughout all the comings & goings, moving, drama, while dodging the tumbleweed that rolls through my living room on weekends and evenings.

Anyway, the reason I named her Bloomy, was that she didn’t flower. Ever. She just sat there in her little pot in apparent stasis. For years I pleaded, begged, bribed and cajoled her to spread forth her womanly petals, and give it up for Daddy. Her response over the years though, has been nothing / nada / nathan / bupkiss. But I had a bright idea and transplanted her about 2 months ago, and all of a sudden, a miraculous change has happened!

I liken her to a divorcee who’s cruel repressive marriage has ended and is prowling the bars in search of younger 20-something men; or someone discovering their lot late in life, and waking up one day realizing that life is finite, and that time is too precious a commodity to waste; or like the hot librarian in young men’s adolescent fantasies who removes her horn-rim glasses, and shakes her severe hair bun loose (in slow motion, mind you), while the top two buttons of her blouse come undone, suddenly is transformed into the sex kitten we all hoped was lying just beneath the surface.

Bloomy has starting putting out with a vengeance. She is fertile, bursting with life, and giving it up like a cheap slut on shore leave. Seriously, she has exploded with life and beauty. Maybe all she needed was a bigger place to stretch her roots, and be warmed by the sun streaming through my window. Maybe that’s all it took. Doing something like simply moving into a different space turned her from an uptight schoolmarm to the town pump.

The proud father that I am – I’m submitting proof of Bloomy’s newfound sluttiness. Not only is she already sporting some major flowerage, but she also has like, another 12 more lined up and ready to pop. She’s giving it up freely, embracing and demonstrating life, and I for one, couldn’t be happier for the old broad.

As for me and my weekend? I’m going to continue on as before, but after writing this, I’m going look seriously at moving into a slightly different place – and hopefully end up with the same results as my slutty, trampy little plant.

Editors note: It's not all butterfly's and rainbows, but nothing is. Bloomy though, begs to disagree.

Dear Baby, Welcome To Dumpsville. Population: You.

If there is ever a time where I can't find a good Simpsons quote to rip off for my own benefit - then I might as well call it a day.

A few years ago - things were unexpectedly going so well that about mid May or so, I had an epiphany and called it "The Summer of Craig". Without getting into the gory details (but here's just a tidbit) I had extraordinary privilege of meeting couple of awesome women, I had a snappy new gig lined up, both of my hips were functioning properly, and the world as so often was said; was my oyster. Honestly, it was like the Great Gatsby except for the money, cars, and gin-fizzes.

However, proving the old adage that the house always wins:

1) Someone very important to me from my past, and a very long way away finally wised up and told me to fuck off (very politely, mind you) but the message was delivered all the same. Loud & clear. I read you five by five.

2) About 5 weeks ago, someone very important (also from my past) sent me an email late on a Sunday afternoon saying "I have some news that you don't want to hear, but its better you hear it from me than from anyone else: *Insert Boyfriends name here* and I just got married this weekend..." Yadda Yadda Yadda.

3) And to complete the Trifecta: This afternoon, I received this from another important person (from my past) which said the following "It's been a while. Hi. I got married. No other way to say... but that's what has happened..." Yadda yadda yadda.

Unbefuckingliveable.

Now - just to be clear, it's not like I'm about to mutter "rosebud" and drift off or anything, but fuckitty fuck. I'm also seriously considering breaking my long standing tradition of being friends with ex-girlfriends. If this sort of nonsense is going to continue, I'd prefer to sit at home and pound not only my thumb with a hammer, but also a testicle of my choosing.

Originally, I was though going to ask when a guy can catch a break - but then I started thinking about about grabbing half a brain, and realizing its not about catching any sort of break. It might indeed be the Gods / Fate / Karma / The Spirit of my long ago dead cat Mr. Kitty / etc telling me to smarten the fuck up and don't blow it the next time - If there is one.

I wish all of them well. I really do.

Below is Seu Jorge doing something from his brilliant "The Life Aquatic" soundtrack. You really can't go wrong with acoustic Bowie covers in Portuguese.