theblogofthehandoftamm

This morning I took up the mantle of representing myself in matters legal and went to my local court offices to follow up on my intention to contest the ticket I received two weeks ago in that outrageously corrupt sting operation.

Having been advised that wait times can be ridiculous for those who wish to have their day in court, I got myself to the place of proletarian protest for 8:30, a half-hour prior to opening. Not surprisingly, the line-up was about 40 people long, because other people must have received the same advice as myself. Or it was simply a matter of experience; I hate to seem judgmental, based solely on appearances, but the look of many of the assembled left me with the impression that they have more regular dealings with the court system than little ol’ innocent me.

This was soon deepened as I stood in line and overheard strangers take up conversation with one another and discussing the finer points of their cases, gambits that had proved successful in the past, and obscure points of law that might serve their needs. I was a total amateur in a group of experts in the field of delaying, reducing, or obliterating convictions. Many of those with traffic-related charges struck me as potentially cab drivers and contractors, who probably rack up minor infractions as part of the job. Still others conveyed more a sense of danger, and that their charges were likely more serious in nature. Perhaps failure to muzzle a pitbull, falling behind in restitution payments, or ignoring restraining orders. All walks of humanity and transgressors of the law were represented first thing of a raining Tuesday morning.

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Another posting to chronicle another weekend of suffering for you.

Friday night’s experiment with testing the bonds of friendship yielded interesting, if predictable, results. Firstly, do not play whist whilst imbibing of gin and mead. Second, do not suspend said game of cards so that you can switch to vodka and currant liqueur. Thirdly, do not allow the vodka to stop flowing so that rye might make its feelings known. Once the rye is at an end, this is not the time to return to vodka. Lastly, once your guests have left, do not don the headphones and slake the thirst that is to come with beer while listening to tender ballads of revenge until dawn.

This, my friends, is a recipe for how to be a grumpy bear when it’s time to take the children to kindergarten in the morning. The homeopathic cure for which is to be found in watching a movie, going to a wretched TFC match where a hopelessly cliché-loving cavalier proposes to his girlfriend in front of 20,000 loogans, going to a stratospherically chic furniture gallery opening where you can’t afford the ermine skin table leg pads, before finally finding yourself at a teenager’s birthday party where, unsurprisingly, everybody dances waaaay better than you, old fat man.

Learn from my mistakes. Go out and find more seemly forms of merriment.

Once again, I asked to be forgiven
When I’m not bloggin, it’s only coz I’m livin’
It’s been hectic of late with a change of scenery
I closed down the plant for a new patch of greenery
Trading spaces and proximity to malls
When lost for activities, I work on my balls

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I think I have frequently demonstrated that I’m a law ‘n’ order type of man; that I believe in taking responsibility for oneself and also alerting others to the error of their ways whenever possible in the most constructive ways imaginable. This morning I was confronted by a most reckless member of my local constabulary who did not share my high ideals.

Police officers have a tough job of it, no question. Yesterday, an officer accidentally shot himself during an arrest in Toronto. Today, there was a shooting outside an east-end high school. Constables regularly face delicate situations with the least desirable from our society’s misfits, such as the pantsless man atop my colleague’s roof from the other night, who refused to come down until his girlfriend was called. This morning, I became the quarry in Officer Kelly’s sights.

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Nothing to see here. Move along.

OK, the weekend can be summed up with the following: I dislike Liverpool, Arsenal, and Chelsea football clubs. This was in no way diminished on Saturday. And then it rained.

What I do like is people who have the vision to create even greater glory in already beautiful circumstances. Big Bert gets the Young Achievers award of 2008 for his insistence that glasses of champagne should have a drop of gin added to them. We salute you, noble inventor!

The rest of the weekend had birthdays and grandparents and waffles and more champagne and no naps so there’s nowt but fumes in the tank for spinning fanciful tales here. My advice is to get your own ingredients in tonight and discover what happens to your life in the ensuing hours. To do so is to know the mind of God.

So where have I been? I hear no one was asking but feel compelled to offer some feeble words of explanation for having, yet again, been not at my post for the past week or so. Why? Why would I do that to my public? This blog is intended as The People’s Voice, for Non-Readers and I have been a-failing in my obligations. Hear me out and do not judge.

I’ve been terribly busy. To busy to create, really. Creation takes time and care and almost no spell-checking. I haven’t been up to it as I’ve been up to the proverbials in the last week with non-blog-related business.

Among the things I did? Well, one afternoon I went to a Toronto FC match, which was largely wretched. The best part was the Chivas USA keeper, who was the size of a rugby player -not the sort of thing one normally sees on the pitch. The fans were asked over the public address system not to throw food at poor Thornton but that didn’t stop the uncouth from shouting all sorts of mean-spirited things about his obvious thyroid condition/eating disorder. This came to a boil when he pulled his hamstring (which surely could have tied several a porker) during a horror tackle and was forced to be carried from the field on a stretcher. We chanted from the terraces that they would need more hands to carry him but they failed to heed our warnings and, sure enough, three-quarters of the way back to the bench, a stretcher-bearer’s strength failed her and Thornton was dropped on his head, causing untold damage to BMO Field just in front of the home bench. Appalling. And hilarious.

Afterwards, the BBQ was fired up and the beers were emptied. This made my Sunday all the more pleasant for a return to the home building centre, where I couldn’t find my pal Gord but did get wood, which I took home and drilled, nailed, and screwed. And I mowed my own lawn. Hands up who’s still with me!

Some other night this week, Mrs THOT was out on a work thing that involved a trade show and a booze cruise so yours truly was minding the chilluns. This meant one of The Lads dropping by for some paperwork to be signed. Before the ink was dry, two G&Ts were in. He left and I hollered at the little nippers to get into their PJs and start sawing me some logs. No sooner were they sedated when another customer showed up to have his lady locks shorn. Upon doing so, a brace of vodka shots were down. Followed by same again. Once he had wobbled out, the revolving door didn’t even make it all the way ’round before a sack of beer showed up on legs; legs which walked themselves over to the scotch cabinet to be joined by hands capable of uncorking. Uncork we did and the hours drifted past like mist in front of the moon… Until the morning brought news of the Apocalypse! All the world was coated in hangover and my fingerprints. Luckily, I had a pair of earrings in the drawer for such an occasion. I distracted my wife with baubles and ran out the door. She’s still wondering how I got away with it. As am I. Sleight of handoftamm. Muthafuckinprestidigitation.

Then came Thursday and the saddest news of the week. Gregory Mcdonald, author of Fletch, passed away. The glorious mind that was undeniably responsible for Chevy Chase’s finest hour (and a half) is gone at age 71. In tribute I ordered two steak sandwiches and put it on the Underhills’ tab.

I have no time for more tales today, as I’m feverishly occupied with… things. But there’s a lot going on tonight and this weekend, some of which will involve me and the uncorking of the key to my irresponsible behaviour. Also Manchester United will crush Liverpool into a fine powder.

Night biking is the new black. The nocturnal exploits chronicled here have proved so popular with readers that they’re clamoring to join in the urbane adventures. Last night we set forth as a duo, became a triumvirate, and ended up quadrupedallers. How did such a thing happen?

It began with your tbothot correspondent venturing forth once dark had fallen, making my way to TopHat’s house wherein we took a bolt of chilled courage and poured ourselves into the streets with a mission to make it to the Eastern Lands in under 30 minutes. The MurMan said no mortal had ever made it so far past The Don in less than 40 and we were determined to prove him the fool. In spite of headwinds, traffic lights, bullying cars and such, door-to-door service was had in 28:58. To celebrate, we set about emptying every bottle in his (most hospitable) house.

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Do I need to start by apologizing for so many days going by between posts? TBOTHOT isn’t intended as a daily news source but I do feel some anxiety if I don’t offer something fresh within a reasonable number of hours or days. Regrettably, there’s been little that seemed to be worth adding so I dawdled until I now have too much and don’t know where to begin. How about a quick recap and then normal service will resume momentarily?

Some days ago it began with a bike ride that reader Mk and I took of a Wednesday evening, aiming for a blog entry that might run the course of those from the previous week, wherein propositions would be coming your correspondent’s way from troll-like sexagenarians. Alas, I think they’re either afraid of approaching people in pairs or were put off by some quality that Mk possesses. We sure spent a lot of time on bridges that night ‘chumming the waters’ but with no success. (Next time I’ll use fresher bait, as Mk is within mere hours of Going Forty.) The night was still a success, if success be measured by the great columns of hot air that we expelled in the form of deep conversation or the emptied flask and the pitchers that were destroyed on a patio as we took our evening of exercise.

Thursday night involved another score that I needed to settle with a bowl of chicken wings at The Dizzy, which naturally resulted in those cowards calling in help from their pal Beer. Faced with these overwhelming odds, I nonetheless triumphed. Maybe they didn’t know about my recent form with the rodent opponents. Serves ‘em right for not checking the blog.

By Friday I had nothing in my tank and collapsed into a coma at 8:30pm. A total shambles but it also gave me the rest I needed in order to undertake the Herculean tasks I attempted at the weekend in terms of home remodeling projects. It began with an encounter with Gord.

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