theblogofthehandoftamm

Forgive the gap in posting. It’s the holidays, don’tchaknow? I too have been holidaying from my usual routine here and indeed had not looked at a computer monitor for 10 days already. It’s been grand but now it’s time to share again, as it’s still the giving season.

It may come as a great shock to one and all but I am in a state of disrepair. You see, there was this ice-luge for shots at the bar last night and… well, to make a thrilling story mercifully short, I am today once more under a doctor’s care.

In other matters of health, my toe is much improved but still sore. Thank you for your cards and letters.

So what’s been happening in the last ten days? The hours have been packed with excitement of all variety. I’ll stick to the highlight reel with hope that it provides a compelling snapshot of my escapades. Take a couple of nitro-glycerin capsules and read on, ye of heart!

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Just about everything interesting happens at the pubs, I find. The other night, a couple of fellow dilettante hacks and I got together for discussions of matters literary and, after some liquid tongue-loosener, one confessed that his girlfriend had recently advised him that she was ‘late’. He then added that he had doubts about the veracity of her assertion, as this conception would have to have come about in the face of the fact that they had never engaged in anything more than manual stimulation in the boudoir. Back in the day, this would have been termed a hysterical pregnancy.

I understand this used to happen a lot, especially when men went to war and needed to be made faithful or married or what-have-you. In our modern times and more enlightened social structure, what with the newfangled gender equality and all that, such devices are no longer necessary. Maybe.

Alcohol itself has probably led to 62% of the births throughout history but pubs and drink have also resulted in any number of terrible accidents. Such was the case last night, when a far-gone 20-something who was surely near the point of being escorted out bumped a bar stool and sent it crashing on your correspondent’s foot. My wee toe is now all the wrong shape and colour and may well be bust. The only thing that seems to take my mind off the excruciating pain is to keep my weight off it, preferably at the pub. Where all the interesting things happen.

It’s the worst excuse in the world. I’m not going to bother.

Today is a special day. Both the children have woken in the middle of the night/morning and want to be in the big bed. As a result, dad has kicked himself out at 4:30a.m. in order to come to the couch to type for you, dear neglected reader.

Having been away from posting for a score of days already, the chronology here isn’t going to make a lot of sense anymore but let me begin from the beginning and see where that leads us.

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The results are in and apologies for taking so long to tabulate the votes. There was an unprecedented turnout at the polls and 100% of eligible voters cast their ballots for scotch.

On Sunday last, a tippling triumvirate sat down to weigh the comparative merits of Scottish waters. Here is how it all went down. My Brolaw invited me to drink scotch in honour of my recent birthday and it was to take place at my father’s house, where we would conduct serious investigations under controlled circumstances. I arrived to find a number of scotches on the table and stacks of forms awaiting my hand. As accompaniment, there was an ample selection of savoury snacks, including herring both smoked and kippered, olives and spicy cheese, fried bread and various crackers, smoked salmon, Polish sausage, and cashews. The paté remained in the ‘fridge because, frankly, who could remember everything once the bottles started being opened?

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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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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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Thehandoftamm strikes down upon self. Again. How did this happen and was it at all fabulous? Read on and…yes!

So it’s four o’clock on a Tuesday and thehandoftamm leaves northern Murmansk for a date at the rooftop patio of the Drake in tony Queen Street West. Why? Well it’s a swell party being thrown by a fashion magazine for itself and the start of their 30th anniversary celebrations. How does one celebrate? By drinking Rich Prosecco Royal. Because I’m an out-of-touch know-nothing, I grab a can and drink it. It tastes like nothing. Today I learn it’s a canned sparkling wine with added fruit, with Paris Hilton as a spokesperson. I guess that explains the tasteless part. It would be more fitting if the the drink were a little more tart. That’s appalling as jokes go, even by my low standards.

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So I says to Brolaw Bee that I’d like a bit of golf. He’s willing and able so, during a stop near his stomping grounds, we wander off to a well-manured cow pasture formerly owned by Ike Ferguson. Scooter meets us there so it’s a bunch of Brolaws having a reunion. The much-needed nurse isn’t out yet because it’s only 9:30 as we take the first tee. We start bashing ol’ whitey all over everything but the fairway.

By the second tee I’m in a lather and need to steady the nerve. The flask comes out and Bee declines, citing a tender stomach. Scooter makes faces, saying he can’t face booze just yet; he confesses he was rifled on Jäger and root beer last night and isn’t at all well. What kind of teenager move is that for a man staring down the barrel of 50? I don’t know if to be awed or appalled but I catch on that he also has an excuse for errant shots now, owing to the errant shots the night previous. Genius.

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There’s nearly nothing in the tank today. Why should that be? Let’s explore together.

Yesterday afternoon was spent in the playing of games, this somehow in pursuit of collegial oneness through fierce competition. The method was bordering on madness, with obstacle courses, other obstacle courses, human foosball, and further obstacle courses. A hot lunch was served and, thankfully, cold beer. A little late with the latter but better than never.

After this I hitched the chariot to the bicycle and wheeled the lads over to our friends’ house for dinner. (Because I’m in that solo parenting state spoken of recently.) There was cold beer, hot cheese fondue, Croatian herb brandy, and heated debate about the nature of corporations and their overwhelming tendency to evildoing. Well, it wasn’t really debate but it was passionate. A recent conclusion for me is that no place on earth has good governance. Heads of state are unanimously tyrants of one kind or another. It’s not just Myanmar or Zimbabwe or the United States that has odious leadership, it’s in every country in the world. What’s more, most of these tyrants must in turn lick the heel of the multinationals that hold governments hostage. How is it that these entities turn their backs on the citizenry that support them? How is it that citizens have relinquished so much power? Short-sightedness, in short. Give me something now and I’ll trade away all tomorrow’s parties.

Are you getting the picture about what kind of high-minded oratory was released by the fermented yeast? Here’s a quote that struck me some years ago and I often refer back to for perspective.

“…this material economic life of ours, this production of goods, this buying, selling, and getting gain, it must ever be remembered, is not an end in itself. It is but a means to an end. It is the basis of our higher life, and is to be valued merely as such. The noblest development of our being, the grandest triumphs of freedom, must be sought in other domains.”
Richard T Ely, from The Growth of Corporations
Harper’s, June 1887

Once we had our fill of perspective and mutual proselytizing, I took the chocoholics home for bed and met with surprisingly little resistance. I myself showed little resolve when a pal turned up at the door past 10:00 and, once more, the corks were popping and the jowls resumed wagging. Thankfully the topics weren’t quite as bloated this time around and revolved around camping with children and becoming lost, doing damage to rental cars, and comparing the relative merits of Nick Cave, The Wedding Present, The Ukrainians, and Primal Scream. Some time after midnight I finally shut up and shut down, only to be summoned at 3:15 and 4:00 by the smallest handoftamm.

The morning ritual was a tough one this time ‘round, with a couple of hours’ worth of arguments, pleading, tears, tantrums, threats, bribes, and too little coffee. Lesson learned, I’m back to ace parenting starting tonight. Unless the opportunity once more presents itself for staying up late and fomenting positive change accompanied by the consumption of fermented yeast.

How would you choose between the hairbrush and the tank?