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.

The work week ended with a road trip –out to the Untamed West for Mrs. thehandoftamm’s company Christmas do. Even with today’s gas prices, a 120km round-trip is a lot for rubber chicken. Actually, it was turkey but still very much hockey puck-like. The red wine tasted as though it had been aged in copper barrels and our server managed to spill a glass of white on one of our tablemates and a tray of dishes immediately behind us. Still, we had a good time, only if all of this was high comedy if viewed from a darkly gleeful perspective. It was all made worthwhile when my lady’s name was pulled from Santa’s hat and she won yours truly a 14.4V cordless drill. Yeah!

Big corporate dinner parties in suburban banquet halls can be dreary but this was a fine time, even if I had to endure a bunch of scientific shop talk. I also learned a lot –about a brass fittings factory in Kitchener that specializes in sprinkler systems, what’s going on with Iraqi refugees in Damascus clogging the streets, and where to get good stuff cheap in China. And bad stuff too. One of my table’s diners had recently been wed in China and learned a thing or two himself –like the bargains to be avoided in 32GB drives that actually hold only 64MB, how to buy vintage prints of Chairman Mao, where to get the best $1 soup you’ve ever had, and how to get a custom-tailored tuxedo. The tuxedo he even wore to the party, which made him look more waiterly than the waiters and also wasn’t the best advertisement for Chinese tailors that I could imagine. Then again, it probably wasn’t being modeled in its best possible light with an unironed shirt. Let’s get back to my new drill!

So the next day I charged up the drill and secured fasteners for my display of Christmas cheer on the old façade of Casa thehandoftamm, grande dame of Corso Italia. Have an eyeful.

IN STANDBY MODE

POWERING UP…

FULL THROTTLE

There is absolutely no way Santa can miss our house this year. This mighty beacon is visible through even the heaviest cloud cover. My neighbour across the street is happy that she can read an evening newspaper without turning her lights on but requests that we switch the auto-timer to turn the high-beams off at something a little earlier than 1:00am.

To conclude the weekend with more happy seasonal stuff, I went to the Swedish particleboard outlet at 9:45 of a Sunday morning. Despite the fact that the place wasn’t opening for another 15 minutes, the parking lot was fast filling up. I picked out a tree for the low, low price of $20 and went inside to do the same damage in 50cent hot dogs. Dogs in gut and tree in car, I peeled out at 10:15 while there was not a space to be found in the lot anymore, desperate motorists circling all about for any vacant spot…

At home, I cut two-thirds of the branches off the tree (I can’t stand a bushy tannenbaum, ladies) and propped it in a corner most in need of needles to carpet the floor. Then I poured a glass of port and spent three hours writing cards, which got me about halfway through our list. Having not even started my shopping yet, I’m already feeling seasonal burnout. Stay tuned for increasingly humbug-like updates, featuring a port bottle the level of which drops faster than my decorum at an office party.

No entertainment today, I’m afraid. HealthWatch Monday sees thehandoftamm running a fever, with the muscle aches and the joint pains and the shivering.

My tongue looks like it’s wearing a yellow sock.

My water’s gone black.

There’s a man at the door come about the reaping.

If you don’t read more here in the next couple of days, please send a sizeable donation to the charity of your choice. I recommend carbon onsets, as all the lemmings are doing offsets this year.

It’s Hallowe’en today, innit? At my house, it’s been Hallowe’en all month, with the older young man reminding us daily of his need to fulfil his obligations as a candy-collecting Spiderman. It’s the costume he loves over the candy but he’s still only too glad to add that to the already awesome occasion.

On Sunday last, I toddled my hangover and family over to a kiddie Hallowe’en party at the family-friendly hour of 10:30, whereupon children started filling up on spookily-decorated cupcakes and grown men drank pumpkins in the form of ale. Bless those brewmasters who lend an air of legitimacy to any imbibing occasion. The party was a hit and among the many highlights was Thomas the Tank Engine crouching behind the sofa to fill his tender with something not unlike coal. The cars were fast pulling out of the tunnel and no one in the room could have missed the rising steam signalling what had happened in the boiler before mommy had to take him to get his caboose cleaned pronto. That’s one engine in need of potty TRAINing. Wow, this is A-material, no? Shit like that is plenty funny when it’s someone else’s kid.

The week has been largely uneventful, although I have been hitting the gym and alehouse with equal frequency, cancelling out the bad of one or is it the good of t’other? Some small corner of the world is well balanced through my actions. Please be so considerate in your own efforts.

Tonight will be taken up by shelling out for the little goblins. thehandoftamm will be at his customary perch, posted at the top of my porch with one hand on my wineglass and the other poised over the choco bowl, laughing maniacally and demanding that the children perform some feat in return for a treat. Do not send in any unsavoury editorial speculations as rejoinders to this last statement.

Tomorrow Brolaw B and Señor thehandoftamm and I will be conducting investigations into the various forms of bottled Scottish waters available for consumption and the latest entries in rolled vegetation from Cuba. I shall be smarting once more on Sunday, I would imagine. Provided I am not dead, I will share the results of our research here in excruciating detail.

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.

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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In a few days my elder son reaches a milestone with his first day of school. His mother is suitably excited and his father has some lessons of his own to share. This is what I learned in my early school years.

MAKE YOUR MARK EARLY
On the first day of kindergarten, I looked up a girl’s dress. While I now think this was a largely innocent and amusing expression of the particularly male curiosity, the early ‘70s were a puritan time in Toronto and the teacher felt my mother needed to be told about my inappropriate behavior, along with a suggestion that I be firmly reprimanded at home. That would become a pattern in the ensuing years. I recall this particular reprimand being rather light, in the “don’t do that again” vein. The girl? Possibly traumatized; she definitely learned something of boys’ interests and the power of her undeniable magnetism at an early age. Herself became a mother as a teenager.

NEVER REVEAL YOUR INTERESTS
In Grade One we were asked to draw a picture of ourselves at home, engaged in an activity we liked. I submitted a depiction of myself “relaxing with my noods” [sic]. To explain: in my leisure hours, I was frequently drawn to spending time with a book called A History of the Nude in Art, which was a picture book of you-know-what. My teacher told my mother that she understood my healthy interest, because she was from Denmark, but I should be encouraged not to share that kind of information again, lest some less progressive teacher call Child Services or something.

CHOOSE YOUR FRIENDS WISELY
On a walk around the neighbourhood, a friend and I found a couple of ‘skin mags’ in the bushes. One was called Show Boat and I forget the other. They were pretty raw and most illuminating. One featured a pictorial essay of a women shaving herself there. I learned a great deal about anatomy from these illustrated texts. It fell to me as man of the world to keep the mags in my parents’ garage for later repeated viewings. Selected schoolmates were invited in the following weeks for exhibitions of this forbidden art. One such weenie-masquerading-as-cool-guy went home and told his mother what he saw at my place. She called the school. The school called my mother. I lied in saying the magazines had already been relocated elsewhere and got away with it. I was never friends with that kid again.

ART ISN’T UNIVERSALLY APPRECIATED
In third grade, I drew a picture of my rather comely teacher in fishnet stockings, garter, and torpedo bra. (My tastes were pretty advanced for an 8-year-old, thanks to my early dedication to research. Regrettably, my skills as a portraitist didn’t equal my enthusiasm.) She found the picture and chose to find no flattery in it, saying something sternly disapproving to me as well. Dashed were my high hopes that she might model for my next work but, thankfully, at least she didn’t call my mother.

Some other notable adventures happened in those same years but I think the theme of apprecition/objectification is clear here, along with phone calls home. It was a rich and educational childhood. I was and remain a good student though I got poor grades. I have found that what other people choose to evaluate you on rarely corresponds with what you yourself value.

I trust my son will do well in school and have a great time of it most of the time. It’s entirely possible and indeed to be expected that he may occasionally associate with people we might not choose for his friends and through these connections find himself engaged in some understandable but inadvisable activities from time to time. When and if that should occur, I hope they don’t call his mother first.

Stealing gold
From dragon’s jaws
Never grow old
Foolish paws

I am purpose
Upon you
Inside you
Inside out

Reader Mk observed that my posts are becoming, um… sporadic. Yeah, true; very true. But I have good reasons for my absence from the written page. I’m on safari again.

The other night I spotted a mouse in my house again. How is this possible? They –those mice–must surely know by now what happens when you cross my threshold: PAIN! (Or is it painless?) So I’m beside myself with fury again, on hands and knees with traps and peanut butter, calling in sick to work so I can man the wood and wire at all hours. There isn’t time to write until I have photographic evidence of another gory demise and a ode to the glory of the kill to publish in conjunction. Believe me, I’ve already got my draft ready for the inevitable result.

Steel yourself, reader, it will soon be like the French Revolution on these pages; blood in the streets. There’s a-gonna be a procession up to the scaffold as we get rid of the bourgeois rodents for once and for all.

During some quieter moments, I took time to play a bit of an online game called Volley Challenge, playing a season for the mighty Manchester United. I predict the Premiership might finish this way come May. It was close –I didn’t overtake Chelsea until the last half-dozen matches and then only just barely held on, as you can see. Thrilling, n’est-ce pas?