theblogofthehandoftamm

Feeling much recovered, I was out scraping the 3mm of ice off the sidewalk and car this morning. It was about 7:45, what is usually a quiet hour on my street apart from the South American casual labourers waiting for the motorcade of white panel vans to pick them up.

Borrowing my neighbours chisel-like device, I was making little headway on the sidewalk but sweating out the toxins of unwellness when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the Five-oh. A long way from Hawaii, they were curb-crawling a little ways down the block.

With my natural love of the collective constabulary, I kept glancing over with them to see what was happening. Could it be that there was a domestic dispute in one of my neighbours houses? Was there a prowler on the loose? Did they suspect that I was the notorious Corso Italia Scrapist? If they knew anything of my reputation, they would have been well advised to call down to the Coffee Time to see if Officer Kelly could provide back-up when they got the courage to take me down.

After a time, they crawled a little further up the block, almost coming to a stop next to me. I looked the boys in blue in the eye to see if I could be of assistance with their enquiries but they moved a few houses up before stopping. They got out and knocked at the door five houses along. What could this be in aid of, thought I? I know those people; they’re pretty reasonable and well-behaved. There is a sometime gentleman caller who comes by the house with his city sanitation vehicle every now and again (always makes me laugh when someone uses a garbage truck to make personal calls in the evening -how can that be permissible?) but his activities seem more unethical than on the wrong side of the law.

The cops knock but no one answers. They knock some more and one goes around the back of the house. Nothing stirring. The lads get back in their squad car and sit. Then they leave, only to go around the block and wait a little further down, where they started. Keeping an eye out for sudden departures, I guess.

I scrape and sweat, I take care of the car windows and notice my wipers are in a state. Must do something about that. The cops continue idling and staking out.

I go inside for more coffee. The cops must decide to do the same as before my cup is empty, they’ve given up on whatever called them out on a frosty morning. Being the good citizen that I am, I’ll keep a closer watch on my neighbours in the coming days and report any suspicious activities here.

The midweek nocturnal mission (whoa there… nearly!) went so well that I decided to try another last night. Not surprisingly, the original intent and the final result were nowhere near to one another.

Jumping on the bike around 9:00pm, I headed south toward Dufferin Gate, thinking I might get some snaps of the Gardiner Expressway and that field where Toronto FC plays and maybe the windmill and the Princess Gates and all that malarkey. Because I don’t care about such diversions, I had already completely forgotten that the CNE was in full swing, meaning streets were closed to traffic and full of pedestrians. What fun! As you may have gleaned from these pages in the past, I can’t abide large groups of people or great noisy affairs. Which is actually good, because I take great pleasure in being grumpy.

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I lay flat and breathed shallow. Outfitted in combat fatigues and greasepaint, my night-vision goggles trained on the horizon: where the dining room meets the living room. The traps were set, poised, ready to send Mr. Big Mouse into eternity’s embrace. My muscles ached from the strain of being taut springs ready to explode into action, much like the snapping jaws of the Victor brand traps that have served time and again in crushing the dreams of untold mice and their future generations. I was grateful to have invested in the catheter so I wouldn’t have to leave the field of combat or expose my position to my opponent if I needed to heed nature’s call.

Only it wasn’t nature calling me; so focused was I that I didn’t realize for some minutes that Mrs. thehandoftamm was speaking to me. Something about me being weird and obsessed and messing up the carpet with my greasepaint. “Why don’t you go out and get some air and exercise,” she suggested –in a tone that clearly indicated it was more than a suggestion.

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It’s all becoming clear to me now. With apologies for mentioning the WordPress upgrade for the umpteenth time, check out these bizarre coincidences. I switch to the new WordPress on Thursday and somehow knock out my blog site in the process. Then, within 24 hours, both cars are smashed. The following day, Toronto FC loses to a team called Parasuco in penalty kicks (see photo, although it’s one of TFC scoring). Sunday I have a hangover, which rarely happens. Monday we have a huge rainstorm and my basement floods, ruining the perfectly good cardboard of empty beer cases. (Bad that they were ruined, worse that my house is full of empties, geddit?)

Tuesday I switch back to the ol’ faithful WordPress and suddenly I get a cheque delivered to me that I had been waiting for. Then I get the awesome parking spot near the door. Then I eat a very tasty burger, which I’m pretty sure won’t threaten my waistband like those others have. Are you sensing the pattern that seems so obvious to me? Everything’s coming up handoftamm again and you, reader, get to reap the benefits along with me. That’s what’s known in the trades as win-win. Just like a children’s soccer game, there are no losers here. Anymore.

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I can’t make this stuff up; truth remains stranger than any fiction. Today it involves the horseless carriages of my household. There are two, and both suffered injustices today.

I had another day booked on the links and, as I approached the wife’s car to put the clubs in it, I was greeted by shattered glass. Some miscreant had decided to do a little window shopping overnight. There’s damn all of interest/value on the seats so they figured to smash in the passenger side window for a rummage of the glovebox. Maybe there’s an iPod, maybe a bankroll, maybe a blogroll. Nope; just the service manual. Thanks for the $250 reminder that not all our fellow citizens are decent and upstanding people! I call my wife and give her the news. We agree that it’s a drag and that some people just suck that way.

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Does this happen to you when you meet up with the lads for a swift pint or three? There I was, locking up my bicycle in front of the pub when I saw a man sitting at a small table with a cash box in front of him. I figured he was a palm reader or caricaturist or upscale beggar (you know, like he has a mini-office and cash-box for begging, which would be rather novel) or something similar and didn’t think too much about it as I fiddled with the not-so-quick release for my front wheel. There were people milling about in front of the pub, having their smokes and talking loud about the finer points of some show. What show? What are they talking about? Because I’m naturally nosey, I wanted to know. I looked up but tried not to look like I was looking when I saw the dreaded sign: in front of the upscale beggar’s desk was a hand-lettered placard for the show that was being put on at the pub that night. The word Theatre was in there and maybe Opera or Operatic or Operation –and something about Fringe and No Late Admittance and Cover Charge and now I’m upset. I don’t want to go to the theatre; I want pints and inane conversation. Please don’t let this really be happening. What is the matter with my friends that they invited me to a bar that’s putting on a show? Did they know this was happening and why didn’t they phone me to say we’re switching venue in light of the personas dramatae?
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