theblogofthehandoftamm

Winter has already sent its first shots across our bows, with short-lived frosts and gusting arctic winds. It won’t be long before we’re forced to hunker down and resign ourselves to another winter of insanity and cannibalism once cabin fever has us in its bony clutches. Before this unhappy time is upon us, let us ride the memories of summers fast receding into the distance one more time.

Last night it must have been in the double digits, temperature-wise, so I slipped into the short pants and jumped the wheels for another ride into the untamed East. The meeting place was to be Dora but they were having a private function which looked like some kind of rally for drunken disco enthusiasts so Ms. Skynyrd, Skins McG, and myself were thrust next door to Allen’s, where the Guinness pours equally well and the vittles are oh so tender.

As is customary for our triumvirate, we discussed the relative merits of musical artists working today in a variety of milieus, from the hardcore rockers to the gentle balladeers, and who among them is most deserving of fawning accolades or sneering derision. There were also grand statements made about those of our peers in marital and/or parental ranks and who is most fitting to occupy such offices and who should really consider other avenues. We compared the sweet potato fries to those of the regular variety and pitted the noble chicken wing against the venerable hamburger (to which I added goat cheese and bacon so step off, ground bovine dilettantes). Bonhomie reigned supreme as the pint glasses replenished themselves as if by magic.

Like all magic spells, however, it could not last forever and before the middle of night struck the wait staff were already turning back into mice and pumpkins. Cinderallaoftamm took to the streets and thought little of the late chill, now well insulated internally. The recipe for cooling your jets at unwanted times, of course, is to be perspiring while riding but catching every single red light on your ride home, when one is made to stop every 90 seconds. Honestly, I got two green lights out of a possible 40 on my way home. I was just about to start blowing them the way I blow stop signs when I noted a whole lot of flares and spinning cherry lights. The jackboot squadron was out in full force again, this time in the guise of the Reduce Impaired Driving Everywhere program.

I knew better than to test my luck as a slightly tipsy wheeled conveyance operator and followed the letter of the law as I observed the porcine patrol pull over a couple of likely violators of spirit. All cops go to heaven. I went home to bed.

Erm, well… once again, I’ve been away from the computer for some days, doin’ stuff. Y’know? Stuff.

Like yesterday, for instance. In the afternoon I stopped in at the Rebel public House for some light refreshment between takes at the studio and, sure enough, it turned out that they were pouring tasty Wellington and serving up hot wings worthy of my (highly coveted) esteem. Note to chefs everywhere: grilled wings beat deep fried wings 9 times out of 10. I meant to try the cheese coins too but time got away on me.

Once I had a good glaze of bottled tolerance, I met up with G-Luv and he came over to my place for some special sauce. Also, he had balls for my boys and they’ve been playing kickabout indoors ever since, which is highly irritating to their father, who just put glass bookcases at ball level in the living room. Damn you, G. These lads had better become signed, professional footballers as teens and help their Da find his way to easy street for the golden years. The rest of our evening’s conversation kept making its way to matters of children and child-rearing so I won’t bore you with it here.

Apart from that, there’s nowt all to report. Here’s a picture of me with the President of Iceland, along with a bunch of other people who didn’t agree to be seen at tbothot.

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.

phone - stereo - keyboard
As with most posts, this remains unexplainable.
Better stuff tomorrow, maybe.

I’ve said this publicly many a time and perhaps even at this organ but the maxim remains that there can be little glory in being well rested when you reach your end. No great man worked hard, played sensibly, and turned in before dawn all of his granted days. The unexamined life isn’t worth a damn and neither is one of moderation.

The picture I paint now involves a colleague leaning in at the boardroom table this morning and enquiring sotto voce “were you out last night? You smell of booze.” Glorious. Yes, thehandoftamm was indeed dipped in the waters of Australia, England, and Scotland last night, resulting in my coming neither clean nor healed. All the same, the effort was made and the reputation was maintained to its exacting standard.

I leave you now for the waters of Muskoka, where I intend to immerse myself repeatedly over the coming days before wringing myself dry at the keyboard again shortly. With any luck, reports will contain victories wherein I send rodents to their final reward using only my breath.