theblogofthehandoftamm

‘Tis the season and all. In the spirit of same, I have a departmental office party tomorrow for which I’m expected to bring a store-bought gift for a toy drive and also a handmade gift for a Secret Santa exchange, with names pulled from a hat. This is what I’ve made.

As you can see, it’s a gingerbread house: a traditional holiday fixture. I’ve improved on this theme by turning it into a firehall, complete with semi-dressed firemen. What could be more jolly?

I’m giving this gift tomorrow to a female colleague and possibly having a frank chat with HR on Friday. That’s how thehandoftamm does the holidays: complete with inappropriate workplace behaviour.

Lazarus-like, the zombie is back at the keys today. How did this happen? Research.

Against the advice of my team of physicians, accountants, rabbis, and glaziers, I have been making repeated tests of the new public house in my neighbourhood. It is one of many, the latest franchise in a chain of pubs where a member of possibly Vulpes vulpes plays upon a violin. My neighbourhood cries out for a pub, as we’re beset by grubby sports bars that seem to attract only the aspiring criminal element. A friendly, comfortable, welcoming place to have a session with pals is what we so desperately need. This Reynard is a welcome addition to the strip but a far cry from what’s actually required.

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I’ll have more stuff later but, in the meantime, to keep you bastards satisfied, I have this entertaining exchange to set up.

As you will recall, I operated on little sleep following Thursday night’s frolic. I did rather similarly (if less dramatically) on Friday night. By Saturday, I was an extra from Shaun of the Dead. Nonetheless, the family and I went to visit friends in a New York border town which eerily resembles Barter Town from Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome. No, it doesn’t.

We had a lovely visit but I began to flag before long. I needed a nap after dinner if I was going to be able to drive back to Toronto. Nap I did, for about 30 minutes. This was followed by a little more chit-chat and coffee and jumping jacks and slaps across the face. Much recovered, we said our thank-yous and took our leave.

Reaching the border, we were dismayed to find the line-up was growing long and only longer by the minute. I guess everyone wanted to leave the USA with trunkloads of Thanksgiving Sale shopping and trampled big-box store employees in their trunks. Sensing a dull time of crossing the bridge, my passengers all promptly fell asleep just to taunt me.

We crawled along, bumper to bumper, for the entire duration of Thievery Corporation’s excellent Mirror Conspiracy album and, upon reaching the last cut, I was in front of The Man. He asked where we were from and what we were bringing back with us, to which I replied (truthfully) that we had nothing.

“So your trunk is empty then?” He asked.

“Oh no,” I foolishly (and truthfully) reply. “It’s full up.”

“With what?”

“Um… stuff.” Honestly, this is the best I could come up with. Total zombie brain. If he would have asked me what make of car I was driving, I would have been stumped to call up the right word. We stared blankly at one another for five seconds that felt like 500 (he, I imagine, thinking ‘that can’t be your answer, numbnuts’), before I began stammering something about jackets and school bags and diapers and what-have-you but our Canada Customs agent was already suspicious that I had a trunkload of booty or was a complete idiot. He commanded me to open the trunk for inspection and soon confirmed I was the latter, as I had no commercial goods, purchases, or contraband in my possession.

The ride home was uneventful. Despite my poor command of vocabulary at the crucial moment, I was alert enough to keep children and adults alike safe on the highway. We (or I, more accurately) listened to Saint Etienne’s marvy Finisterre album on the trip, followed by a touch of the Ceeb. Did I go promptly to bed when we got home around 11:30? No, I watched a movie.

My sleep defecit continued to make itself felt until I collapsed into sleep last night at 7:30pm, even before my children. Didn’t get out of bed until 7:00 this morning. This zombie finally concluded his swagger ‘n’ stagger routine. Much to the sure dismay of Mrs. thehandoftamm, I predict the dead may rise up again in their stink and muttering and poor example in the latter days of this week. Stay tuned for updates in the zombie forecast here.

This is how it feels to sleep 3 hours and go back downtown for your vehicle.

This is what you find.

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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Do you know what the difference between an American election and a Canadian election is? Optimism.

Whether you are happy with the results of yesterday’s election in the United States or no, one can’t help but feel an overriding sense of optimism, of a hope for a better future. That country (or a decent-sized portion of it) has given the signal that they’re looking forward to meeting the challenges of today and tomorrow with enthusiasm and a sense of purpose. How long that lasts and if it will come to pass is another matter, of course.

Whether you are happy with the results of last month’s Canadian federal election or no, one can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of frustration, malaise, cynicism, and fear. The few Canadians who made it out to the polls were not inspired by the promise of a new day but rather the pessimism of a dark tomorrow and who they wanted to avoid having as leader. The votes cast were surely more often than not the meek attempt at staving off a lesser-liked candidate or party. We had nobody to vote for and voted for ‘anybody but him/her’. (This is how jumped-up little tyrants like Harper get into office. Next thing you know, he’ll be talking about lebensraum.)

Where will our Canadian visionary leaders come from? Who will rise from among us, causing this nation’s citizenry to leap up off the couch, appeal to their neighbours to hear the call, and march to the polls as though something were at stake? I don’t think many Canadians have a faith in our system or in our politicians and, as there’s precious little to choose between them, really, there isn’t a compelling reason to go to the polling station, is there? Nope.

Ah, what the hell. There’s Champions League matches on today so look for me at the Proddy Arms, watching United grind Celtic into a fine powder. That’s a race that provides a modicum of passion for a jaded Canuck.

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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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.

There’s a certain dignity that comes with age, a composure delivered in the mail along with one’s inescapable maturity. Having completed another successful orbit of the sun yesterday, I decided to exercise my self-appointed rights to be a carefree hedonist in the face of crushing responsibilities and duties. How does one find ways to carve a certain reckless individuality within the confines of our conformist culture? Allow me to chronicle my ham-handed efforts.

I began by leaving work in the middle of the afternoon. Champions League matches were on and, armed with today’s portable communications devices, one is happily able to take the office across the street to the Arms for a little Irish work. After a few glasses and concerned that things could go too long and become too enjoyable, I split for dinner with the family, allowing my bossy elder son to choose the restaurant to save everyone the aggro of his disappointment at anyone else’s suggestions. It was a testament to my maturity as I maintained composure when he dropped his milkshake on the floor, sending glass shards every which way.

Following negotiations for an appropriate bedtime where I represented management admirably against stiff opposition from labour’s pint-sized reps, I decided to clear out and celebrate sensibly with the lads and a game of footie. Me and T-Unit made our way to the bowels of downtown and found we were ahead of schedule. O happy day –there was a pub open and we took a pair of stools in sniffers’ row. It was no strip club but the tap directly in front of us was for some stuff named Peeler and the wait staffers were having tremendous difficulty keeping their ample bosoms inside their plunging necklines. Too bad we only had time for a swift one before kickoff, which was set for 11:15pm. Ouch.

To the pitch we took against Grecian opponents who seemed intent on recreating the battle of Salamis, casting us as the doomed Persians. They probably didn’t bother to make the distinction that I was wearing a Turkish Ilhan Mansis jersey while my team mates were all decked out in Liverpool crimson. There was a mighty clash of 30-somethings representing the lowest tier of men’s six-a-side dome soccer, many of whom were north of the weight limit and well south of the body image set by Adonis. The Greeks scored twice in the first half and some of that surely has to be blamed on the Tories. Thankfully, the natural ruling side put in a sparkling second half repleat with a brace of our own goals (note: not own-goals, for which I am a specialist) and the game ended with a hard-fought level score.

To celebrate our good fortune we repaired to the public house, wherein they serve ale and meat to worthy combatants. After some inspection of their pint glasses and their nacho platters, and given that the hour was already 1:30am, we parted ways. Finding my bed at last by 2:00, I went to sleep a little older and smugly satisfied. In the morning, however, my ankles barely permitted me to walk ten steps and with each one my thigh muscle made a sound like peeling your foot off a sticky cinema floor. I think my future mobility is going to require that all buildings be outfitted with ramps.

Did I mention I took my elder son to his first Toronto FC match the other day? It was to be the last of the season and the little feller had been pestering me about seeing a match for months already. Worried that he might put a cramp into my usual drinking ‘n’ braying routine, I had been holding off until he would reach an age of maturity. Given that I haven’t achieved such heights myself and, thinking that he might be useful for sneaking flares into the stadium, I relented and promised a trip to the supporters’ section straight away.

Before we could leave the house, I made a lot of threats about how children who don’t nap don’t get to see matches and how telling mom about what I do at the field will result in a future without allowances, no visits from Santa Claus, and no insulin for those who develop juvenile diabetes. Once my pockets were full of projectiles and mini-bar stock, I said it was time to go, only to be horrified by Mrs. thehandoftamm’s insistence on wrapping the dude up in hats, gloves, winter boots, parkas and the lot –despite the fact that it was 20 degrees and sunny out. The first half was already starting and I rationalized that any abuse he took for being overdressed would be offset by the extra padding should a trampling begin in the stands.

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