theblogofthehandoftamm

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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Another posting to chronicle another weekend of suffering for you.

Friday night’s experiment with testing the bonds of friendship yielded interesting, if predictable, results. Firstly, do not play whist whilst imbibing of gin and mead. Second, do not suspend said game of cards so that you can switch to vodka and currant liqueur. Thirdly, do not allow the vodka to stop flowing so that rye might make its feelings known. Once the rye is at an end, this is not the time to return to vodka. Lastly, once your guests have left, do not don the headphones and slake the thirst that is to come with beer while listening to tender ballads of revenge until dawn.

This, my friends, is a recipe for how to be a grumpy bear when it’s time to take the children to kindergarten in the morning. The homeopathic cure for which is to be found in watching a movie, going to a wretched TFC match where a hopelessly cliché-loving cavalier proposes to his girlfriend in front of 20,000 loogans, going to a stratospherically chic furniture gallery opening where you can’t afford the ermine skin table leg pads, before finally finding yourself at a teenager’s birthday party where, unsurprisingly, everybody dances waaaay better than you, old fat man.

Learn from my mistakes. Go out and find more seemly forms of merriment.

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.

Always start Father’s Day with a hangover, I say. It’s the only time you *might* not catch hell for it, being allowed some latitude on ‘your’ day.

Last night saw another victorious performance from Toronto FC, with a 3-1 win over Colorado. Picture of a Colorado save is below, as all the snaps of TFC’s goals somehow did not come off. The win very nearly made up for Sweden’s loss to Spain.

My night ended playing me drums at a friend’s house-warming and birthday party that I hadn’t even been invited to. I don’t play drums and my unlucky audience would surely agree that I shouldn’t. Still, I must have played for an hour and this morning my legs are tired like I ran a marathon. At least this is the soreness I imagine is typical of having run a marathon because that too is something I’ve never done and don’t imagine taking up, unlike drumming. I’ve bought a Muppet Show DVD in the hopes that Animal might provide me with some tips.