June 28, 2012

Are you confused yet?

Have you seen the infomercial for a product called P90X?

P90X is a home exercise system developed by Tony Horton.
It claims to significantly improve physical fitness in 90 days through a rigorous segmented training program combined with a nutrition and dietary supplement plan.

P90X's advertising emphasizes "muscle confusion", a method of cross training and periodization achieved through switching the order of exercises and incorporating new and varied movements.

Muscle confusion supposedly prevents the body from adapting to exercises over time, resulting in continual improvement without plateaus.

This is a fascinating concept, moving toward a target, then shifting the target and providing a new target.

Why stop at muscles?  How about a product that makes us more organized by using "mental confusion?"

Or a product that guarantees orgasms using sexual confusion?

Confusion itself is a confusing word.

It comes from the  confundere "to pour together", or "to mingle together".

Is the USA a big melting pot, or more accurately "political confusion?"

June 27, 2012

Should A Person Be Famous

Should A Person Be Famous


I never had any interest to feel famous.

To live life as the most famous person alive,

an image of startling, and magnetic detail.

Friends, it’s an illusion. We are specks of dirt.

I look at people and think, aside from my ass,

One good thing about a crap,

I’m in heaven.


Dense Milt 2012

My entry for the Geist Erasure contest

June 26, 2012

Tiny bubbles on the edge

Tiny bubbles on the edge
threaten to explode
popping like pills and
calling forth a mackerel sky.

No friends inside for the funeral
Just gas that requires release
Oh how this yeasty barm gets carried away
In handcuffs if you're not careful.
Inside the bubble, a grown man cowers
Helpless to stop this effervessent vehicle
He's on a timed treadmill to fermentation
Eruct, bereft and seething to a froth
Leaving a trace of iridescent residue.

June 10, 2012

I had too much to dream last night

I woke in a familiar place.  My own bed, one little dog lying next to me, one on the floor.  My tongue and throat devoid of any moisture,  a result of mouth breathing all night long.  My mind is still lost  somewhere between convoluted dreams of work where my boss is building his dream house, and public transit, that is about all I remember clearly.  

My tongue is what I notice most, as I can feel each little part of it, dry as sandpaper.  All water activity is concentrated, and I mean concentrated, in my bladder.  The pressure of the morning pushes me to extract myself from my warm sheets and blankets.  I stumble to a vertical position, and with one foot first , then another, I put my pants on  and I'm almost ready to meet the day.  

I hear the sound of running water. There is someone in my shower.  The door to the bathroom slightly ajar, steam escapes to the hallway.  As I pass by the door, I purposely look the other way and shut it as I pass.  The person in the shower is my teenage daughter.  I may have to wait a bit to use the facilities.

I open the coffee maker, and empty the grounds from yesterday's coffee.  I pour yesterday's coffee out, and put water in the coffeepot, put coffee in the basket, and turn the machine on.  Soon, I will be able to enjoy the morning coffee.

I can see the dogs have followed me from the bedroom.  They have positioned themselves near the door, and the leashes that will take them out into the world.   They look up at me expectantly.  When?
When are we going out?   Now is an acceptable timeline.  The little one grumbles and barks.  Now.

Sound of water from the bathroom.  Time to take advantage of the male privilege.  I grab a glass milk bottle and empty my bladder into it, pouring the resultant liquid down the drain.  After I wash the bottle, and the sink ( after all, I am a fully trained adult male, 33 years of marriage under my belt), I grab the leashes and hook up the beasts.  "I'm just walking the dogs.  Good morning!"

We walk to the elevator and push the down button.  The elevator on the right opens, revealing an African woman with baby in arms and two children.  She looks nervously at the dogs. I know they live on the fourth floor, so I say in my friendly neighbor voice, "Going up or down?"

They nod at up, so I let the elevator go, and  take the elevator on the left, going down.  As I exit the building and hit the sidewalk, I notice the family from the elevator is about 50 feet ahead of me.  Weird.
Some people get very nervous around dogs.  And my dogs are very friendly.  Maybe overly friendly at times.  Except the little one likes to bark assertively.  She can scare little kids with this bark.

We walk to the park, through the playground that would result in a $2000 fine if we were caught with dogs within, and on to the large fields.  The dogs are pulling every which way, yesterday's bunnies and squirrels and geese a distant memory.  Today the ducks are in the ponds and a seagull is up ahead.
The panorama of smells that present themselves at dog level intoxicates them, filling them with dog memory and dog dreams, and what now, what now, so much to do, so many smells and so many smells, and here is a fine looking young lady, let's smell her crotch.

I swear I didn't train them to do that.  That skill they learned on their own.  In their doggy DNA. We finish the morning walk (one pooped and one didn't if you must know) and we go back to the apartment.   I realize when I get there that they do not have any dogfood, and we tried to go to the new store in the neighborhood last night at 9:45, thinking we were just in time for the 10:00 closing, only to find that they close at 9:00.  So I assume we still have no dogfood.

"Hey, I just have to go out for a second and get the dogs some food." I walk a block to the new high end grocery store, and look for dogfood.  They have a limited selection.  And I now work alongside a Pet distribution company, so I can't just buy anything.  I have to read the labels. Judge. Discern. There is a profusion of small dog dogfood.  I can't buy that crap for them.   So I head to the meat aisle.

Ground meat is $3.99 on special.  On special.  Only in Vancouver.  Christ it is expensive living here.  So I look at all the other meats to see if anything is cheaper.  I find some from burgers that are $7.49 for a kg.  So that is the best deal.  Except they are frozen, and I will have to mush them all together to make dogfood.   I grab some frozen vegetables (dogfood), and pick up a New York Times.  It says the price is $6.00 for the Sunday, and I think it's thick and has the magazine.

The lady at the till asks me if I found everything I was looking for.  I am the kind of guy that has to comment on my shopping experience, with the insane thought that my comment might actually have a bearing on future shopping experiences.   "Lot's of small dog dogfood.  You guys need to do more market research.  Lot's of bigger dogs live around here."
"Oh yeah, I notice that, too.  I'll be sure to tell "them" ( the people who make the food choice decisions).  We are just getting started so we are very open to hearing what the community wants."

The bill comes to around $28.  I think, shit that's alot for dogfood.  Maybe I should have bought the crap food.  I see the NY Times is $9.35, not $6.00.  Welcome to Canada!  I try to justify in my mind the quality of writing etc.  Reportage, pronounced with a Franglais accent.  Oh yeah, I also bought bacon.  $7.49.  What was I thinking?   This is what happens when you shop on an empty stomach.

I get home, and my wife is home from yoga.  She and my daughter are both in the kitchen (capacity one adult).  I muscle my way in as well, and get the third degree for my shopping choices.  "We had dogfood in the fridge, you know."

Obviously, I didn't know.  After all, I never got to brush my teeth, take my pills or even pee in a toilet.  I've been up for over an hour,  and all I've done is pee in bottle, walk dogs, and compare the cost of fresh vs. frozen meat.  Pardon me.

I take the lunch I was going to take to work three days ago out of the fridge, and not having a microwave, put it on a pan and heat it up in the oven.  Then I open the bacon package and extract two pieces which I cut in half.  Now I have four pieces.  The new math.

I grab a pan to fry an egg, plug in the toaster ( who keeps unplugging this thing), and start making dogfood.  I put the frozen burger patties in the oven to defrost, start making brown rice.  The egg is now done.  I take a sip of my coffee.  Kind of luke warm.

"Hey Dad, can I get a ride?"  I have to be there in 15 minutes.

I grumble something about being up for two hours now, and not having breakfast.  Suddenly, I'm now the bad guy for not being ecstatic about leaving all the morning breakfast/dogfood making, and driving everyone to work.

Might as well take the dogs, too.  I turn off all the oven, stove, etc and leash up the hounds, and head for the elevator.  For the third time this morning.

No one is speaking as my wife and daughter both think I'm in a bad mood.  And I am.  Trying desperately not to be, but hell, I haven't even had time to brush my own teeth.  Or take my anti-depressants.  Who knows, I might even be at risk of going postal?

Of course I take the wrong road, and have to double back to get my wife to the transit station.  She gets out of the car, and says have a good day to my daughter.  What, I don't get to have a good day too?
Now I have 4 minutes to get my daughter to work on time, so I gun it, and hit every red light possible.

We get there one minute after she was supposed to be there.  Acceptable.   Now, to take the dogs home and finish making their breakfast.  Multi-tasking.  At least it is my day off.