Demons laid to rest...

Today - for the first time since I was around 5 or so - I went to the Circus.

My wife bought some tickets to support the Shriner's Hospital and the great work they do with kids all around the world. I kept telling myself I could do it but as I closed in on the big-top all of the psychological gauze came unraveled.

Let me explain.

When I was a kid there were still traveling carnivals and circuses that wound their ways across southern Ontario. Whenever one stopped in the little town closest to where I lived it was a big deal.

I was just a little kid and the circus was fascinating. There was the tent. There was a rickety midway with the usual assortment of deathtrap rides. There was brutally unhygienic cotton candy and the toothrottingest candy apples to be found anywhere.

There were the carnies. God in heaven, who doesn't love a carny? With their tobacco-scented breath, gold tooth smiles and squinty invitations to "go for a ride." With the friendly, unclean menace in their every word and action. With the 20 pack of smokes rolled into the sleeve of a stained t-shirt. How can you resist?

We did the midway thing, my dad lost the requisite amount of money at the fixed games of chance and then we went into the big-top for the show of shows. My palms are sweating as I type this...

The clowns were fun, I guess, in all their racist glory. The chick with the horses was fine. But then there came the act that still makes my blood run cold.

Tumbling, rolling and swinging into the centre circle came a half dozen fully dressed chimpanzees. Cute and non-threatening in their little suits and top hats and bowlers. One of them, I recall, was dressed like a lumberjack complete with a little hatchet.

They danced and played around a bit but they became progressively rowdy and non-responsive to their trainer. Eventually the trainer lost all control and that's when all hell let loose.

It all started with the chimp in the top hat. That I could swear on a stack of bibles. Let's call him "TopHat" - I do, in my nightmares. Well, the trainer had this cane that he would motion with and the chimps were, I suppose, meant to do something with the object he motioned toward. There was a a climbing apparatus that the trainer kept jabbing at with the cane and TopHat would take a step in the right direction but stopped. The Trainer jabbed again, with more force and intent. TopHat actually took a step back. Now the anger was showing on the trainer's face and he stabbed vigourously at the apparatus. At some point I think the trainer must have bared his teeth because TopHat, for lack of a better term, suddenly went apeshit.

Have I mentioned that TopHat had a walking stick of his own? He did. It was a short little hickory thing with a glass knob to hang onto and a little brass foot at the other end. Well, TopHat flung the thing with great force at the trainer and struck him squarely on the arm that held the cane.

There was a gasp from the audience, myself included, but we had no way of knowing that we hadn't seen nothin', yet.

TopHat bared his teeth and tossed away the top hat. He next pulled off the tuxedo jacket he wore, then pulled off his short trousers with the grey stripe that ran down the seam. Underneath he wore a diaper. This was the next to go, flung into the first row of the audience with more than a hint of disdain.

It was then that TopHat finally mounted the apparatus. He climbed swiftly to the highest point of the apparatus - one must assume it was his usual post - and, hanging by his hands, began to masturbate with those dexterous feet of his. Both feet, rubbing with the frenzied vigour of... well, of a furious chimp.

The other five chimps - all male - followed suit. Each tore off his costume and joined TopHat on that hanging pyramid in an orgy of primate self-gratification.

By this time a few more roustabouts had appeared and were, with no success, trying to coax the glaze-eyed chimps down before things got messy.

They failed.

Guess what - they don't just fling poo.

That is the horrific little tale of why I don't go to circuses, but today's event passed without incident. My children had a great time but it was too hot so we left at the intermission. Who knows - maybe there were chimps slated for the second half.

Watching my language

Here's a little secret - after you turn forty you can gain weight by looking at something sweet. Actually, it was going on before I turned forty but I recently saw a photo and yes, I've gained a few pounds.

Lately I've taken up an exercise program that involves a stationary bike and some free weights and am basking in the Atlas-esque results. In the past I've read while on the bike. There's a problem with that, however. If I'm interested with what I'm reading I'll keep going forever, but if I find my mind wandering I'll bring a premature end to the work out.

In an effort toward consistency I've taken to watching TV shows on DVD. I hooked up the little DVD player we bought for long car trips into a dusty little corner of the basement close to the bike. I went through the first (and only) season of Firefly - a great series that was canceled and followed up with an equally entertaining feature length movie, Serenity.

I found that I was getting a decent workout at 45 minutes or so per episode, so I decided to go looking for another TV series. I thought about Carnivale, a lovely little freakshow (pun intended) of a series about a bunch of traveling performers in the Depression Era United States. I've seen the first season and loved it but my local video store doesn't have Season 2 on DVD.

I settled, instead on Deadwood. I'd heard about this series and have been pleasantly surprised. It's an old west epic with a great assortment of characters. The first thing that grabs you in the first four minutes of the series is the excessive use of foul language. It's like repeated slaps in the face to begin with but eventually you get used to it - I am refraining from the spousal abuse parallel that's running through my head right now.

The problem with such exposure to colourful language on a daily basis is that it takes increasing effort to keep that colour out of my everyday language. This morning for example - I had to get a few items from the grocery store so I went early on the false assumption that there would be no one there. I guess Thursday must be a senior discount day because there was a sea of grey hair. I gathered my items then checked the lines. Everything stretched on forever except for the express lane.

Dammit - I had nine items. Looking at the stuff in my basket I shelved an item then headed for the express lane. Just as I got there this old fella spryly slipped into the line ahead of me (He must have a new hip or something and was showing off for the other old folks - usually I'm faster by far than the old guys - especially since I've been working out).

I watched with growing ire as he unloaded 11 items onto the conveyor.

I grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him around and jabbed a finger into his chest.
"Listen here, you fuckin' cocksucker!" I said to him, then pointed to the sign. "It says '8 items or less'. Not nine fuckin' items. Not ten fuckin' items and most assuredly not eleven fuckin' items, you withered cocksuckin' whore-son!
"Now are you gonna shelf a couple of those fuckin' things or are we gonna have ourselves a goddamn situation over here?"


I'm not allowed in our local Zehrs any more.

Another week...

It's been a week since I've been here and things are returning to a sense of normalcy.

The basement network computer is ticking along without locking up. All of the computers are networking nicely together, the printer is sharing and the internet is accessible to all. Technologically, everything is great.

The kids and the missus are downing liberal doses of antibiotics. I, once again, dodged the bullet.

The CPAP machine has been an experience. To treat my Apnea, air is forced through my nasal passage via a mask that looks a bit like a cyber-elephant's trunk. The forced air keeps the soft tissue of my throat from relaxing and blocking the airway. According to reliable sources, when I'm wearing that oh-so-attractive headgear, my snoring is a thing of the past. I haven't yet noticed the heightened energy and alertness that is supposed to follow but the literature says that usually takes about a month.

Working on Loremaster right now and have worked around something that needed fixing. I plan to have the complete re-write done by the end of June.

I need to polish From My Father's Hands a bit before submitting it for the Bridport Prize.

On the back burner right now is Nothing's Made to Last. That's unfortunate because the protagonist, Virgil Greene, is just about to have something very interesting happen to him, but I need to get Loremaster put to bed.

I just checked the time and I need to get my daughter corralled and off to school.