In two weeks I will cast off the sheets of my floor-based bed, I will rise to a comfy 2 and a half feet above floor level, I will sleep without a downhill slope that leads to my side of the bed, I will sleep within 4 walls and a door . I will shed one duvet that serves as our only source of heat while the downstairs people try to freeze us out.
I will make my bathroom time my business and mine alone, not all those who traverse the bedroom/hallway near the kitchen.
I will paint the walls to a color of my choosing (who am I kidding, that was all Sue), and watch my Big Screen at a volume level that will only bother the garage mice and people in the immediate vicinity of the speakers. I will set the thermostat to 80, then to 70 then to 72 and so on because I will have a thermostat again. Then just for fun, I will light a fire in the den and one in the living room and sweat.
I will hang Christmas lights and deck the halls, there will be a flag pole carrying the Saskatchewan, Ontario flags. I will do an oil change on the car in my shop.
Needless to say I am more than looking a little forward to my new abode.
I spent the wee hours of the morning mouse hunting and trying to isolate the food that he has been enjoying for far, far too long (judging by all the poop in the cupboard). Tonight Mickey, you will feast on peanut butter, and you and your brethren shall be eliminated. Go figure, my vicious guard dog cowered in the living room and stayed perfectly silent while the mice stirred. He keeps this up I’m going to trade him in on a poodle with an attitude, at least Sue would sleep better.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Friday, November 10, 2006
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Day at the Ballpark
I have some very vivid memories of my childhood, but some of the summer memories that I’m sure will stay with me forever are the numerous weekends spent at “Sports Days”. These were weekend long events in which the Men’s baseball teams from in and around the host town entered into a 2 day fastball tournament.
In the early going my Dad played with the Bellegarde Raiders, as did any man old enough to swing a bat at a fastball you could barely see. All of my friends’ fathers were involved with the team, and there was a time that they were very good, and very competitive.
The day started around 8 A.M. on Saturday and used the entire sports grounds. Every person in the community had their jobs and shifts. My grandfather called the play by play from the sound truck. Other men his age handed out quarters to children who retrieved foul balls and homeruns. Tending to the beer garden was obviously the preferred assignment. High school kids were given shifts for burger flipping and snack sales, under the watchful eye of someone’s mom as was the norm.
There were several diamonds and they all had different games going on, from Ladies Fastball to slow pitch, the place was buzzing. The grounds were occupied with children covered in spilled pop, sticky candy all over their faces, always with ball gloves in hand.
My role in the sports days was to collect foul balls and collect the rewards until I could buy junk. And buy junk I did. Any one from Bellegarde would tell you that that young Perreaux kid sported an orange moustache (from orange pop) just about the entire summer. It was kind of my trademark I guess.
When Bellegarde hosted the event it was always a full community effort to implement everything from the entry gates, to the horse rides, to the vending shack or even the sound booths for the diamonds. The regular contributors could always be counted on; the fathers of many of my best friends from childhood always answered the call. It was community spirit that put these things on. Looking back I realize how very special it was to be a part of a small town like that.
I feel that I grew up with the community watching me, looking out for me so to speak, there was never a house in the hamlet that I couldn’t knock on the door of and be welcomed by whomever be on the opposite side, though my shy nature hindered it. Me and my pals always pitched in and did our part, usually to little reward other than the fact that we spent the day with our Dad’s and friends helping out where we could. Truth be told; a few refreshments may have been shared among us.
By the time I was 12 years old we lived in the hamlet itself and our house was about 200 feet from the ballpark. It was an easy journey to get there for whatever time we liked and we could usually beat the traffic in. By the time we had arrived the cars were starting to roll in; a few volunteers had arrived and were fussing about with their designated duties. In the excitement I almost didn’t realize that the weather looked far less promising than I had imagined it would be. The rain started about 30 seconds later.
It just so happened that this was my father’s baby, he was the head of the committee that year (the men took turns at the helm organizing and tasking the duties), and I remember the look of disappointment on his face when the local radio news announced it: “The Bellegarde Sports day has been cancelled due to rain”.
Little Jeremy’s orange moustache would not develop that day, and of all the sports days ever held in Bellegarde; this one I remember most, because it never happened.
In the early going my Dad played with the Bellegarde Raiders, as did any man old enough to swing a bat at a fastball you could barely see. All of my friends’ fathers were involved with the team, and there was a time that they were very good, and very competitive.
The day started around 8 A.M. on Saturday and used the entire sports grounds. Every person in the community had their jobs and shifts. My grandfather called the play by play from the sound truck. Other men his age handed out quarters to children who retrieved foul balls and homeruns. Tending to the beer garden was obviously the preferred assignment. High school kids were given shifts for burger flipping and snack sales, under the watchful eye of someone’s mom as was the norm.
There were several diamonds and they all had different games going on, from Ladies Fastball to slow pitch, the place was buzzing. The grounds were occupied with children covered in spilled pop, sticky candy all over their faces, always with ball gloves in hand.
My role in the sports days was to collect foul balls and collect the rewards until I could buy junk. And buy junk I did. Any one from Bellegarde would tell you that that young Perreaux kid sported an orange moustache (from orange pop) just about the entire summer. It was kind of my trademark I guess.
When Bellegarde hosted the event it was always a full community effort to implement everything from the entry gates, to the horse rides, to the vending shack or even the sound booths for the diamonds. The regular contributors could always be counted on; the fathers of many of my best friends from childhood always answered the call. It was community spirit that put these things on. Looking back I realize how very special it was to be a part of a small town like that.
I feel that I grew up with the community watching me, looking out for me so to speak, there was never a house in the hamlet that I couldn’t knock on the door of and be welcomed by whomever be on the opposite side, though my shy nature hindered it. Me and my pals always pitched in and did our part, usually to little reward other than the fact that we spent the day with our Dad’s and friends helping out where we could. Truth be told; a few refreshments may have been shared among us.
By the time I was 12 years old we lived in the hamlet itself and our house was about 200 feet from the ballpark. It was an easy journey to get there for whatever time we liked and we could usually beat the traffic in. By the time we had arrived the cars were starting to roll in; a few volunteers had arrived and were fussing about with their designated duties. In the excitement I almost didn’t realize that the weather looked far less promising than I had imagined it would be. The rain started about 30 seconds later.
It just so happened that this was my father’s baby, he was the head of the committee that year (the men took turns at the helm organizing and tasking the duties), and I remember the look of disappointment on his face when the local radio news announced it: “The Bellegarde Sports day has been cancelled due to rain”.
Little Jeremy’s orange moustache would not develop that day, and of all the sports days ever held in Bellegarde; this one I remember most, because it never happened.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Yeah that's me
I had an interview with the Sarnia Observer about my Bulwer-Lytton dishonourable mention (about half way down the page after 'Purple Prose'). It was on the front page of the paper right underneath the John G. Munson collision story. What's surprising is that some of my sweethearts' co-workers noticed it almost immediately, and here I thought nobody read that paper! Here's a look, I scanned a photocopy of the paper, I'll just type out page A2 rather than scanning etc...
the last part of it reads:
In his Working life he is employed as a project officer with environmental response at the Canadian Coast Guard in Sarnia.
"I guess I was always the class clown, the entertainer with a quirky sense of humour," he said. "I find it really enjoyable."
Rice, a professor at San Jose State University in California intends to publish his sixth collection of Bulwer-Lytton Fiction winners soon.
Perreaux was asked to sign a waiver to allow his submission to be published in the book so he hopes Rice is serious - but it's hard to know.
For now he's basking in the glory of his first big win for bad writing. He's so proud, it only took him three months to tell anyone about it.
I made no mention of my blog in the piece but I did refer to Marianne and her influence on my writing, as well as the humour site I write to frequently, (HMO).
All in all the interview was good with a few discrepancies, Marianne was the first prize winner for her 2003 entry, and Scott Rice never told me I was wasting his time. His words were: "I have received your latest infliction" and "your latest submission will receive the attention it deserves". I was attempting to allude to the fact that you never quite know how to take the guy, given the nature of his comedic influence (sarcasm).
I wish they had included the stuff I said about dad introducing me to this competition he follows religiously and how when my name appeared that it was a thing of pride for him and I (I assume).
All in all it was a kick, and it sort of broadened my search for an outlet of my comedic genius... or at the very least some carrots to pursue while I make a name for myself on Leno and Letterman (did I just use both their names simultaneously in a sentence? vocational suicide...), failing that I will settle for a guest spot on the "Rick Mercer Show" as a johnny on the spot or something, but judging by the photo that "made the cut" in the article, I'd best stick to the shadows.
the last part of it reads:In his Working life he is employed as a project officer with environmental response at the Canadian Coast Guard in Sarnia.
"I guess I was always the class clown, the entertainer with a quirky sense of humour," he said. "I find it really enjoyable."
Rice, a professor at San Jose State University in California intends to publish his sixth collection of Bulwer-Lytton Fiction winners soon.
Perreaux was asked to sign a waiver to allow his submission to be published in the book so he hopes Rice is serious - but it's hard to know.
For now he's basking in the glory of his first big win for bad writing. He's so proud, it only took him three months to tell anyone about it.
I made no mention of my blog in the piece but I did refer to Marianne and her influence on my writing, as well as the humour site I write to frequently, (HMO).
All in all the interview was good with a few discrepancies, Marianne was the first prize winner for her 2003 entry, and Scott Rice never told me I was wasting his time. His words were: "I have received your latest infliction" and "your latest submission will receive the attention it deserves". I was attempting to allude to the fact that you never quite know how to take the guy, given the nature of his comedic influence (sarcasm).
I wish they had included the stuff I said about dad introducing me to this competition he follows religiously and how when my name appeared that it was a thing of pride for him and I (I assume).
All in all it was a kick, and it sort of broadened my search for an outlet of my comedic genius... or at the very least some carrots to pursue while I make a name for myself on Leno and Letterman (did I just use both their names simultaneously in a sentence? vocational suicide...), failing that I will settle for a guest spot on the "Rick Mercer Show" as a johnny on the spot or something, but judging by the photo that "made the cut" in the article, I'd best stick to the shadows.
Monday, November 06, 2006
1000 words
If a picture is worth a thousand words, tell me; what is Hanky Poo thinking of saying?
Yes, this game was in Calagary, I pointed out the fact (several times) that the reason there looked like so much more red was because the stands are painted that color, with 3 minutes left of the game it was far more obvious to see who was "there", while the stampeder faithful gave up, took their balls and went home.Even with the score of 21 to 5 as we approached the half I was confident there wouldn't be a problem, a few blown calls and some butter fingers were the difference to that point. It was obvious despite the score that the Riders were far and away beating the Stamps in every aspect except the score. But that soon changed with a fantastic throw into the Stampeders end zone for sure handed Matt Dominguez, then after the half Kenton Keith broke out and went 75 yards for the 6. I was losing it.
7 turnovers to our defence and Danny Barrett saluting the Rider Nation in Calgary after the game. I got a fuzzy, no kidding.
Next week the kitty cats are at home to welcome the Roughriders, I welcome all of you to wear a little green and cheer on the "good guys".
For any Bomber fans who may read this, I was convinced that they had the win, until gutt-less coaching and bad qb-ing prevailed.
Friday, November 03, 2006
It's on, the big game is Sunday at 4:00 PM ET. I will be glued to the tv awaiting the playoff fate of my beloved Roughriders and possibly my own. I have 2 tickets to Grey Cup and my move to the new house coincides with that time, needless to say if the Riders make it through BC I will have some hard decisions and explanations to make.
For the upcoming game in Calgary I expect we will win by about 10 points and that Kenton Keith and Armstead will carry most of the load with a few exeptional plays by Fantuz and Dominguez.
Hopefully Schultz will break through for 10 sacks but I would be satisfied with one that ends Burris' playoff run. Not because he is good, but just for spite... smiling bastard.
Otherwise I look forward to a quiet weekend packing up the "unnecessaries" for the big move in 3 weeks. Oh and maybe a beer somewhere in between.
Let's Go Riders!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Thursday, November 02, 2006
The Best Blog In The World
No this is not the best blog in the world, it is only a tribute...
I wrote the best blog in the world the other day, it had humor, litterary wit, highs and lows that would take the reader on a journey of biblical proportions. I just can't remember how it went.
You see I was challenged by the devil to provide him with the best blog in the world at the ransom of my own soul. And with the fear of hell itself coarsing through me, I turned my focus to the page and my fingers began to wail.
The devil scoffed as he began to read but his look of distaind soon turned to horror as he realized: it was the best blog in the world.
With a mighty swipe of his hand he tossed my pages aside and they burned to ashes from the contact of his firey hand. He looked somewhat disapointed. Because it was the best blog in the world.
He said I will leave now and your soul will remain in-tact, because you truly have written the best blog in the world.
In a cloud of smoke he disapeared and the smell of char hung heavy and I was left with the charred remains of what was the best blog in the world.
I wish you could have seen it, or read a solo line but I don't have any evidence that it was the best blog in the world.
This is not the best blog in the world, it is a tribute, because I can't remember how it goes.
I wrote the best blog in the world the other day, it had humor, litterary wit, highs and lows that would take the reader on a journey of biblical proportions. I just can't remember how it went.
You see I was challenged by the devil to provide him with the best blog in the world at the ransom of my own soul. And with the fear of hell itself coarsing through me, I turned my focus to the page and my fingers began to wail.
The devil scoffed as he began to read but his look of distaind soon turned to horror as he realized: it was the best blog in the world.
With a mighty swipe of his hand he tossed my pages aside and they burned to ashes from the contact of his firey hand. He looked somewhat disapointed. Because it was the best blog in the world.
He said I will leave now and your soul will remain in-tact, because you truly have written the best blog in the world.
In a cloud of smoke he disapeared and the smell of char hung heavy and I was left with the charred remains of what was the best blog in the world.
I wish you could have seen it, or read a solo line but I don't have any evidence that it was the best blog in the world.
This is not the best blog in the world, it is a tribute, because I can't remember how it goes.
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