like a rattlesnake

November 1, 2013

She had moves like a rattlesnake..Mayor Ford is officially a crack user. Welcome to Toronto

I sort of miss it

October 30, 2013

Red Hair Green Grass2I was born with red hair. Orange actually. So was my sister. Both our parents had black hair. Which made us something like freaks. Red heads are generally not cute. They are different looking. And no red head that I know liked being a red head. As a child. Now that my hair has turned white, I sort of miss it.

Helter Skelter

October 17, 2013

Helter Skelter


October 12, 2013


somewhat innocent

October 8, 2013

Blue Girl2There used to be a movie night on CITY TV called “Baby Blue Movies” which amounted mostly to bare breasts. As scandalous as it seemed at the time, it now seems somewhat innocent.


September 26, 2013

There’s a character in The Day of the Locust. His name is Harry. He’s a failed Vaudevillian. And his image has stuck in my head.


Hands on the pedestal. Toes tapping. Fingers snapping. OOOE. Charlie What Was His Last Name slid down the aisle. Knee knockers. Of the drug store. His body incredibly still. His feet like clippers over your neighbourhood hedge. In a swirl. Soft shoe. Sand between his toes. Put your ear to the floor. Don’t it sound sad? Vaudeville. There was laughter in his shoes. His fingers snarled. And the air, it just stood there shy and naked.

Charlie stopped up at the make-up counter, his chin pointed toward the ceiling. Really He was feeling it. His back arched, heels spinning, the sequins on his trousers and his vest squinting at the store lights. His fingers tapped the glass top, one over each, ever so lightly. His fingernails recently manicured, cured of melancholy. He tipped his green bowler hat, the hat he’d been given by the deputy mayor on St. Patrick’s Day. The hat rolling down his arm, to a hand, which caught it seftly. Like Jack Duffy caught that hay maker, and placed it back on his noggin. There was a smile on his mug. They were chums never parted. Like cousins under mosquito netting.

“How are you doing today, Charlie?” Deborah Hall asked. The cosmetician was deeply immersed in a magazine. Fashion research. She Liked It Hot And Rough,was written across the magazine’s face. And there were lots of tips inside. How to make chocolate cake without putting on a pound. And what he really wants under the sheets. Charlie knew that they liked it rough in Hamilton. Of course there was always the horn section, dipping their silver mouths into the hot molasses. They liked to call it jazz.

Charlie batted his eyelashes. His head jerked toward Jerusalem and then toward Deborah. His smile was forked, almost demonic. If only humans had never learned to speak, we could all order hamburger tartar in mime.

“Well,” he declared like a full committee of the learned and the privileged. And added, just as an aside, “And how are you?” His voice was theatrical as if it had been trained in a private school in Switzerland. His mouth the bulldog in the dog house. Hearing a funny little sound from his gut, which he didn’t understand, it being pure slang, which only the thugs on Queen Street understood or cared to understand.

Whateva!” the cosmetician responded shrugging her shoulders in a very melodic manner as if her movements had been choreographed by a Spaniard at Juliards turning the pages of her magazine, her fingers like Fred Astaires.

Charlie relaxed, his body melting from some celestial pose. He leaned over the counter like a flaccid Dali time piece, making ‘I’ contact.

“Well, here’s one to put a smile on your lovely face,” Charlie said. And he loved Deborah’s lovely face. Would have put it on a postage stamp, signed her up to play Joan the last woman on the ark. But a trombone blasted the image of Deborah in his ear, smudged his hair, and misspent his youth. “A woman walks up to the beautician and asks, ‘Can you make me beautiful?’ ‘Hey,’ cries the beautician, ‘I’m a beautician, not a magician.’

Charlie smiled, tipped his hat once more with juggling delight, than sashayed gaily down the aisle.

Deborah looked up from her magazine with a bored glance and watched Charlie disappear around the corner.

Whateva!” she sighed and returned to her work. And the whole place blew up in silence.


She is a miracle

August 27, 2013


off their medication

July 21, 2013

The girl from LavrilleI shouldn’t say anything. But that’s what I want to talk about. Talking. Everywhere you go people have a cell phone in their hand. Yacking. Who would have thought the old man to have had so many words in him. (Macbeth, sorta) I just can’t remember when it was not so…

Oh, ya. Now I remember. When people spoke to themselves like that,  you knew they were nuts or off their medication.

A rainy day in Moscow

July 5, 2013

A Rainy Day In Moscow

Celebrities on Gerard Street EastI remember as a young lad of 3 or 4 seeing tanks on Gerard Street in Toronto. I’m not sure how this is possible but its stuck in my head. I also recall signs in windows which read NO IRISH. And then there was the back lane of our house on Galt Avenue. A car ran over me back there. It was winter and I pretended to be dead. (I wasn’t supposed to be back there.) I was rushed to the hospital, my mother holding me in her arms and praying. Years later I saw paintings of the lane on Galt Avenue but I was never able to come up with the artist’s name.

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