The Best Costume Ever

23% of women dress as cats or bunnies on Halloween. I just made that stat up it is realistic...no?Personally witnessed the best costume ever. Here we go:

About 1991 I was dancing away at my high-school dance. I admit I had a bit of a beer buzz flowing, but it was fading fast. This lad dressed all in green with hoses and weedy looking rags was just smashing the dance floor in a liquor fuelled whirlwind. He had on some goggles, so I didn't recognize him at first. This weird swampy alien dancing dude - whirls a couple of hoses that extended from his hand and says: "suck my finger bro". I was like: "no way". Plus a couple of FUs thrown in. He said, "it is me Sweaty...suck on it". Sweaty is French's younger brother, so I took a quick suck. It was the dirty, but lovely, burning Alberta Rye. Wow dude! As a young lad this was the best moment at a dance. He then said: "Suck my other finger on this hand". It was Cherry Brandy. Damn weird combo. The hoses were actually surgical tubes that he had taken from a recent visit to the hospital. The tubes snaked up his arm and into mickeys he had stashed under the layers of his spacey get up. Best/funniest/most practical costume of all time. Sweaty was a genius.

We danced and danced - every now and then - taking a pull of burning liquor or sweet brandy. Crazy, but wonderful night.

The hot buzz lasted right to the last chords of "Stairway to Heaven".

French's Shed

Seeing French again got me to thinking about the first time I met him. He lived down the street, but when his dad got to drinking he lived out in his garden shed. The drinking got more regular, so French got that shed looking pretty good. He salvaged an old wood stove that used to be on a Caboose from a wrecked CNR train.

I heard him in there one night. The sound was travelling well on account of the freezing temperature. I'd been at a house party that the cops busted up and was walking home. I heard this drumming in the old shed. I looked in the window and saw French's back - his arms swinging to a beat. I knocked loud and went in. It was about -30 outside and about +30 inside. The wood stove was cranking hot. French had dragged his high hat and his snare drum through the snow. He pounded out some steady rhythms all night. We had a few beers that were near bursting from sitting in the snow.

I'd always try to listen for the drumming from the shed. I'd slip over and every now and then the stove would be humming and a few lads (sometimes French's brother too) would show up break out their beat up old flattops and we'd play some tunes. Soon you'd hear Wheat Kings, 38 Years Old, and later some Stompin' Tom and Bon Jovi (to be ironic and funny, but we loved it). The beers would stay cold outside and we'd be sweating, singing, playing and drumming in that old shed that sat out in the backyard. Smoke from our Rum and Wine flavoured Colts circled our heads. We'd blow some smoke out when we went to snag another beer or two.

These occasions were rare and unpredictable, but I always hoped I'd hear the steady thumping from the shed, or see the wood smoke rising above his yard.

The shed has been silent for far too long.

French Update

French showed up last night at "church hockey". I questioned if he was allowed here, but it turns out the ban was never registered...so French was good to go. (He'd been kicked out of church league for decking the goalie - his goalie - )

I asked him where he'd been. French got a job in Winnipeg replacing light bulbs in a skyscraper: "A Bulb Tech" he called it. He got fired when he turned on the lights in strategic offices to spell dirty/funny messages. The people down in the streets were treated to 10 storey F Us in the cold city nights.

He's back on the blades with his typical equipment; velcroed, duct-taped, and stitched up with old shoes laces...one shin pad the crazy bastard. He rolled up some old t-shirts in his hockey socks and then wrapped it tight with electrical tape.

French still has his speed though. Two years off skates and he scores four goals. Hovering at the red line pays off.

He did, however, get banned again. French got antsy for a butt so he sparked up a long American cig. You could see it sticking out through his cage when he skated by our bench. A city employee told him to take it outside. The employee meant the cigarette - French thought he wanted "to go". A couple a hay-makers later French is out of the league again.

Good to see him though - when he left he said it was off to one of his girlfriends.

Good ol'French.

The End of Nicknames

When I was a young lad everyone had a nickname: Ollie was mine. I was rarely called my given name. I wander the halls of Hillcrest everyday. Everyone and I mean everyone is called by their real name (there a few with street names, but that is another story).

Nicknames are often glorious - they capture the true spirit or key event of one's journey.

Who can forget Loaf? - that guy who stole a loaf of cheese bread, there was another guy called bread too...no relation.

Pancake - he stole some pancakes.

Chinga...?

Flush - master of the white throne.

Oldman - the guy with a few greys in Highschool.

Rico - Jock - French - Ringer - Tiny - House - Rock - Soup - Lonesome 50 - Cement - Shark - Grasshopper - Slippery/Slipree - One-Punch - Bucky...all real people.

Snag a nickname - embrace nicknames.

As an aside: I did hear one interesting street name: "psycho-ranger"...solid.

Escape

Found this old pic - reminded me of a very strange day.

Dave "French" Goldstein was in rare form. He'd had enough of teaching and he unloaded on me out by the bus stop.

French jumped right in and said all the things that had been weighing him down:

- girlfriend problems
- wife problems
- hated teaching (said so everyday)
- hip killed him in this weather
- hip "just hurt" any other day
- "drinking too much" - direct quote
- hated being called "French"

That wasn't the worst of it - today he was being called on the carpet. A student had told him to "bite the big one". French lost it. He responded in an improper fashion let's say (Who was swearing at whom? I say).

We looked over to the right as several Hot Air Balloons landed in our field. French walked slow and steady towards them. He talked with one of the pilots for a spell - and then just climbed aboard. They hit the flame and took off over the school.

I haven't seen French in years.

Old Ollie's Summer

As summer winds down (did it ever wind up?) I ponder over past summers and the advent of the new year (January is the false new year). What characterizes this summer the most is just keeping busy; not the I don't really want to talk about it conversation smasher: "I'm busy". This summer I worked at Camp IAWAH - a true blessing - it was a very good week and a return to a place that I have spent many many days. It was excellent to introduce it to my boys and to be there again with Rebekah. God Bless IAWAH!
I also travelled: heading out onto new highways in Good ol' USA was excellent - Saw more of NY, Good taste on Penn State, Some Maryland and plenty of DC. I love to travel around Canada, but getting a good bit of the US this summer was really cool. DC is such an iconic place. Head on down there friends.
I also worked at a day camp at my church. That was actually really challenging, but good. 9:30 to 12:00 seemed really long some days.
So I kept busy - maybe that was a good thing. I'm ready to slip back to Hilly; I guess I haven't gotten too relaxed and couch bound this summer. When I was unbusy I worked out - so maybe I'm getting wiser. This year should be a smoother transition. Right?

Obama's Cracked out Neighbours

When the crackheads role into your neighbourhood and start puking, passing out and sleeping on your curb with soggy piss pants - you move. You pack up your sh*t and find a new place to call home.

I visited president Obama's house last week. It is big and white. He has tonnes of security and big fences. On the sidewalk one block away lives a homeless crackhead. I walked by and he was unconscious, yet his hand was still raised hoping for some charity. Coins rattled out of his motionless hand being offered by the tourists wandering around trying to get a glimpse of Obama; whom they hoped would be peaking out of one of his many upstairs windows. Tricky President.

I guess Obama can't move...at least for four years. But what do you do about these folks lying in the gutter in front of your "palace"? Maybe nothing. Here in Ottawa we have our share of homeless people, but our leader shuffles off to Rockcliffe Park to get away from the riff raff.

Shipping them away is deemed too Conservative - help them: too Liberal. Obama has to run the USA and ponder the problem of crackheads invading his new home. Being at the top in the US can be rough indeed.

I talked to one nice old homless lady. She told me to keep my kids safe, she blessed them and me...I just returned the blessing. God bless her and all of Obama's neighbours.