The prodigal son

I would like to be able to spin a yarn of deceit, forcible confinement and travels, trials and tribulations in far-off lands as a glorious prelude to this: my triumphant return to the omniscient blogosphere, clad in fine-spun silks and laden with riches and treasures never before known to man.

But that in itself would be the deceit. There has been no kidnapping, no enslavement and no travel of any kind, unless you count several unpleasant jaunts to the far reaches of Mississauga's wastelands.

I''ve never worn fine-spun anything. The closest I've ever gotten to silk was staring into a glass encasement at the zoo when I was 12 or so, feverishly failing to spot the exotic worm species that allegedly stalked its boundaries, according to the boast on the enclosure's small bronze plaque. It was neither the first nor, as I've learned often since, the last incidence of false advertising I was to experience. Still, its a cruel lesson to learn, or re-learn, each time I pick up yet another miraculous nose-hair trimmer or can of Axe deoderant and disappointedy feel up avocadoes in the produce section of the supermarket while women disinterestedly pass me by -- no commercial-like half-naked tackles, no suggestive eye-fucking, not even a sexy longing growl.

So as of now I refuse to believe in any product claims, including the "Where There's Smoke There's Hydrogen Cyanide" warning on my cigarette pack.

282 days

Fwwoooooooooooooooooo. Dusty.

Week 6 in review

Not much to report -- unless this blog has miraculously transformed from a reluctant quitter's journal to one chronicling the efforts of a man trying to immortalize himself in the Guiness Book of World Records for either a: smoking as many cigarettes as possible in one sitting or b: talking about smoking ad nauseum or c: using his addiction to nicotine as a means of spewing yet more drivel on to the Internet.

Maybe a little bit of each?

Self-imposed house arrest

I was enjoying a post-work, early evening smoke last week, when my darling wife approached me with a radical idea. She suggested I accompany her to the the supermarket, a monstrous, superstore-type Loblaws half-a-block from our house, instead of shutting myself in and away from the world for yet another night.

Not surprisingly, I protested with a string of excuses bordering on the absurd. She nodded patiently and listened to them all until finally, when I feared her eyes had rolled back into her head for so long that they might never recover their natural postitions, I relented.

"Of course," I told her, "I'll need to shower first. I look like crap."

"Well, you certainly must look your Sunday-school best for a trip to the supermarket," she replied, a not-so-subtle sarcasm dripping acid-like from every syllable.

I stared at her blankly, a not-so-fabricated dumb-guy look spreading across my face. She continued to appear unimpressed.

"Just put on a clean shirt and a baseball cap," she said curtly.

"I don't own a baseball cap," said I, stubbing out my not-so relaxing smoke and attempting to look stung.

"You can wear my Eagles cap."

"I am not putting on an Eagles cap," I answered steadfastly, crossing my arms across my chest for emphasis.

"Why not?" she asked, with her all too familiar face of exasperation.

"Because I'm a Steelers fan," I said smugly. "That's why not."

She picked up her keys and headed for the door, turning back to me as she swung it open wide. As she stepped out into the sweltering heat of the June evening she said, "You realize this is probably a sign of mental illness don't you?"

"I think she may be right," I said aloud to myself. Then I lit another smoke.

Week 5 in review

I'll spare myself the indignity of a day by day accounting of number of smokes smoked and just say the first three days of the week were a disaster and that on Thursday -- which was day 30 of my originally month-long exercise -- I smoked a hearty 27 cigarettes. I stopped counting for the rest of the weekend as a means of maintaining my precarious sense of self-esteem.

I grasp the music baton and dash haphazardly -- and with much trepidation -- toward increased human contact

Mitzzee, a loyal commentator on my blogs and esteemed writer of Ohh La La, has passed me the 'music baton.' It may come as a great shock and source of parent-like disappointment to some, but, lacking in some of the apparently base knowledge that makes up the blogosphere, I was taken completely by surprise. What was this unexpected electronic phallus and how should I proceed? After one question and answer from the aforementioned Mitzzee and several frantic calls to my legal representative, who operates from the back table at Kilgour's Bar Meets Grill, I realized that my original fear-based hesitation was unmerited. So, without further posturing, my dash with the baton...

Total volume of music files on my computer:
Approximately 3 gigs, not enough to warrant investigation by the FBI, but enough to contribute to the ever-increasing, whining drone of mega-rich superstars out there.

Last CD I bought was:
The Massacre, 50 Cent

Last CD I downloaded was:
American Idiot, Green Day (Mitz, Shora: definitely a great disc)

Song playing right now:
Who Made Who, AC/DC

5 songs I listen to a lot, or that mean a lot to me:
This is double tough. Here's the first that came to mind.

Flying High Again, Ozzy Osbourne
Hits from the Bong, Cypress Hill
Signs, 5 Man Electrical Band
Drawing Flies, Soundgarden
May This Be Love, Jimi Hendrix (our wedding song)

NB. If it mentions smoking, drugs, sex, hookers, guns, fire trucks, polymer filaments, double-decker buses, public urination or puppies, and offends at least 50 per cent of the general populace, it's probably cool with me. Satan worship is optional, but definitely encouraged.

Sometimes, smoking doesn't seem like the absolute dumbest thing you can do

A young man called me the other day. It was mid-afternoon. His name was Todd.

Todd was representing Bell Mobility; he sounded young, maybe fresh out of high school, maybe a little older, maybe working part-time to pay for his degree in shiatsu massage.

He began his opening spiel as I settled in with a filterless Camel. It was a long-winded affair, likely read from a long sheet of paper held in one trembling hand. Cigarette smoke curled thickly around my head like a martyr's halo. When twenty seconds had passed and this initial ordeal was over, I had gleaned the two things I have already mentioned: the young man's name was Todd and he worked for Bell Mobility.

Politely, I asked Todd exactly what he wanted. He sounded elated that I would ask, his sad, small voice a testament to the lingering sickness of civilization. He frantically informed me that I had been chosen for various new cellphone offers; he called these new offers "exciting." In his excitement, his voice seemed sadder and smaller still. I felt nothing for this faceless pitchman.

I told Todd I didn't own a cellular phone. He was silent for a moment, dumbfounded by this strange revelation perhaps, his previous exhilaration forgotten.

He stumbled and sputtered for a moment before striking upon a glorious idea: He could set me up with my very own cellphone "right here and now." His desperation was palpable. Through the phone line and despite the thick cloud of cigarette smoke all around me, I could smell the perspiration on his upper lip, almost picture its trembling peach fuzz growing dewy with sweat. He was beaten. A poor, sad, small-voiced boy trying to hawk cellphones to someone on a landline. I savoured the irony.

"Todd?" I asked, feeling what may have been a twinge of sympathy in the pit of my stomach.

"Yes, Mr. Pires?" he replied.

"I'm going to go now Todd. But I want you to know, I'll always remember our time together. Please don't call again."

I could hear paper shuffling through the receiver. Todd spouted a few sentences, mentioning Bell Mobility three more times. He indicated his hope that I would have a nice day.

I told him I would.

The trek continues

Due to popular demand -- OK, maybe not-so-popular demand, I'm not Stephen King or anything -- I'm going to keep this blog a-bloggin'. Also, this page got a whole bunch of hits the very day I wrote the last post, although I have no idea why, so I'll take it as a sign. Don't read too much into that last comment either, I'm about as spiritual as a doorbell. To those few people who have enjoyed this little masochistic journey so far: Thanks.