A Numbers Game

718-555-4357.
Here's the thing about being a snoop. As long as you keep your head buried in information, for whatever purpose, you're bound to find a bunch of things that don't matter at the time. You dismiss it but your memory doesn't let you. The number she gave me had a Metro Town area code, but the city had changed the area code when it incorporated two other districts earlier this month. Last job I had was looking up a city councellor who'd been getting threatening letters but didn't want to go public 'cause of the bad press. He was pushing for incorporation, a popular position at the time, but evidently someone didn't like it.
The number was useless but this dame was hiding more facts than a rainy Saturday night. I pocketed the note, grabbed my coat, and left the office.

Fate's Rabbit Hole

Sometimes real life, as much as you try to avoid it, sneaks up on you when you least expect it. Not to mention when you don't want it. Sitting in my office tonight, rain pouring down like it was setting a score with someone who owed it money, lights off, nobody even knowing I was here, made me foolishly think I might avoid the persistant sense of humor of Fate. Can't escape your destiny, no matter how hard you try. Mine was to get involved in something I knew, without being told any details or given any instructions, wouldn't be solved in a few hours.
The body of Abraham Marley, full of bullet holes, sat on my desk daring me to ask about it. I didn't bite, preferring the picture to tell its own tale. It didn't bite either.
"I found it on his coffee table," the dame finally said.
"Talk."
"I'm Vanessa Marley, his daughter. I came home and found this picture."
"Any broken windows, locks? Anything else lying around that shouldn'ta been?"
"Just the picture."
She suspected her father's partner, that much was clear. I'd had enough run-in's with the local P.D.s to know that solving murders was their turf, and it was a stadium I didn't have home field advantage on. They'd already be looking for Rothschild too, assuming they even knew yet.
"Did you call the police?"
"No."
"Why not."
"I just didn't."
"Gonna need a few more details hon."
"That's all you get, you're the P.I., you figure it out. I'll be in touch."
She reached into her pocket, pulled out a piece of paper and tossed it on the desk. All it had was a phone number. She stood up and left the office. As I heard her footsteps grow softer, I reached over and grabbed the phone number she left. Except it wasn't a phone number.

Red Lips

"Your walls need painting," she said.
I looked at her from behind my desk. Tall broad, but not too tall. Black hair, brown eyes, real looker. She wore red lipstick, not too much, but it stood out like it was the only color in the room. Nice trenchcoat too, a Danilli from the looks of it. Fine lookin' dame, but she didn't rile me nothing. She shook out her soaked umbrella and came inside.
"Have a seat," I said.
She didn't say anything as she sat down. Pulled out a cig, lit it, inhaled and breathed out slowly.
"Want one?" she asked.
"I quit."
"Too bad."
She took another puff and looked out the window behind me then put out the smoke in my ashtray. I waited for her to speak up, tell me what was more important than the blackening night.
"I need you to find someone" she said finally, "and I want him found soon."
"Finding ain't hard. Soon will cost you."
"Money is no concern."
She held my stare evenly, but I could see the beginnings of emotions inside her welling up. Whether they'd come to the surface or not I'd hafta wait.
"Who ya need found."
"Donald Rothschild III."
"CEO of Rothschild & Marley Inc. Didn't know he was missing, papers woulda been all over that."
"He's not missing."
"But you need him found."
"That's right."
She hadn't looked away from me during the whole exchange. I sat back in my chair and thought. Rothschild was a big name in town, head of the biggest chemical testing plant in the state. Well-liked, good reputation from his charitable donations, but most of his donations were the political kind. Had a freeway, a hospital wing and a football field named after him. Finding him wouldn't be a problem, avoiding his name is the real trick.
"Look him up in the phonebook, always works for me."
This wasn't a case, it was a waste of time. I started turning around to face the window, signaling our conversation was over when she stood up, reached into her purse, and slapped something on my desk. I was a polaroid. I picked it up. I recognize the body right away.

On aardvark and swarmy night

It was cold out. Not cold in a chilly way, but in the kind of way that makes your senses sharp. Crisp, my ex-wife used to say. She walked out on me eight years ago. That night was cold the same way tonight is, only then I was sitting at home with a bottle of Jack. Now, I'm drinking it at the office, waiting for something to walk through the door. Pay the bills, you know. The name's Keaton, Roger Keaton. I'm a P.I. Tonight I'm investigating nothing more than how much longer the rain's gonna come down. The answers ain't there and I confess to not lookin' too hard. Rather than strain myself for answers, I keep looking out the window from my chair, back to my desk and the world inside. Looking's too strong a word, since the night's rainfall seems more like it's looking at me, but without anything to say. I stare back but between me, the bottle and the weather an agreement is made to mind our own business.

Then I hear them. Noises I haven't heard in a few days. Footsteps coming up the stairs. Moving slowly but taking each step lightly. Now they come down the hallway and stop at my door. I stay still, waiting for my guest to come to me with news of the outside world. A moment goes by and I wonder if they've lost their nerve. Two knocks, the first softer than the second. Late on a Sunday night, what would make them think anyone would be here?
"Come in."
I hear the door open but I don't turn around. What's the hurry, they've come all the way here, it must be important I ask myself ruefully. I turn around slowly from my window to face my guest. I look around but they're still standing in the hall, out of sight. The lights are off so I can't see them. Movement now from outside, the shadow of a jacket, or a dress, flicker against the old walls. Damn they need paint. One of these days. Around the doorframe she came in to my office, and I knew the night was going to pick up.

Zinedine Zidane

For those of you who don't know, Zinedine Zidane, one of the best "footballers" of his generation, stuck his head where it didn't belong and got himself ejected from the World Cup final against Italy, and subsequently cost his team a chance at a second title. The ubiquitous video clip of Zidane headbutting Marco Materazzi has been parodied all over the net, so follow this link to the best collection. You'll laugh, you'll cry, and you'll cry laughing some more. Funniest thing I've seen in a long time.

I Quit

That's all folks, thanks for the blog-fodder (blodder?). Three more weeks will complete my mandatory customer service tenure. When next I surface, I'll be denying you a mortage, setting up our country's newest C.A.'s, criticizing polititians in print or illegally detaining immigrants for National Security Purposes. I held my post for three years and two months and feel obligated to take time to reflect on a job that saw me go from credit ridicule to excellent, from Boy in Basement to Dude in Pad, from borrowing parents' car when it was convenient with them to using my own car when convenient with the Boss, from out of shape unemployed flameout to slightly less out of shape management type. Some good times, some bad, some sales records that won't be broken and some connections that hopefully will help the good cause.

It'll get ya drunk! Mmm mmm!

From the description:
"Originally based on a Swiss recipe this Absinthe has no artificial color or preservatives, and contains 111mg of the psychoactive thujone adored by some of the world’s most notorious artists and writers. Van Gogh, Picasso, Hemingway…Bob Dylan, Marilyn Manson and Eminem are just a few who used and drew inspiration from this original Absinthe and its effects.

Naturally green in color, the Premium Zele is 70% alcohol (150 proof) and is bottled with fresh herbs and wormwood that distill inside and enhance the taste and thujone content. All the ingredients are carefully selected to ensure its distinctive taste."

Here's a link to the video describing how to best utilize your experience.

For whatever reason, the video won't load in Firefox, but Internet Explorer works.

Metal Storm Solid

Eat your heart out, John Kruger.

Trade Notification

It's been a great year at Generic Student Employment Co. In my time at my Generic Student Job, I hold the record for most individual membership sales, highest (and second and third highest) cashouts in one day, have trained more new employees than anyone else (other than my old boss), and am currently counted on to help the company through a difficult and unique transition period. Because of this, the timing is perfect to announce that I am requesting a trade to a new city in the spirit of my new role model. I know, I know. I just signed a long-term contract and gave Generic Student Employment Co. every indication that they could proceed knowing my status was one certainty they could rely on as they focus on other matters, but gosh, I'm just not happy, you know?

All dubious sarcasm aside, Chris Pronger sucks harder, deeper, and longer than any other hockey player has ever sucked. Why sign a five year contract they ask to be traded because your wife doesn't like the city? DON'T SIGN THE CONTRACT THEN. You were within one backup-goalie fuck-up of winning the Stanley Cup in a city that kissed your ass all year and did nothing but tell you and anyone else unfortunate to be in the vicinity how great you are, the best defensemen in the NHL, would-be Conn Smythe winner, and certified Hall of Famer. Plus $6.25 million a year. Not good enough eh? Don't let Jason Smith's stick hit you across the head on your way out of town.

It's louder now...

As much as I my taste in music is gradually becoming more subtle, more refined and a little more exploratory, deep down there lingers a desire for raw, unnecessary pure power. Eight ago I was playing in a tennis tournament in Vernon and my doubles partner, whom I'd met down there, was driving the two of us around town to our match locations. He had his big sub pumping out some phat b-boy tracks, and I asked him why he dug such dope beats, fo-shizzle. He said he didn't really like rap but that it made the sub pound. At the time I thought it odd that the message be dictated by the medium, rather than the other way around. Shouldn't one first like a certain type of music and then buy the right speakers, receivers and source? Seemed to make sense. Then a couple years ago a friend of mine introduced me to the world of high-end analogue audio. He was listening to jazz, female vocals, and classic tunes which were a far cry from the shrieking metal he preferred in high school. Once again, the idea was that the medium chose the message because it sounded better. I'm moving along the same path with my home theatre setup dictating louder, dumber, awesomer movies because they maximize (and justify?) the system (and the cost). Here's the latest addition to the Team.

Thanks for a great ride

In the last two months, the Oilers became the first eighth seen to make it to the Finals, the third team to beat the President's trophy winner in the first round, the third team ever to force a game seven after being down 3-1 in a final and the first Oiler team in sixteen years to make it to the last series. They also overcame a 2-0 deficit for the first time in team history, the loss of the hottest goalie in the playoffs, and a flu virus that hit half the players in the third round. Some people say they failed. I say that it was the most rewarding spring I've ever had, and thanks to a great team for an inspiring run. See you next year!

Gotta love sports.

MacT will save us!

Size matters not. Look at me. Judge me by my size, do you? Hmm? Hmm. And well you should not, for my ally is the Force, and a powerful ally it is. Life creates it, makes it grow. Its energy surrounds us and binds us. Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter. You must feel the Force around you; between you, me, the tree, the rock, everywhere. Yes, even between the land and the ship.

Down 3-1, going back to Carolina. I believe.

I have never seen anything so gay in my entire life

And by gay, I don't mean that it's wrong or vile or soon-to-be-illegal-when-grouped-in-legal-twosomes. I just mean gay. Stay tuned everyone!

I Pity the Fool

In the year 2006, a crack cosmetics unit was sent out to sell a product by a corporation they don't understand. These women promptly escaped from all arguments promotting reason and common sense to the Prince George underground. Today, still wanted by their husbands, they survive as National Vice President of fortune. If you have a sun-parched skin, if no one else can help you exfoliate, and if you can find them, maybe you can hire: The A(rbonne)-Team.

The Galactic Empire

These days it's tiresomely fashionable to criticize the United States for pretty much everything. Actually, since this is always fashionable, it's more accurate to say it's enormously fashionable right now to attack the Bush administration for 9/11 conspiracy theories, failures in Iraq, illegal domestic surveillance, Hurricane Katrina, economic problems, massive conflicts of interests or the overtly Christian influence on foreign policy. Whew. I say tiresome because for Canadians it's an enjoyable passtime to throw darts of condescension towards the U.S., uninformedly mocking their culture and government. Canadians pat themselves on the back when we appear to have morally superceded the Americans in any way, as recently witnessed by Canadian sports reporters applauding Edmonton Oilers fans who cheered the Star Spangled Banner two nights after fans in San Jose booed O Canada two nights previous. While certainly worthy of praise for genuinely applaudable actions, it garnered far more attention than when fans in Vancouver booed the U.S. anthem in January at the World Junior tournament (while cheering on the Russians instead in their semi-final match). It seems Canadians are perfectly willing to criticize themselves in a vacuum, but clamp right up when examining our country's political and social flaws when comparing them to the United States.
So while I sometimes post on the United States and their descent into totalitarianism, I think that such observations should be made with an eye towards our own government, whose current residences should be monitored closely.

Western Conference Champions!!!!!!!

Careful now

Update on U.S. National Security, C.I.A. nominee Michael Hayden.

Boy, I sure am glad I don't want to BOMB the WHITE HOUSE. The President is someone I would never BOMB or wish ill upon. Not being part of AL-QUAEDA or any other TERRORIST ORGANIZATION, WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION are of no interest to me.

Mike Peca ends every series with "It's not me, it's you"

On to the third round! The boys are now one of four teams left in the battle for Lord Stanley's grail. Conference Final Game One goes tomorrow night in Anaheim. 'Tis a time of happiness in Darth Forehand's abode, if also a time to monopolize all conversations with uninterested parties. I include my readers in this category.

Jocks in their natural habitat

Just to show I'm not against making fun of my own kind, here's a more balanced look. Of course, both lists have inherent nerdlian ingredients: Anger and hostility towards others, and video games.

Top Ten Angriest Athletes
Top Twenty-Five Cyber Athletes