Working For A Better Day

"Famous is the last thing I wanted to be..."

2006-12-01T13:59:00.000-08:00

I sort of forgot about this guy for a while… and how much ass he kicked. Remembering those days reminds me how much of who I am is based on that dude and his music.
Too bad it ended the way it did, but I doubt I’d be the same guy I am today if it hadn’t.

Blake- I found your post card very exciting. Allow me to elaborate to my readership.

2006-11-13T14:53:00.000-08:00

I received a postcard from Blake yesterday. I was very excited when I looked at the picture.

I was also very confused. On the reverse it was titled: “Blake Agrees: Jackson & Monkeys in union. A suggestion from Jeff Koons”. Well… that’s quite a suggestion I must agree, but I didn’t understand. So I read on: “Brendan, I found your last post on Ben and Liam’s adventures so inspiring that I was left feeling hollow, lonely, and purposeless when considering my own life. And then- something amazing happened…”
And now I will tell you…
It’s all about art- isn’t it? Food for the soul- inspiration to the mind. Energy for thought and emotion. In Blake’s case it’s actually about two things: People and bubbles. That’s right. You see- it began last week when Blake decided to break for a snack between classes. He thought a bit of lunch at a near by pastry shop would be a good treat. “Alvin’s Larger Helpings” was the name of the establishment. Clarissa was the girl behind the counter.
“That one please, Clarissa “ he said, pointing at a delicious-looking rhubarb tart sitting in the glass display chest.
“That’s just the display model so you cant have it, but I have some fresh ones in the back if you’d like?”
“Yes I would like one, thank you”, Blake stammered.
There was a long pause with much eye contact and batting of eyelashes, before Clarissa glided into the back room.
She came out a short while later holding a take-away container wrapped in a pink ribbon with a card attached. The card had her phone number written on it and a message reading “call if you get confused”.
She asked for $1.75 and received it promptly.
Blake left the shop feeling romantically lifted and inspired. He decided that it would be fitting to find some place where it was raining, so he could sit outside, write love poems and smoke a pack of cigarettes.
He found such a place and began. What he came up with he thought was quite brilliant and decided that he would go indoors, dry off, and re-read his work while thinking of Clarissa and eating his tart.
He sat down and opened the take-away container, but in the place of the tart he came across this photograph. For a moment Blake’s heart turned to stone and in that instant he began to feel the most eerie and pariniod feeling. He felt a sudden chill come over him and his skin pimpled in goodsebumps. Then he remembered the card and the phone number…
He paused to take in a meditative breath and collect himself. He reached for the phone- but stopped. In a moment of rationalizing self-talk he realized that if called her while in this passion he might offend her- or say something he would regret. Rather, he decided it would be better to turn this fit to good use and compose an opera.
Heart pounding, he reached for his Laurier Student Planner and flipped to the section entitled “people of resource for Blake when in a fit of passion”, and found one name: Norbert Berthold-Thomas. He dialled the number, but got an answering machine.
“You have reached the chambers of Norbert Berthold-Thomas. I am away from the phone and unavailable… If this is Blake, my address is 27 Teddy Street. The back door is open- make yourself at home.”

Blake made his way to 27 Teddy Street.
Once inside, Mr. Berthold-Thomas greeted him, dressed in a purple smoking jacket and striped trousers.
“Why… are you here?”, he asked rhetorically.
“Well- I have some great ideas for an opera” replied Blake.
“And I will tell you” said Norbert “that you must begin your work immediately. Come with me.”
They descended to what appeared to be the basement of Norbert’s chambers- a massive performance space. The stage was set- a forest. Gathered at the edges of the stage were 3 men (performers) and an orchestra.
“You will have questions,” said Norbert, “but before you ask them we must speak of what you have seen in that photograph- and more importantly, of who you received that photograph from.”
“Her name was Clarissa, sir… we- we are in love.” Blake replied.
“What you have seen… in that take-away package may be the devil. The woman who gave it to you is asking for your help.”
“What shall I do?”
“You will rescue her- free her of her binds. The process will be dangerous… great men will perish.”
“But what- specifically shall I do?”
“You will begin your composition here. We will mould it- refine it- perfect it. Once this is complete you will present it… present it to her… Come, I will introduce you to your men” Norbert replied.
They walked towards the performers. All were wearing floppy white shirts with lace at the collars and cuffs. They sported lavish manes of shoulder-length hair and rapiers that glittered in the twinkling starlight- emanating from the lighting grid above.
Blake held back at the edge of the stage- overcome by this epicentre of gargantuan testosterone that was piercing the dimness of the hall .
Norbert introduced them, “The are The King’s Company, sir”.
“This is Berty” he said of a tall and strapping fellow who’s smile sparkled like diamonds of fresh-fallen snow.
“Pleased to meet you sir!” Berty replied to Blake with a bow of the head.
“This fellow is Duncan”, Norbert said of the next- a shorter man with dark features and a pencil-thin moustache.
“An absolutely stirring pleasure to make your acquaintance sir!”, replied Duncan.
“Finally, we have Renaldo,” Norbert said of the third.
“I enjoy your poems, sir,” said Renaldo, “I’m truly excited to work in your opera.”

A rather interesting conversation ensued. As it turned out, Renaldo and Duncan were mates from Dorking’s Organic Produce (the location just outside of KW). Berty was Norbert’s protégé. The two had been friends ever since the mid 1990’s, when Norbert needed advice on waistcoats while shopping at Bobby Downs’ Silks and Bowties (where Berty was employed as a clerk).
Once everyone had been suitably introduced, work began on the opera.
“I’ve got these notes here-“ said Blake, as he pulled out his manuscript, “I’m going for a sensitive feel. But something dramatic- something large and overwhelming…”
“Something like this, chap?” said Renaldo frankly, as un-buttoned his trousers.
“Thank you- but not precisely what I had in mind, old boy.” replied Blake, fighting for composure.
Wishing to avoid another catastrophically significant misinterpretation of his ideas, Blake then used a series of oil paintings, coloured birds, and copper piping to illustrate the messages he was trying to convey through his music (for which he just won a cash prize from the Waterloo Engineering faculty). Yet the message was still somewhat retarded. It wasn’t until Blake added 7 litres of Huff Estate’s Cabernet Franc/Sauvignon to the mixture that The King’s Company instantly understood.
It took several days before the opera was ready for presentation. It was a period of tireless work and smoking on Blake’s part. During the process Blake contacted Him by phone, posing as an Italian Opera critic recommending this new work “Love and pastries, soggy with tears, in Vienna” and arranged that He would host the inaugural presentation at his mansion on Tumble-down Gooseberry Drive. To this, the fiend agreed.
The final day of rehearsal was a Saturday. To celebrate, Blake, Norbert and The King’s Company decided to take a tootle about town and distribute invitations and the opera. Norbert also took the time to explain to Blake the larger details of the rescue plan. While the Devil was overcome with the passion imparted by the operatic masterpiece, Blake would sneak into the his private viewing box and whisk Clarissa out of that same box and off into the moon-lit evening. The Kings Company would be standing by uncase of trouble…

The great night arrived, but unfortunately the Opera was a disaster. To make matters worse, Blake had come down with a cough and was unable to keep quiet during the snatching and whisking part of the operation and was discovered by his enemy.

“You fuckhead… It’s incredibly insulting that you would assume you could just barge in here and steal this woman from me… Bring your men and meet me on Cobbler’s Lane at 1:43 in the morning tomorrow. We will settle this in blood and honour. In the mean time, this opera is fucking hideous and I’m very tired… goodnight.”
And so he left, taking Clarissa forcefully by the hand.

Blake was destroyed…
Norbert approached, “Blake- you know what you must do. The Kings Company and I will accompany you. Prepare yourself.”

Rain tumbled down and the gods hammered thunder overhead as Blake and The King’s Company burst- rapiers brandished- onto the stones of Cobbler’s Lane. There was a moment of silence, as the fighters anxiously surveyed the scene.
And, at once, their foes descended upon them.
Blake and The King’s Company engaged- striking with deadly and calculated precision as their adversaries fell- like crimson leaves from a tree in a cold autumn wind.
Within this cacophony of bloodshed, Blake heard the sweet and honeyed music of Clarissa’s voice in the distance. He turned to see her, held fast with leather straps, to the back of a frustrated Sow (named Norma). At the sight of his beloved, Blake fought on- harder and more determined.

Blake and The King’s Company danced about the cobbled streets- playing at blow and thrust- moving as if in a waltz. They quickly gained the upper hand… until that bubbly-faced goblin- that growth of evil appeared, with sword so-mighty, and leapt unto the Frey.
Old Norbert, sword naked as the gnashing teeth of Jesus, charged in defiance. Weapons clashed. Norbert slipped through his enemy’s guard and guided his weapon deep into his opponent’s shoulder. In response, this devil dropped back and executed a volt- so powerful, it sliced through Berthold-Thomas’s back, cleaving him is two.
Blake attacked. Sweat fell like rain from his brow as he wrestled his adversary back and forth about the battleground.
Locked in combat and tiring, Blake’s foot slipped on the wet streets while he prepared a parry. Then- with one prodigious stroke, the child of torment sunk his hell-blade beep into Blake’s chest…

The earth stopped… Angels wept and all that was holy and just, gasped in shock and terror as Blake sunk to the sobbing ground.

Without hesitation, Berty took up the challenge. He stooped and took the bleeding hand of his beloved and wounded leader and said in a soft and committed voice, “I’ll have a go, old boy”. In preparation he raised his weapon, assuming a chiselled French Cavalry guard, and advanced… in an instant he was gone- cut down by the very face of terror.
Duncan and Renaldo responded. Swords held high, they attacked simultaneously in an attempt to overpower or confuse this creature of disgust and repulsion. But it was to no avail and they were dispatched.
With the last of The King’s Company vanquished, Blake could shed no more tears… for the wells were parched. He raised himself, muscles screaming, to a battle position.
A fierce tempest of struggle ensued. Strike responded to strike as the fighters shed battle armour like scales over the fearful stones of Cobbler’s Lane.
Blake’s strength waning, he faltered. The bubbly-faced vermin dashed to a thrust, bringing his weapon’s tip hurtling towards Blake’s throat.
At the last second, his cherished Clarissa broke free and rushed to his side. Giving herself to the blade, she took the death-stroke meant for her lover, saving his life…
Blake’s heart turned to stone. He could not feel for pain. He could not see for hate. Turning his weapon into an extension of his devotion and soul he annihilated the killer of his love… the destroyer of his hopes… the decider of his fate.
As the rain tumbled down he clenched the lifeless body of his dreams- holding her high towards to heavens and howling… howling like the fiend that slue her.

Lost in hell and hopeless, Blake was picked up at the side of the road by Jeff Koons, who brought him to his residence and nursed him back to health. During his convalescence, Blake regaled Jeff with the story of the previous few days. Jeff was stolen by the heroic tale and was moved to create the next item in his Michael Jackson series in honour of Blake, his Clarissa and his fallen comrades. It was to be a piece that offered the viewer a sense of remembrance, sacrifice, and hope for the future. The work was featured on the postcard I received from Blake yesterday...

Hold your Horses!

2006-11-10T22:50:00.000-08:00

A new post is coming- I have gripping news of Blake’s adventures (explaining his silence on the blogosphere). I am, however, ridiculously busy at the moment and haven’t had the time to complete this latest entry. Stay tuned for Sunday (at best).
Bert

I found the most recent posts on Liam and Ben’s blogs intriguing. Now here’s what really happened:

2006-10-24T10:12:00.000-07:00

Liam and Ben have not been posting much in the past week or so… I will tell you why: they’ve been busy… I tell ya- its been one hell of a ride. It all started with a choice they made. Instead of doing schoolwork and prepping for exams they decided to vacation together in Yanbu' al Bahr- catch some rays- have a dip… yeah? Talk to the locals. The idea transpired by way of somewhat of an awkward moment they had while drinking tea, sharing apple pies, and playing Tidily-Winks at a Brampton Smoking lounge on the coat tales of Thanksgiving. We wont get into what the moment was or what it involved, but we can settle on the fact that it inspired a great deal of soul-searching and critical thinking in our two young heroes. It was Ben who settled on Yanbu as a destination- although Liam felt rather strongly about a stay in Nepal (to visit Cassandra-Lee). As we all know, Ben hates Cassandra-Lee and refused to do so much as begin packing his suitcases if Liam wanted to twist this meaningful journey into something “Silly like that”. Liam was slightly offended at this outburst, but managed to contain himself long enough to order an additional slice of pie and thus, calm his nerves. It was agreed that they would allow themselves 24hrs to pack and then they would be off. While he was packing, Liam had decided it would be wise to bring some notes with him so that he could do a little studying on the road. He tucked them into his tote bag and smiled as he thought of what a good little boy he was. Ben, on the other hand, decided to bring pyjamas and cigarettes. Only. And some money… And so, the journey began. Last Tuesday, Liam and Ben boarded their flight at Pearson International bound for Yanbu. They knew it would be a long and depressingly boring flight and were prepared: Ben had his fuzzy pink swaddling blanket and Liam was equipped with a few inspirational notes written by his new friend Roberta Townsend (who he had met while looking for a co-op position in Waterloo). Dinner was served early on the flight and neither of our travelers were particularly hungry. Liam refused his meal entirely, giving the stewardess a pouty face until she took it away. Ben opted for a light salad (as somewhat of a compromise to appease the confused flight attendant) but insisted that it be served with the complete absence of meat products. Before settling in to his meal, Ben daintily sprinkled a “light” raspberry vinaigrette over the mouth-wateringly crisp and succulent greens. The meal was, understatedly, a watershed of breathtaking magnitude and opulence that left Ben feeling spiritually refreshed and awakened. He asked the stewardess meekly if there might be “any more to try?”… And more was promptly served. Other passengers took interest and ordered as well. Then some excellent Vouvray was served (which got everyone very excited)… Once all and sundry were suitably warm and chipper, Liam decided that it would be the perfect time to share some of the new Irish Country Jigs he’s been rehearsing during his spare time. As he was describing (and demonstrating) the dances to his fellow passengers, a young man named Cyrell-Allyn Smythe (a Stratford-based hospital lab technician) picked up his fiddle and began to play. The cabin erupted in shouts and claps as more travelers joined in the dancing. Port and Cigars were distributed. By this time, Liam had regained his appetite and was feeling rather peckish. Trouble was, he felt too embarrassed to talk to the stewardess after his childish displays when she tried to feed him earlier. He felt (with all the drinking and dancing going on in the cabin) that he might be able to slip away un-noticed into the galleys and fix himself a snack. He descended into the quiet and deserted lower levels of the hold. He came across a door labelled “Earl Rudolf Dumplings, Executive Chef”. The adrenaline surged and he began to salivate. He entered the kitchen and commenced his search. Overcome with enthusiasm, he started humming to himself as he rummaged through the cold table, carving out a healthy portion of buttered ham and cauliflowers. Once he had gathered his meal, he decided he felt like pretending he was about to go on a little picnic, and wrapped it up in a chequered handkerchief in order to contribute to the fantasy. He then left the galley and walked with his meal down the hall in search of a quiet room to eat in. he found another door that he thought might be the staff water closet. He opened to door and walked into what appeared to be an empty office. He felt this would do as well as anything else, so he cleared the desk and sat down to eat. He was half way through the meal- going full-tilt, shoving fits-fulls of ham into his mouth when he was rudely interrupted by Martha Billings (an attractive, middle aged Cornish Hen with a striking figure and impeccable taste in business wear, who had been in the midst of sorting out an overload of paperwork when she left her office for the staff water closet). An argument ensued. Fortunately Liam recalled some principals he had learned during a conflict resolution course he had taken during high school, and was able to dissolve the confrontation. As tempers cooled a “get to know you” sort of conversation began to develop. As time went on Martha told Liam about her days as a factory floor manager at the F.A.G. Plant in Stratford. Liam thought it was strange- and rather unfortunate- that they had not met when he was a Stratford resident. As the conversation progressed, Liam found out that Martha was a Calculus expert who had graduated from Waterloo University in the early 1990s. Not being able to find employment where she could use her teeming mathematical talents contributed to her irritability, she explained, as she sorted out her files and papers, giving Liam more room on the desk to spread out his chequered handkerchief. Liam remembered his notes. It was suggested that they get together shortly (maybe after some sleep) so that she might review his papers and offer some suggestions. They parted friends. The atmosphere was calming down when Liam returned to the seating area. Liam told Ben about his new friend and how excited he was to show her his excellently prepared notes. Ben told him that he thought she sounded “nice” and that he looked forward to meeting her in the morning. Night descended upon our travelers and as the hours crept on Liam and Ben drifted slowly off to sleep. That’s when it happened... At some point during the night, Ben’s ear infection crept from his head and silently made its way through the dimly lit and sleeping cabin, into the cargo hold. Ben had strictly told his ailment not to go gallivanting off at inappropriate times, but lately he had been having difficulties make an impact on the young and rebellious ear infection… So, from within the hold it proceeded to rudely snoop through Ben’s luggage- soiling his bed-cloths and his oral hygiene devices. These actions excited the infection and, in a hysterical fit of delirium- unable to control itself, the illness proceeded to Liam’s tote bag, where it stole his swimming trunks and wrote inappropriate sexual comments on his calculus notes… Exhausted, following a night of revelry, the young ear infection wearily made its way back Ben. Unfortunately it had left a horrid mess of Turkish pipe tobacco and Trappist ale in the billiard lounge. You see- during its transgressions in the cargo hold, it was accosted by the captain’s gout, who was likewise out for a late-night frolic. They retired to the billiard lounge and got so drunk they turned the room entirely upside down… In the morning, Liam and Martha met in her office. Liam had his tote bag and proudly presented his notes to her. The connection between them was cosmic… even though the notes were covered in disgusting sexual references, Martha’s heart was stolen by Liam’s budding mathematical genius. The captain’s gout and Ben’s ear infection had also formed a deep and lasting bond. The result was an immediate return trip to Toronto, where Liam spent the remainder of the week in Martha’s deluxe lakeshore condo… Ben’s experience was slightly less romantic and involved daily therapy sessions with the captain (Jonathon Coddlesworth) and himself in the company of a psychiatrist. Welcome back boys…

The Military Commissions Act

2006-10-17T05:13:00.000-07:00

If this doesn’t scare the shit right out of you…

Some exciting highlights include:

A broad and sweepingly indiscriminate definition of “enemy combatant”
The gathering of Information by way of the partial drowning of interrogation subjects
Once arrested under the act, the arrest cannot be appealed
Infinite terms of detention

Strange Lights and Resolutions

2006-10-05T13:27:00.000-07:00

Get focussed- on this

Here’s a bit of strategic management for you-

2006-10-04T22:25:00.000-07:00

"The humanizing of War! You might as well talk of the humanizing of Hell...
As if war could be civilized! If I'm in command when war breaks out I shall issue my order—"The essence of war is violence. Moderation in war is imbecility.
Hit first, hit hard, and hit everywhere!" "
Sir Reginald Bacon,
The Life of Lord Fisher of Kilverstone,
Admiral of the Fleet

Brandon Is An Asshole At Work, Episode 12,937

2006-10-03T13:33:00.000-07:00

So,
The whole day stared with a 6.5 hour cube van delivery adventure for the furniture store. 3 quarters through it I got a call from Alfonso (assistant Manager) at the liquor store. I took a look at my call display and decided to let him leave a message (as my answering service would likely give him a warmer reception than anything I could afford at that moment). When I checked the message, he said exactly what he always says:

"Brandon, Alfonso at the liquor store”- let me paraphrase the rest of the tired conversation:

We’re fucked on scheduling because some shit called in sick (read: had a hankering for a few rounds of golf/just didn’t feel like showing up)
I know you told us that you weren’t available before your scheduled 5:30pm shift, but we’re calling you anyway to see if you can come in early

There.
So I call him back (I like Alfonso - don’t get me wrong). I tell him that I’m still barrelling down the highway like a cannonball and I’m not sure when I’ll hit home, but I’ll get right in there as soon as I can.
(Time passes)
I roll in there around 5pm (honestly, the best I could do). I slam a cash-drawer on and try to get frosty. I’m feeling good- I did my bit. Made a contribution. Then I see the fulltime shift fuck-off early… like- HALF-A-FUCKING-HOUR EARLY. I’m thinking here… I’m thinking: “I showed up early to fill a labour hole and the dudes who are already there leave EARLY?”… This is a moment of true, uninhibited, natural liquor store behaviour. The kind you’d only see from the point of view of the national geographic photographer behind a bird-blind. You’d think I’d be used to it.
So I spend most of the evening throwing around cases of beer that should have been unloaded by the previous shift. And you know- I’m just a little pissed. Not too much- just a bit irritated… but it was enough to get the dick-head in me stirred up- looking for some shit toss…
Then it happened:
I hear a noise up at the front as I’m stocking coolers. Then this chick walks passed me sorta fast. That wasn’t the interesting part- the interesting part is next. There’s a guy following her. He looks like he might have had a few drinks- he also looks like total shit. He says something like “hey- slow down. Are you that embarrassed to be seen with me?” in a classically cocky redneck sort of voice.
I’m thinking…
-well, you know what I’m thinking…
Normally I let this shit go- I see people making retards of themselves in that store on a daily basis.
So- I’m in the process of getting back to finishing the day-shifts work when I mosey over to the checkout area and am asked by the girl working the cash if I “don’t mind checking that guy out- he may have been drinking”.
Little background story here:
Lately I’ve taken to wearing an apron to protect the khakis I like to wear to work. I wear the apron like a server at a restaurant would- folded over and tied just below the waist.
So… I stroll up to the area, just in time get a good straight look at the dude as he follows his chick up the checkout (I’m looking to see if he’s stumbling or anything). I’m now following these two sorta close here, and the dude turns around and asks me how I’m doin’.
I’m like, “not bad man…”.
I’m about to turn around and head back to the beer fridge when the idiot- the fucking retard says “hahaha- nice skirt”- referring to my apron. I’m like- holy shit, 5000 nasty things to say flashed through my mind as I felt the sharp twinge of adrenaline explode in my chest. Time –literally- stopped as I wandered through my mind and hand-picked the best from my verbal arsenal. All that came out was “…you wanna try it on?”.
I was actually pretty happy with that one.
Then he made a big mistake… he got louder, turned to face me, opened his big dumb eyes really wide and said “yeah man- then I could like, flash people and shit! hahaha”…
Whoa… this dude just didn’t get it… so I humoured him by acknowledging his retarded joke with a few smiles and chuckles… then I walked through the checkout behind him and picked up his 4 pack of coolers from the counter- by reaching right in front of cash-clutching hand. To that, I added a dose of “You know… I don’t think you’re getting served tonight”. Here’s what followed:
Stupefied look: “why the hell not???”
“It looks to me like you’re been drinking.”
“I haven’t had a drink in 3 months!”
I then congratulated him on this miraculous achievement and told him I didn’t believe him.
He continued to resist.
I told him that my opinion was the only one that mattered at that point and that I wasn’t opening the topic up for a round robin debate. I then kicked his sorry ass out of the store.
Then the chick piped up “those coolers were for me (full of shit)… I want them!”
I said, “If you’re going to come in with guys who are intoxicated or who want to behave belligerently, you’re not getting served- that’s all there is to it.” Then I walked into the office and closed the door.
…Yeah. I felt bad for her, but for Christ sake…
The whole incident was flavoured by a problem I had with another customer earlier last week whose ass I wasn’t able to kick as effectively- mostly because we were too busy… however, I won’t forget his face.
I’m not really this much of an asshole all the time- just a few times- when its warranted.
And in other news…
I was walking home from my insane family’s house the other night when I walked into a r4estaurant dumpster. And I discovered a message written on it. And it read… “Punx run this town”… yup- that’s right. Are you as relieved as I was?

2006-09-15T13:54:00.000-07:00