About me:
I'm a happily married, boring guy who likes to blend in. I'm 69 years old (the last time I looked) and I try to act my age. I have a Grade 8 education with a B+ in geography. I bank my money. I have grey hair. I was in Grade 3 when JFK was shot. I was 12 when the Leafs last won the Stanley Cup. My new-to-me vehicle is a Toyota Tundra...you got it, bucko... I bought a truck. I now have this urge to ditch my tastefully curated 1980s CD compilation and d/l Grath Brooks songs from Spotify. My political views are veering right. Now that I've done my research, I regret getting vaccinated. I still part my hair, however, and still vote Liberal but will probably support a party with policies more in line with my current outlook; become a neo-Con, as it were. As ever, I still wear sensible leather shoes (polished) and sleeveless undershirts (with neither irony or ironing). My kids yawn in my face. I eat pizza with a knife and fork. I wear slippers in the house, and pyjamas in bed. I'm starting to like birdwatching. A big day for me is cutting the grass and making straight lines. Any dog I've ever owned won't come when I call it. Watching paint dry is more exciting than my life. You probably think I'm kidding... but I'm not
More detail:
I'm kinda shallow and uninteresting. Anything written above grade school level is 'way over my head. During the day, I work my monotonous job, then go home to my lacklustre bungalow and have a carefully mixed drink with my dear wife of nearly 40 years. That poor woman! She must get restless, suffering day after day, in silence, living with her dreary, boring husband, but she loves me too much to say anything...at least, I think she does. After all these years, I can't tell. I wonder sometimes why she hasn't left me for greener pastures. She seems to enjoy TV shows with desert islands and younger men in bathing suits...I ask you, dear reader...do you think she's contemplating a fling? Don't answer. I have a wild side...I just suppress it. For example, when the mood strikes, I release the inner wild man by putting premium gas in my truck, opening the sunroof, then driving around playing soft rock music! I know, right? And in order to keep up with younger 'dudes', I'm experimenting with yoga. This weekend, if the weather's nice, I'll vacuum my truck. Thoroughly. Not that it needs it.
Even More Detail:
I curl all winter. I ride my bikes, fish and cut grass all summer, but I drink beer all year long, except in winter, when I switch to rum and coke. With the delusion typical of an ageing male, I see myself as a cyclist rather than a mere bicycle rider, citing the credo 'Riding a bike is what you DO, but a cyclist is what you ARE'. I read books about sea captains in the age of fighting sail. My taste in literature has been called 'juvenile'-by a sniggering, effete, pansified English teacher-all because I like defined roles...good guys, bad guys and the women that love them. Nothing wrong with that, it just reflects outdated values. Every modern-day head of household needs a place to get away, and my garage is my refuge from the hurly-burly of modern life. I have an FM stereo radio and TV set out there, plus my bar bells, comic books and lots of Mountain Dew. That weightlifting is paying off. I get compliments in chat. Just the other day a female chatter squealed "Woo hoo, Blameo!...you remind me of my ex!" and the other girls in the room signaled their agreement by lolling. I was once compared to Pee Wee Herman for liking my bike so much. It's nice to know I get respect from my peers.
Culture Section
I dream in Gmail
PMS winter solstice, the hereditary gist of a fractal
interior. I buried another yesterday by the back door
Of this expanding universe just before I dreamt in Gmail.
As if all new oracles visit digitally; a reply all Cri de Coeur
From Athens, a bcc promoted punk tour streamed
Via a cave system linked to the romantic history
Of strange quarks, spooky action at a distance. I slid
Down a bank into a northern stream even further than you
Slid, nearby, down a bank of thick snow while you smiled
At me as if you like me now, now that my ass is wet.
At midnight that stream became the border between
New France and my dream of being intelligible.
Then I'm awake in the garage with my firstborn thought,
A thought that sublimates into a braid of snowflakes
To find me an office in the February pension; a warmth
That only makes its way into the deepest pockets.
A novice love that can't help but become a flight risk.
by Liz Howard
Since I copied this from the paper, I better put something about Liz:
http://www.theglobeandmail.com/arts/books-and-media/book-reviews/two-debut-poetry-collections-mix-technical-language-with-themes-of-identity-selfhood-and-race/article24454121/