Tuesday, February 20, 2018

ROBBLOG #701 Community-Minded


Look at me!

Trying to get involved in the community and be a "True Islander". I have finally figured out- I think, why I still feel a little funny living here in the Cowichan.
I mean funny in a sense of trying to feel settled in my new city.
Grounded.
People have told me it will take a year or more to feel truly "at home".
I believe it.

There has been a lot up upheaval in the past year for the Husband and I. Just go back to blogs in mid-August and read about how we felt leaving "old home". I am not regretting this major move or looking backwards but still, the words to describe how I feel some days would include these:
unsettled, confused, disconnected, lost, floating.
Remember too, as of February 23rd, the Mister and I will be Islanders for 6 months!

I have described this process of cutting the "Ontario Apron Strings" similar to the way the lift locks work in Peterborough, Ontario. If you are not familiar with the Lift Locks- Google them.

The Lift Locks in Peterborough, Ontario
Picture us- The Mister and I, as the right pontoon in the upper position. As we left Orillia behind the pontoon starts to go down. We travel across Canada and get to the Island.
Pontoon goes down more. The Island pontoon- the left one, starts to raise.
We get on the Island and eventually move into Palm Villa.
The right pontoon- that's Orillia, goes down a little more.
By Christmas the right pontoon is almost level with the left pontoon that is slowly creeping up. The left pontoon- the Island pontoon, is Duncan and the Cowichan as we start a new life.
We figure out streets.
Meet people.
Get a new Dentist.
A Vet.
A Chiropractor.
The Duncan pontoon moves up a little more.

Now the new year is almost two months old and the left pontoon- Duncan, is above the right pontoon- Orillia.

Are you following this?

As time moves on we are leaving Orillia behind. The right pontoon edges down.
We are not hearing from as many former friends and family members as we first did.
I am trying not to go on about the temperate Island weather in phone calls, texts or e-mails. It is probably pissing people off.
I know it is...especially with the photo a week ago of Tom cutting grass in shorts. In February!
I don't mean to piss people off. I just want folks back east to know there is another option besides bone-chilling temperatures and mountains of snow. I have made an "End-of-February" resolution to lay off about the weather and how wonderful things are here in the "Canadian Tropics".

In place of former friends and family back in Ontario, we are making new friends and bonding with a "new" kind of family here in BC.
The left pontoon moves up...

As I said back at the top of this ROBBLOG, I am trying to get involved with this community. I have volunteered to be the secretary/assistant for two adjudicators during the Cowichan Music Festival. A festival like the Kiwanis Festival back in "old home". It's been fun and I have met some new people.
Tom's been coming along as well to shake hands and meet "new" folk.
Look at us!

I must admit, I am starting to chip away at those words like "disconnected" and "floating".
I am even having thoughts of resurrecting Double R Productions Theatre! I still have a lot to learn about the theatre community on Vancouver Island but it seems to be a diverse and active one.
I need more contacts before I can proceed.
I wonder-
Can Sister Mary Margaret entertain an Island audience?
Gawd help us and these Islanders- maybe even Hank??
Would Ernest and Sadie Flynn be made welcome?
What about Lady Wyndemere and her Fan?

I don't really know how it will all turn out but I am starting to gather information and think about the whole process once again.

I think the left pontoon just moved up...a little more.

Sunday, February 18, 2018

ROBBLOG #700 Am I Mad?

Am I Mad?

I must be mad!
700 blogs and I am still writing?
This could be a book. In fact a couple of years ago I had planned to put a selection of blogs into a book called "Banana Oil" and self-publish. You may remember the term "Banana Oil" comes from my Dad. He used to say it when there was something he thought to be ridiculous or crazy, so rather than say that's stupid or crazy or that does not compute, he'd simply say- "Banana Oil!"

I miss him.

Another typical day in America last week, I see.
More innocents slaughtered.
Americans- sane or insane, loving their right to bear arms- or so they believe.
More blinders on.
Little outcry.
More sweeping wrongs under the "red" carpet. They wouldn't have to look far to see a country that sets a good example or at least a better one. Of course, most Americans don't even know we exist. They probably think it's the "norm" to have tragedies like this so they can unfurl their Stars and Stripes and build another memorial to the dead.
It's good business too.
For America.

Kids that survived this latest masacre are speaking out. Television networks are placing them front and centre- for ratings no doubt, with their vocal vows to change "'America".
Ain't gonna happen kids.
If there was change afoot, it would have started with school massacres years ago. The "right" in America is always "right" and now they are in control of their Senate and the NRA and gun manufacturers are loving it. Can Mr. Cheeseface even say the word gun?
I don't believe he can.

The "right" in the US never considers guns being a bad thing.
"I have a gun to protect my family"- they cry. "It is my"'American" right and priviledge.
Unfurl the flag.
Hand on heart.
Sing the anthem.
American IS beautiful- or so they proclaim.

Amercians always hope it's someone else's child, or brother or sister.
Killings like this are a blip on the radarscope of American life and these latest murders will be old news next week. Don't kid yourself fellow Canadians, a watered down version of right-wing, American values could happen here in our wonderful Canada.
Case in point Andrew Scheer in Alberta or Doug Ford in Ontario.
I don't believe we'll ever take guns to the streets or local schools or concerts like down south but still some asshole, somewhere in Canada is thinking "good job" but it ends there.
With a thought.

Yes, Americans are wired differently but the saddest difference of all is when an expat Canadian speaks out as an American.
On Twitter I follow Eric McCormack (Will & Grace) and kd Lang. I imagine Mr. McCormack holds an American passport. Ms Lang maybe just lives the good life in LAH. It's interesting to see their tweets and re-tweets.
They have changed.
In America they are "American". Oh they act all Canadian when they are on this side of the border but when they are feeding an "American" audience, you'd hardly recognize them.
Even they have fallen into that American "bombastic" style of citizenship or landed immigrant status.
What do the Yankees call it- " A Green Card".

A week ago when Prime Minister Justin Trudeau was in California, there was a meet and greet of sorts after his talk in San Francisco I believe. I saw photos of former Canadians- like Seth Rogen.
He was all smiles, wearing his Canada name tag badge proudly on his left chest. Smiling for the cameras next to someone of little importance.
Ahhh. Being Canadian in America.
Does it get any better?

All this stuff that goes on there just south of us or in our case to the east and south of us. It was one of the main reasons The Mister and I in our retirement opted for Vancouver Island British Columbia and not a winter home in Florida.
It's just too crazy down there at times- and we wouldn't have felt safe.
I mean one day you could drive to the local market to pick up some oranges and some A-hole hiding in the cereal section with an AK whatever starts to kill innocent shoppers.
It could happen.

Here in BC we are surrounded by temperate beauty and still fly our Canadian Red Maple Leaf flag on the front of our house.
We know the politics.
The people.
Our neighbours.
Our politicians are fluffy entertainment.
Here we have the feeling of being Canadian.
We don't have to pretend we're someone else living in an insane land for the almighty American buck or gun.

O Canada.
Our Home and Native Land.
Yah. I'll just stay here....thanks very much.

Note: The direction this Blog took today was not the direction I had planned on taking or the topic that I had planned to write about. I don't particularly like sharing these thoughts but I have. So there.
Geesh.
Writing eh...I must be mad!

Friday, February 16, 2018

ROBBLOG #699 Bare Arms- Gag!


WTF is going on in this world?

Former Ontario PC leader Patrick Brown gets vocal about CTV news and not in a good way.
CTV say's Browns accusations concerning the reporting of his sexual escapades are "groundless".

The group "Hedley" is being accused of improper behaviour with younger fans a few years back and radio stations have pulled their music and the Juno's have pulled them from the TV Awards show.
Please note: Swisssh Radio has not pulled Hedley from the playlist.

Sexual accusations aside, for something completely different, let's zero in on bare flesh.

Former PM Kim Campbell has gone apeshift over female newscasters baring arms!
NO! I don't mean guns.
I mean their own, womanly arms. Their bare, freeking arms!
I think I am with you on this one Kimster.

Who really wants to see a lady read the news with bare arms anyway? Now, I am not saying I completely understand what Former PM Kim Campbell said about bare arms and female news hosts. You see, I don't know what the word she used to describe her disgust actually means. I do have to say I am not sure why lady newsreaders would want to flaunt bare arms- unless they were told to do so in this "manly" world of ours to keep their jobs. I think that's how it worked in Don Draper's world in that TV show about straight men in the 1950's.
Some things never change.

Let's be fair, if attention is drawn to lady newscasters going bare-skinned how long will it be before men want to try it?
Yeech!
Large, flabby biceps featuring tuffs of old man hair on the triceps.
Bleeck!
A farmer's tan under studio lights!
Baruump!
I honestly cannot think of one male newsperson in this country I would appreciate seeing bare-armed- can you? Maybe George Mark Paul Stroumboulopoulos but then he is not a newscaster. Not really.
Stop flapping...
Present Ontario Premier Kathleen Wynn goes bare-armed in interviews. Although, she should stop.
Now, Kate, this comes from a Gay Man- a former Ontarian, who only has your best interests at heart.
Cover up.
Really.
I mean it. Draw the shades.
Does Andrea go about showing off her ample, fleshy arms?
No. Indeed she does not.
I checked her Facebook page and nothing there but scarves and sensible blazers.
Now Katy, I am not saying you have full, fleshy arms- you do not. They are just scrawny little sticks that hang limply by your sides at times.
Athletic and healthy as they may be Dear, it's still a no.

Look, I have to be honest I, mention Ontario Politicians here because I really don't know about
BC Politicians- not yet. Former BC Premier Christy Clark seems to wear blazers and a sari or two for the most part. I did find a few photos of her bare arms in the middle of a blazing British Columbia summer but that gal has an excuse-
She rocks a pair of heels!
Now, there is Green Leader Andrew Weaver. He's half of a collation government with the NDP here in BC. Politicians in this province do make strange bedfellows.
I hope they use protection so there are no future little "coalitions" running around the Island.
I haven't seen a photo of Andrew in heels.
Just as well.

Back in Ontario, I have heard that Patrick Brown fills out a Speedo  swimsuit nicely but that comes from a friend who works in a national television newsroom and you can't take that for gospel.
It's is just TV news after all.

Gag...
 
When I watch the ladies on CTV's The Social, they are sometimes bare-limbed. Now, I don't see talk show host Harry Connick Jr make the same fashion statement. I have never seen former
PM Brian Mulroney's son Ben in a tank top.
If it happened more of the former and not the latter thank you.

Now, I have left the best for last but there is an unfair advantage.
We've seen him in shorts, a tank top and trunks. Running shirtless, sitting shirtless. Speaking shirtless and just generally being bare chested.
Of course, I am talking about our Prime Minister Justin Trudeau.

Again...unfair advantage but if the shoes or tank top- or Speedo bathing costume for that matter, fits-
wear it dammit!

Tuesday, February 13, 2018

ROBBLOG #698 I See Jesus


Back in the 80's, I once had a conversation of sorts with a Catholic Priest- who wasn't wearing his collar at the time. Well, I mean a guy wearing a collar in a Gay Bar? Such a turn off. Shaving your head and painting it blue would have the same effect.

No. He wasn't converting me.
Baptising Me.
Teaching me the Rosary.
Lecturing me on Catholic Dogma or anything else like that.
~wink, wink~ ~nudge, nudge~
He did light my candle though as I remember and I believe I almost screamed- "JESUS!!!"

Why do I bring this up after so many decades of "silence"?
The Mister and I watched a movie last evening called "The Good Catholic".
A handsome, ruby-lipped Priest inadvertently falls for a member of the opposite sex who came to him in a Friday Night confessional. She toys with the Father and tells him she is dying. She also performs at a local coffee shop in a show she calls "Watch Jane Die".
They have an instant rapport this Priestly fellow and Jane- the one who is dying.

We never find out what she's dying of or how long she has to live.
She seems in pretty good spirits and Jane is the kind of girl you could have a fun time with after a few Vodka martinis- and I don't mean sexual fun, just a fun time.
It's interesting how the part of the Father is played by a cute young guy with terrific hair and nice lips- although the makeup department does apply a little too much Max Factor Ruby Red #32 at times.

As she talks about coffins and burial versus cremation, she begins to fall for this man in the collar and the holy man begins to fall for her. A stodgy older Priest back at the church is dismayed at the prospect of the young, handsome Priest being "involved" with someone- let alone a woman.
A Franciscan Father- also working at the church, has a lighter tone and I wondered why he was a religious man in the first place. He seemed to be having too much fun living within Church rules.
Maybe he was afraid to live in the real world.
Egads!


The Handsome Priest fights with his conscience- not unlike a handsome Prince fighting with a Dragon, trying to do the right thing. He does eventually. I think.
I know I could have cuddled him to my breast running my fingers through his thick, brown hair. Just to help him and soothe him of course. Heh. Heh. Heh.

The realization of the chance at a new life finally comes after the older Priest delivers a homily about God and Love being the same or something like that. It must have stirred something within the younger Priests heart and loins, for he trots off in search of a future.

The movie has one of those endings where the individual audience member decides for him or herself what happens next.
Cripes I hate that.
I am the audience.
I am watching your story.
I am not here to write your ending just because you can't decide how to tie the story up in a neat little package.
So, you leave the ending dangling there as the credits roll.
It's a sin I am sure.

How awful it must be to live a life serving someone you aren't even sure is really there at all. A mystical deity from a book that flew up to Heaven one day to be with his Dad, after a horrific death and resurrection. A death that millions of people celebrate as redemption and forgiveness of sins.
Pardon me, but isn't this year of our Lord 2018?
Oh well, whatever turns your crank and apparently this young Priest's crank was turned by the dying Jane.

Do I hear someone screaming "JESUS!!"- maybe so.

Saturday, February 10, 2018

ROBBLOG #697 Helmut Law- He Sucks and Other Stories

 
I have finally found something I don't particularly like or agree with on this Island of mine.
 
In order to ride one's bicycle, one must wear a helmet.
WTF?
Yup, it's Provincial Law here from the late 90's. You are required to plop a "dorky plastic hat" on your head if you want to ride a trail or street. Back in Ontario of course, we had the choice to fall from our bike and have a resultant head injury and brain damage.
In Ontario we had the right to lay in a hospital bed drooling while wearing an adult diaper because we are incontinent.
 
It was and is the "Ontario Way".
The Universe blesses Kathleen and those Liberals before her. I expect it was the Liberals who proposed and made this "do as you please" statute a part of Ontario law.
 
Back in old home we had the right to choose to have one's hair blow in the wind or to have it scrunched up under a stupid, made-in-china, hat that while it may protect the head, it doesn't do a damn thing when it comes to the protection of arms, legs, spinal column, nose, cheeks, fingers, hands, the "manly bits" or feet.
 
So, I am to feel uncomfortable to appease some British Columbian MPP who believes he/she did their best to keep me from getting a brain injury while taxpayers pay exorbitant amounts to keep me in diapers?
Poppycock and crappy doodle.
 
Anyhoo, I have ordered a helmet for myself and The Mister which will arrive in a few weeks from amazon.ca. The helmets look like a cross between a cap and a riding hat one might wear while on horseback. In the meantime, no bike riding.
 
Brain-protecting Helmet
HELMET LAW SUCKS! (apologies to anyone named "Helmut Law")
 
It's a $100 fine to go bare-headed and if you get caught and ticketed and don't pay up- as apparently many people in BC do not do because they also don't agree with the law, you'll have difficulty renewing your licence because ICBC takes over and says No!
 
ICBC by the way, is the ridiculous, provincially run, insurance company that is 1.3 billion dollars in debt this year which the NDP/Green Party coalition government intends to prop up to the tune of 1 billion dollars leaving a .3 billion dollar shortfall.
I don't even know how much point three billion is but I am sure I don't have that much in my bank account.
 
A final helmet point. If it's against the law to go without a helmet on a bike ride, is it against the law to go commando whilst riding the pathways and streets? I mean a tumble and the "boys" can cause a boy to scream like a two year old.
 
The weather has taken a turn towards spring here in the Cowichan. A few 14c and 12c days with lovely sunshine. Trees along the trails are budding and there's a distinct green wash as you look into the woods. Of course there are already green plants and bushes that are here year round. The grass is getting longer and in a week or so the lawn mower will be out.
The Mister tells me he has the battery pack plugged in already!
 
I have my artificial spring bouquet in the red cast-iron planter out front at Palm Villa. It's the same arrangement I used on the verandah back at Pine Tree House only unlike back in "old home", I have the spring bouquet out now. In February no less! Back east it was always out in April and certainly around Easter if Easter fell in April and not March or wherever in hell Easter falls!
 
It looks quite nice and the yellow of the lillies and the purple of the delphiniums match the colours in the real pot of primulas sitting on a table between the Muskoka Chairs. 
How nice.
Pine Tree House Brugmansia
Yesterday, I ordered a Brugmansia (Angel's Trumpet) from a nursery in Crofton. It will be yellow like the plant we left behind in Orillia. That will be ready for pick up in May. From the same nursery "Island Passions", I also ordered a 3 foot palm. This nursery has crossed two varieties of palms and come up with one very hardy specimen. Only a dozen or so are available every year. We pick ours up in mid-March.
 
I can hardly wait.

Tuesday, February 6, 2018

ROBBLOG #696 Just When You Thought...


Just when I thought I had already seen the most beautiful part of the Cowichan Valley- The Pacific Ocean, I gazed upon something new here on this wondrous Island.

First of all, the Mister and I took a tour along the Pacific ocean from Maple Bay to Genoa Bay. We wanted to see where the float plane terminal was located.
Salt Spring Island too our left was so close you could see the hydro wires and antenna on the hillsides. We haven't been to Salt Spring yet but we will take our bikes on the short ferry ride from Crofton to Ganges this summer.

As we drove along the sea shore, we looked for signage for an airport.
We soon found it.
Gate H- standing for "Harbour Air", was at the end of a series of docks that any harbour or port might have for docking boats but because of the float plane's wingspan, the dock or gate H was at the far end of the series of docks.

There was a small white building standing there. A sliding glass door locked down with a huge bolt lock- almost larger than the building itself!! The little building had a blue letter "H" on a post in front of it.
Inside the small white, clapboard building was the check-in counter for Harbour Air as well as Salt Spring Air. Nearby and behind where we stood looking into the "terminal building" was the waiting room- a wooden Bench, outdoors under a wooden gazebo roof.
Quaint and cute all at the same time. Float Planes rides are priced anywhere from $89 to $129 or more depending on the time of day you wish to fly to Canada Place on Vancouver's Ocean front. The trip takes 20 minutes. A bit longer if your flight makes one one stop on Salt Spring Island on the way to the mainland.

We continued along the road to Genoa Bay. Countless Island folk have told us we must go to Genoa Bay to eat at the sea shanty called- Genoa Bay Café.
We pulled into the lot.
If  Joan Crawford and Rock Hudson had of been standing on the patio, I would have swore it was 1951 and we were in the middle of an old black and white movie.
We didn't stop to eat.
Another time for that. This was a fact-finding mission. Just a pleasant afternoon drive in 15 degree Celsius sunshine. Once there at the Café, we had to return along the same road because it ended at Genoa Bay- just a cliff and ocean beyond.

We drove back towards Maple Bay. On the way in we saw an entrance to properties that said "Kingsview" and wanted to drive up that particular road that appeared to stretch from Maple Bay Road to the top of Mount Tzouhalem.
It did.

Here is where we were gobsmacked.
The houses were beautiful.
Some huge. Some not so huge.
All were taken care off and the landscaping...
Magnificent!
Palms and leafy Arbutus Trees.
Yuccas, Rhody's, Laurel, Sequoias and more.

Mount Prevost and Mount Sicker- with snow
We soon came to an area where some new homes were being constructed. Stopping the van alongside the road we climbed over a small, grass-covered knoll.
The view ahead of us was simply amazing.
Blue, blue sky. A few fluffy clouds with mountains in the distance- including Mount Sicker and Mount Prevost. We could see snow on the upper reaches of the mountains.

Down below us Lake Quamichan sparkled in the February sunshine.
Evergreen Trees and rows of Arbutus added to the green landscape.
Holy Cow this is February in Canada?
I've said it before and I'll say it again- "Who knew??"

Arbutus Trees to the right of middle and Sequoias
We continued along a roadway that swept upwards past more gorgeous homes and signs that said "Mount Tzhouhalem Parking Ahead". It reminded us of being in LA and driving up into the Hollywood Hills or on Oahu in Hawaii driving along the south and west coast on the way to the North Shore.
It was absolutely stunning. Spectacular homes and mountain views.
We could imagine having morning breakfast and coffee on a glass-enclosed lanai that offered a splendid view of everything below and all this when I thought I had seen every "beautiful" view there was to see here in the Cowichan Valley.
Wow! Simply Wow!

I said to The Mister- "Would you give up our new house in Stonewood Village for a house here on Mount Tzhouhalem?"

He said "Yes"- but Husband- let's win the lottery first!

Sunday, February 4, 2018

ROBBLOG #695 Debauchery & Tolerance


Brothers and Sisters!

Today's sermon covers Tolerance, Intolerance, Debauchery and right-wing Christian-types who live an worry about these very things of which I spake...or am about to speak.

The Mister and I sat down at one of our favourite Diners on Sunday, just before 1ish.
We ordered brunch.
As our delightful server poured my second coffee- as she had done on several other visits to the Diner, we were joined by a table of five to my left and a table of four to my right. Tom and I continued our Sunday Brunch chat as I slurped my coffee- as I am want to do at times when the coffee is unusually hot and robust. As we chatted, I began to hear the occasional word or phrase from my left- the heretofore- "Table of Five.
OMG!
I looked at Tom and said- "Do you Hear What I Hear?"
No, it wasn't Andy Williams singing a popular Holiday Tune.
My head nodded to the left at the "Table of Five".
He said- "Yes, I hear."
It was Jesus Talk.
The Mister and I were plopped down a couple of feet from born-again's.
On my right I could also hear a couple of churchy phrases from more subdued table of four- but not as clearly as next door to my left at "The Table of Five".

They started a discussion about tolerance and being "intolerant". It must have been the morning sermon that must have gone way overtime since it was almost one o'clock!
I hear something like-
"Jesus tells us this and Jesus tells us that but what about this tolerance bit in the bible?"

"I don't give a pimple on a turkey's butt about tolerance!!
Why, I can't even spell it!!"
Now, I had trouble following some of this, partly because The Mister kept saying to me-
"Keep your mouth shut. Ignore it- as well as  never mind."
Holy Feck!
It's sooo hard!!

This "Table of Five" didn't seem to understand this tolerance thing.
They gave examples.
Stupid fucking examples and wondered aloud what Jesus meant.
Look, I thought to myself' "If you were tolerant and knew tolerance- you bunch of right-wing, intolerable knobs, you wouldn't be having this conversation about tolerance to begin with.
You'd get it.
You wouldn't need a conversation to talk about it.
Apparently the "preacher" felt a need to bring this topic up earlier in the day because he didn't have any other fucking useful topic to talk about and as we all know, born-again's need to be told what to do and think and when to pee and have sex!

I was handling it all quite well between bites of my Club Sandwich and the Satan-like stares coming from the eyes of The Mister. I knew he mean it when he telepathically said to me- "Rob, Shut the Fuck up!!"
And I had and was...

Then, the fat broad in the pink, ill-fitting sweater with the mousy brown hair and white roots started to talk. With a lilt in her voice, a smile on her face and a chortle in her tone she says through chubby, chapped lips as she slapped her fat palms on the table-
"Yah, and we are just supposed to tolerate same-sex marriage!"

I started to shake.
My hands were shaking so bad that I couldn't picked up the hash browns on my plate with my fork.
My heart was thumping and I wanted to speak.
I looked at Tom and he said again, a little more sternly this time- "Nevermind!"
"But it's soooo hard!"- I cried. "Please....?"

I then heard someone from the "other table to my right say something about church and sin and fucking Satan or Satan is a fuck or something like that. Maybe- Satan has a truck. Something like that.
Cripes! I was part of a right wing Christian Oreo Cookie!!
I was the Gay, white-crème in the centre!!

I do not know how I held my tongue!
I was sooooo good but I was still shaking. If there had of been an empty table nearby I would have asked to be moved.

Mother-Feckers!
Not the place to discuss the morning sermon.
OH!!!
Then, the thin-faced, be-speckled fellah- keep in mind "Table of Five" were all Seniors like me, sitting on the opposite side of the table says- "And this debauchery. I don't even know what debauchery is..."- he says with a loud, "I don't know shite"laugh.

If this is what you think "debauchery" is- You'd be wrong!
WTF??
"Google it asshole"- I thought, still keeping my thoughts to myself and my little, inside voice very, very quiet. However, googling is probably not Christian in the same way it is frowned upon when  a "girlfriend" applies "her" subtle tone of lip gloss before he applies lip moisturizing chap stick.

I had a suggestion, albeit a silent one- ask your preacher. He'll know all about debauchery with its excessive permissive sex and drink. Ask him to tell you a little story about Sodom and Gemorrah.
You'll know excessive.
Pass the salt please.

Ask him too why Jesus Christ- after raising Lazrus and his rotting flesh from the dead, asked the "Family of Lazrus" to allow himself and Laz to hole up in a shack on the Lazurus property for 30 days and that no one should bother them.
Now that is debauchery.
Then, don't ask ME about Christ hip-hopping around the Holy Land with 12 single men in tow and a Hag- Mary Magdalene. I say and capitalize "Hag" with all the love in my heart. Every self-righteous Gay man- and there are many of us, needs a Fag Hag to get through life.
Imagine Dear Readers, if a man moved in next door to you along with 12 other men. Imagine if they laughed and giggled and swam in the pool. Imagine if they wore sandals- or not, as well as cute little all-cotton shifts.
I mean, what would you think?
Of course if you're "churchy" you don't think. You have to be told how and what to think about things- like "tolerance".

So, back on topic- Debauchery is excessive drinking and permissive sex. You know like a typical Gay Bar on a Saturday night around 1130pm.

This guy at "The Table of Five" got through life without debauching once or twice and being drunk while he debauched?
Cripes! Even the former leader of the Ontario PC's debauched.
Of course, Patrick debauched- wrongly I will admit, without the help of Vodka which plainly is no fun at all when you are debauching within legal and societal debauching!!


I feel lighter somehow and I know Jesus up there in Heaven is smiling down upon me.
Maybe he's having a little laugh at me because I did something hard today. Something that I usually don't do, which is keeping my faggy big mouth shut.
Oh he's also smiling because I knew what debauchery was- and is, whereas the fecker at "The Table of Five"- didn't.

Thus ended the lesson.

Thursday, February 1, 2018

ROBBLOG #694 Little Johnny


Today, Dear Readers...A Fable of a young boy becoming a young man.
An explicit little fable, so the Catholics and Baptists might want to give this one a pass.
Recovering Catholics, Agnostics and Full-Blown Atheists should be safe.

Little Johnny lay on his memory foam mattress, his head cradled on his goose-down pillow. In his youthful hands his tablet played an old American International movie- "Tarzan and the Valley of Gold" starring- in Little Johnny's opinion, the quintessential Tarzan- Gordon Scott.
Little Johnny marvelled at Gordon's bulging biceps and stalwart calf muscles. He stared at the small piece of leather that covered the actor's man bits. Gordon's toned, tanned, tawny body rippled in the African sunshine. His hair shone black/blue like Clark Kent's did in old Superman comic books. More dark blue than black.
~he sighed~
"Time to douse the lights!"- his Mother called as she passed his bedroom door at the far end of the upstairs hall.
Little Johnny hit the pause button.
"I will Mom. Just five minutes more! Please!" He cried.
"Oh My Dear, It's always five minutes more with you young man"-she chuckled. "All right but no more than a half hour now!"
Little Johnny knew his Mom was losing it day by day. She was getting so old. She was almost 40...
He called back "OK Mom. Thanks!"

Little Johnny hit the play button and watched Gordon "Tarzan" Scott swing effortlessly from tree to jungle tree, his huge chest and triceps glistening with jungle sweat.
"Oh Yum!"- growled Little Johnny out loud.
He was that excited!
He imagined himself safely cuddled beneath one of Gordon's huge bicep muscles as he swung from tree to tree. Little Johnny's hair all disheveled from the force of the ape man's swing.
"Oh Double Yum!- he couldn't take his eyes of the loin-cloth clad man.

Soon, Little Johnny eye's grew heavy and shutting off his pad, his lids fluttered, closed and soon he found himself in sleepytimeland.

Although he was in a deep sleep, the movie continued to roll in his mind, only this time he was the director, producer and co-star. He had just finished shooting a scene with the famously, rugged Scott. They took a break and sat beneath the shade of a towering coconut palm.
Little Johnny felt the African heat and beads of sweat appeared across his brow while he sat in his director's chair. His shirt clung to his upper chest. The heat was oppressive.
Gordon Scott stretched out on the Jungle floor near his feet. Much to Little Johnny's surprize, Gordon had removed his leather loincloth and lay facedown on a huge, rough towel.
"Shite and Damn"- Little Johnny thought. He was near ready to explode. The Tarzan of his dreams lay at his feet and yet he was butt up. No man bits to be seen. What was a fellah like Little Johnny to do? A producer could he in fact order him to turn over? Was that harassment or just a thing. Scott was an employee after all.

"Think Little Johnny. Think"- he muttered. A few moments later he had an idea. He picked up a palm frond that lay next to where he sat and gentle brushed Mr. Scott on his back and rump.
He stirred, a massive arm stretching down to his buttocks to swish away whatever it was that brushed against his perfectly tanned skin. Eventually it was not enough and the huge, muscular body rolled over exposing it all.

"Oh Goodness!!"- squealed Little Johnny. As he did so he felt complete release.

Suddenly his eyes popped open and there he was- much to his chagrin, laying in his little bed in his little bedroom feeling spent. He must have squealed out loud in the night for he heard his mother coming down the hall.
"Are you all right Little Johnny? Have you had a nightmare or something?"- Mother cried out to him as she opened his bedroom door.
There Little Johnny lay.
Alone.
With the memory of the ape man's private bits burned into his memory.
Mother flipped on the light switch near the door and looked down at her son.
"Oh My"- she exclaimed. "Little Johnny!!"
It didn't take Mother long to realize what had happened to Little Johnny. His bed sheet resembled a camping tent with the centre pole rigidly in place.
"Oh no. I can't...I mean...I, I!" she screamed for Father to come and look.

Poor Little Johnny lay there, warm tears rolling down his cheeks. Was he a man? Finally?
Father pushed Mother aside and gazed at Little Johnny's "tent-like" impression.
Father was impressed but didn't say a word to Mother except-
"There now Mother, off to bed you go, I will take care of Little Johnny's "problem".


Mother walked out of Little Johnny's room backwards and scurried down the hall.
Little Johnny meanwhile was thinking awfully hard about Jesus as he tried to return to his normal physical state.
It didn't work.
All he could envision was Christ and his twelve male friends splashing around in the Dead Sea. The cotton shifts they wore, soaked with salty water leaving nothing to the imagination.
Stop. Stop. Stop! Little Johnny was yelling at himself in his Little inside Johnny voice.

Father sat down on the edge of Little Johnny's bed but not too close to "it"- the Phoenix Rising!
Father thought for a moment then offered-
"Little Johnny, you must have had a, um, well- a dream. Yes, of course. A little night dream about....um...with...well all young men...you see..."
Father stumbled.
Little Johnny hardly paid him mind. Now, he was madly thinking about church and coffins and cancer. Anything to start a new slideshow rather than the one currently playing in his mind.
Little Johnny hoped this "thing" would subside like an ocean tide.
He thought on...The Queen, Glen Close, Stephen Harper, Jason Kenny, Pamela Lee Anderson. Nothing was working.
Nothing!!

Father held his head in his hands and mumbled something that sounded like a pagan ritual.
Little Johnny's thoughts continued- Princess Anne, Doug Ford, Jesus's Mother, The Supremes. Nope. Nothing worked to disengage his flag pole. If he were Jim Carey this would be hilarious!

Eventually, Father's head looked up from his hands
"Now Son. Little Johnny. Son. This, this, this predicament you have yourself in. Ummmm... Were you dreaming son?
Little Johnny mumbled a faint- yes.
"Well, there you have it. You were dreaming of, of girls. Maybe young, pretty girls- of legal age of course. You know son, the type most politicians prefer!"
"No Father, that's not quite who I was dreaming of..."
"His Father was perplexed.
"Well, who then?"
Little Johnny knew he had to say it. "Well, I was dreaming of Gordon Scott."
There. He said it.
"Who?"- asked his Father.
"Gordon Scott. The American International movie star who was the quintessential Tarzan of the Jungle! The one with the black hair, big biceps and bulging calves"

His Father stared at him square in the face. Then square at his "predicament". Then back at Little Johnny's face.

He slapped the top of his legs as he stood up from the side of Little Johnny's bed and said-

"Son, just remember, it doesn't matter where you put it, just make sure it's wearing a little hat!"