Blog heavyweight TR Hughes, the mastermind behind Difficult Music is now allowing comments! What this will do to the blog community one can only guess. Not since his ill fated guestbook has he exposed himself to the possibility of provincial tomfoolery.
In another unrelated story...
When I was in high school I was big into track pant pulls.
1987 was the age of the track pant... remember those Roots track pants. Everybody had a pair or perhaps the Bi-Way special.
It was safe to say that if you went to West Hill Collegiate Institute in 1987, and were holding court with some people with your back exposed for too long your pants would be yanked down around your ankles... and suddenly you would be in mid-sentence without pants. Purely hilarious.
Believe it or not, I lost my mind and got totally carried away with it. Myself and a few friends compared our daily, and weekly TPP's (track pant pulls). I remember going home on a Friday totally dejected because my TPP was under 30 for the week.
A notorious track pant puller has a hard time entering a room and getting good position on anybody. For the most part you needed to be outside on a school excursion where the group would mobilize and Vera would stand up on a picnic bench to give instruction to the crowd and then YANK...
Well on week I was neck and neck with Dean Wood... tied at 22 track pant pulls a piece... it was late Friday afternoon right at the buzzer and there was Dean in his gym Shorts talking to a nice girl... I froze with the joy of victory. A track pant pull on your opponent is worth 3... I was clear... nothing could stop my victory and to top it off pulling Dean's shorts off would seal the victory in style.
I focused on the shorts raced towards them and yanked them down.
He wasn't wearing underwear... he got the shorts back on in a flash of a second stumbling forward and leaping around with wild anger.
It was then that I saw it wasn't Dean Wood, but rather my Physical Education teacher Mr. McKay, a very strong and stern man who would be grading me shortly
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Friday, February 24, 2006
poem game
I define myself as
An artist with the conscience of a songwriter.
among other things
and the chair by the window creeks slowly now.
the window is open
a wind brings scented odors too fill the room.
we sleep sometimes
sleepy you beautiful girl come nighttime soon.
A beer tastes good
An artist with the conscience of a songwriter.
among other things
and the chair by the window creeks slowly now.
the window is open
a wind brings scented odors too fill the room.
we sleep sometimes
sleepy you beautiful girl come nighttime soon.
A beer tastes good
Thursday, February 23, 2006
don't eat mothballs is the lesson here
When I was a young lad, I gathered with my mates under a large spruce like tree and smashed bricks on cinder blocks with rocks crushing them into powder. It was one of my original work camp efforts where I crafted my skills as a leader.
Perhaps I was a little on the draconian side on occasion like the time I grabbed a large box (from a washing machine) and called it a penalty box. If somebody wasn't working hard enough, or say started chatting unnecessarily they got put in the box for 10 minutes... there were no 2 minute penalties. I recall one time when everybody was in the box, and I, there to set an example diligently crushed a brick into a fine powder all the time looking down with intense focus.
The product was crushed red or yellow brick in fine or lumpy. You could buy a small yoghart container for 50 cents, take it home, grab some paper, make a design with glue, and then dust the rock crushing on the glue to make some fine art. Yes, we were in the business of art supply and there was no time to look ahead now because there were rocks to crush... I mean bricks.
We pillaged the bricks from some known supplies, Schofield's garden, U of T Scarborough campus, and other various construction sites in the neighborhood.
I guess on of my first "leadership mistakes" was forcing somebody to stand guard over the "product" while we went an pillaged bricks... surly the act of going out and collecting bricks could have been a chance to hang... nobody could talk though... it might have blown our cover.
Later when it looked like I was losing control of the group I developed an initiation ritual that involved putting some crushed mothballs on your tongue. Only young Chris Wolfe would go for that, and of course myself.
Later when Mr. and Mrs. Wolfe called me over to their house to talk to me about feeding their son mothballs, my insanity began to occur to me.
the Wolfe's "so why did you make Chris eat moth balls?"
me "he wanted to"
their oldest son Richard (wild laughter) "He wanted to!"
Then they found out that I had also placed mothballs on my tongue and saw my sincerity that the ritual was indeed important. They began to see that I wasn't mean and malicious but rather blindly obsessive and rather prone to really dunm ideas... we were all relieved.
Perhaps I was a little on the draconian side on occasion like the time I grabbed a large box (from a washing machine) and called it a penalty box. If somebody wasn't working hard enough, or say started chatting unnecessarily they got put in the box for 10 minutes... there were no 2 minute penalties. I recall one time when everybody was in the box, and I, there to set an example diligently crushed a brick into a fine powder all the time looking down with intense focus.
The product was crushed red or yellow brick in fine or lumpy. You could buy a small yoghart container for 50 cents, take it home, grab some paper, make a design with glue, and then dust the rock crushing on the glue to make some fine art. Yes, we were in the business of art supply and there was no time to look ahead now because there were rocks to crush... I mean bricks.
We pillaged the bricks from some known supplies, Schofield's garden, U of T Scarborough campus, and other various construction sites in the neighborhood.
I guess on of my first "leadership mistakes" was forcing somebody to stand guard over the "product" while we went an pillaged bricks... surly the act of going out and collecting bricks could have been a chance to hang... nobody could talk though... it might have blown our cover.
Later when it looked like I was losing control of the group I developed an initiation ritual that involved putting some crushed mothballs on your tongue. Only young Chris Wolfe would go for that, and of course myself.
Later when Mr. and Mrs. Wolfe called me over to their house to talk to me about feeding their son mothballs, my insanity began to occur to me.
the Wolfe's "so why did you make Chris eat moth balls?"
me "he wanted to"
their oldest son Richard (wild laughter) "He wanted to!"
Then they found out that I had also placed mothballs on my tongue and saw my sincerity that the ritual was indeed important. They began to see that I wasn't mean and malicious but rather blindly obsessive and rather prone to really dunm ideas... we were all relieved.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
check this one Mule
So when I first got hired at Canada Post, I had to go to Letter Carrier school. I was very excited. Living in poverty on welfare fresh out of a bad gig as a stereo salesman, I would have done anything to make some money let alone become a postal worker.
That's why I took the letter very seriously. It said that I should appear in a blue shirt, a blue tie, and blue dress pants. I think I had about $16 to my name so I went to the Salvation Army thrift store to get me my uniform. It was cheap and polyester.
So when I showed up for letter carrier school, I walked in with bleach blond hair (happened before), and my new pants shirt and tie. My new colleagues were all around, every one of them in casual track pants and comfortable t shirts... a small bead of sweat ran down my temple as I sat in the hot room, feeling the tie pressed firmly against my Adams apple.
It didn't take long for the back of my legs to have a violent allergic reaction to the polyester. I had to make 3 trips to the bathroom so that I could stand pant less in the stall allowing the back of my legs to get some air... this was getting ridiculous... so I had a master stroke of genius.
I would simply take long strips of toilet paper and tuck them into my underwear so they would hang down and protect the back of my legs from this insanely stupid fabric. I walked very carefully back to class and sat down with a heavenly comfort. So much in fact I forgot about the whole problem.
The problem resurfaced much later when we were on our walking tour of the plant... there was some giggling going on behind me... I though stay away from those fools; As a Robertson I am drawn to tomfoolery and it will only make me look stupid to my new employers. I took a deep breath and carried on but… what was that out of the corner of my eye... something long and white extending from my pant leg trailing a few feet behind me.
S Robertson in a bad shirt and tie, blue pants and 2 long toilet paper trailers extending from each pant leg walking around the mail processing plant thinking he's pro.
That's why I took the letter very seriously. It said that I should appear in a blue shirt, a blue tie, and blue dress pants. I think I had about $16 to my name so I went to the Salvation Army thrift store to get me my uniform. It was cheap and polyester.
So when I showed up for letter carrier school, I walked in with bleach blond hair (happened before), and my new pants shirt and tie. My new colleagues were all around, every one of them in casual track pants and comfortable t shirts... a small bead of sweat ran down my temple as I sat in the hot room, feeling the tie pressed firmly against my Adams apple.
It didn't take long for the back of my legs to have a violent allergic reaction to the polyester. I had to make 3 trips to the bathroom so that I could stand pant less in the stall allowing the back of my legs to get some air... this was getting ridiculous... so I had a master stroke of genius.
I would simply take long strips of toilet paper and tuck them into my underwear so they would hang down and protect the back of my legs from this insanely stupid fabric. I walked very carefully back to class and sat down with a heavenly comfort. So much in fact I forgot about the whole problem.
The problem resurfaced much later when we were on our walking tour of the plant... there was some giggling going on behind me... I though stay away from those fools; As a Robertson I am drawn to tomfoolery and it will only make me look stupid to my new employers. I took a deep breath and carried on but… what was that out of the corner of my eye... something long and white extending from my pant leg trailing a few feet behind me.
S Robertson in a bad shirt and tie, blue pants and 2 long toilet paper trailers extending from each pant leg walking around the mail processing plant thinking he's pro.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Create new post
Why create new post?
Why ask why create new post?
Why not just go to bed?
What does the blogger get out of blogging?
Me, I improve my writing skills... damn skinny. You should go check the early years of the original Super Robertson Chronicles if you think I'm an illiterate jackass now. But why would you think that... you are hear reading this Eh!
Cool, I just spelt are arte... then I was thinking I could have kept it "you art here reading this Eh!". How's that for pampas nonsense.
What is MEANING and is this Blog BEING! I will use that as a song lyric.
and with that we have hit our genius and no more need to be said.
But did I ever tell you about the time I ate my roommates beef pie and replaced it with a liver pie. Perhaps I should grab a beer and elaborate... I will be back soon.
His name was Goat... for obvious reasons, and the most obvious reason was that he ended up on my hockey team, and he couldn't skate. All in all he wasn't a bad guy... but he had to pay for his poor play. So we ate his meat pie (myself and a roomate/ hockey team member)... it happened to be around the same time we though we invented brilliance. Our brilliance was this... buy some ground beef and some liver... put the liver in the blender and liquidate it mix it with the ground beef and make cheap hamburgers (we were students). The first hamburger tasted really good and remarkably like the burger of a very large burger food chain. The next one didn't go down so good, but by then we had already bought the local store out of Liver in a most regrettable move that can only be explained as savage arrogance in a young man's ideas.
So there was lots of liver in the fridge and freezer if you know what I mean. So much in the freezer as a matter of fact that there was no more room for this delinquent meat pie, so we ate it and it was good, and then we felt bad... make that guilty, so as any guilty party would do we tried to hide our guilt by camouflage... we made a pastry with water and flour filled the pie with liquid liver peas and corn and sealed it back up in it's box.
it felt like weeks until he cooked the bastard... we watched with curious excitement. The most remarkable thing was when the pie hit the plate. Lets recall that when a fine meat pie gets flopped upside down on a plate to free it from it's aluminum plate the middle gives way and steamy gravy breaks through the fluffy pastry in a delectable sight.
This thing hit the plate with a hard clack, and began to roll in a circle to settle down on the plate much like a coin would. But that didn't alert the Goat to anything as he was half watching the television... he just calmly sawed off a slab of pie, that I must add, had a fine assortment of peas and corn suspended in the cooked liver slab.
He didn't swallow... he spat it out and amazingly proclaimed that his meat pie had gone bad. We had to leave the room.
Later he received 2 free meat pie's from the store (a value of $1.98) after a long conversation with the store manager. I talked him into giving me the free one, since i was in fact a key witness in the case.
Why ask why create new post?
Why not just go to bed?
What does the blogger get out of blogging?
Me, I improve my writing skills... damn skinny. You should go check the early years of the original Super Robertson Chronicles if you think I'm an illiterate jackass now. But why would you think that... you are hear reading this Eh!
Cool, I just spelt are arte... then I was thinking I could have kept it "you art here reading this Eh!". How's that for pampas nonsense.
What is MEANING and is this Blog BEING! I will use that as a song lyric.
and with that we have hit our genius and no more need to be said.
But did I ever tell you about the time I ate my roommates beef pie and replaced it with a liver pie. Perhaps I should grab a beer and elaborate... I will be back soon.
His name was Goat... for obvious reasons, and the most obvious reason was that he ended up on my hockey team, and he couldn't skate. All in all he wasn't a bad guy... but he had to pay for his poor play. So we ate his meat pie (myself and a roomate/ hockey team member)... it happened to be around the same time we though we invented brilliance. Our brilliance was this... buy some ground beef and some liver... put the liver in the blender and liquidate it mix it with the ground beef and make cheap hamburgers (we were students). The first hamburger tasted really good and remarkably like the burger of a very large burger food chain. The next one didn't go down so good, but by then we had already bought the local store out of Liver in a most regrettable move that can only be explained as savage arrogance in a young man's ideas.
So there was lots of liver in the fridge and freezer if you know what I mean. So much in the freezer as a matter of fact that there was no more room for this delinquent meat pie, so we ate it and it was good, and then we felt bad... make that guilty, so as any guilty party would do we tried to hide our guilt by camouflage... we made a pastry with water and flour filled the pie with liquid liver peas and corn and sealed it back up in it's box.
it felt like weeks until he cooked the bastard... we watched with curious excitement. The most remarkable thing was when the pie hit the plate. Lets recall that when a fine meat pie gets flopped upside down on a plate to free it from it's aluminum plate the middle gives way and steamy gravy breaks through the fluffy pastry in a delectable sight.
This thing hit the plate with a hard clack, and began to roll in a circle to settle down on the plate much like a coin would. But that didn't alert the Goat to anything as he was half watching the television... he just calmly sawed off a slab of pie, that I must add, had a fine assortment of peas and corn suspended in the cooked liver slab.
He didn't swallow... he spat it out and amazingly proclaimed that his meat pie had gone bad. We had to leave the room.
Later he received 2 free meat pie's from the store (a value of $1.98) after a long conversation with the store manager. I talked him into giving me the free one, since i was in fact a key witness in the case.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Band Promo Shots
Nothing can kill a band faster than ye old promo shot day.
It's the time when the tips of the iceberg's come together and the masses collide.
The collision pushes the submissive away to stew in his/her own juices.
I am fortunate, our band shots have been few and far between, have worked out well, and been mostly unnecessary thanks to the steady work of or man SNAPSHOT.
But there was this one time in the band Knockin' Dog... a band where the other leader and I did not see eye to eye on many an issue... he was never wrong, and I sat back and learned many things (one being that words to songs matter immensely, another was how not to treat people).
It got to the point when I referred to him as DIRECTOR! said with some sarcasm. He went insane making the point that he was there to help and was the only one with any real ideas. Money was spent, the night was ruined, and we lost a band member (which turned out to be for the best anyway)... some pictures were used and some cropping was done.
What would Mule do?
Would he posture away in front of a brick wall? Probably not.
It has come to my attention that 21Tr needs some band shots... I have no fear with this group... we will differ in opinion, but that difference will be executed with comedy... I can take a fucking picture if need be.
It's the time when the tips of the iceberg's come together and the masses collide.
The collision pushes the submissive away to stew in his/her own juices.
I am fortunate, our band shots have been few and far between, have worked out well, and been mostly unnecessary thanks to the steady work of or man SNAPSHOT.
But there was this one time in the band Knockin' Dog... a band where the other leader and I did not see eye to eye on many an issue... he was never wrong, and I sat back and learned many things (one being that words to songs matter immensely, another was how not to treat people).
It got to the point when I referred to him as DIRECTOR! said with some sarcasm. He went insane making the point that he was there to help and was the only one with any real ideas. Money was spent, the night was ruined, and we lost a band member (which turned out to be for the best anyway)... some pictures were used and some cropping was done.
What would Mule do?
Would he posture away in front of a brick wall? Probably not.
It has come to my attention that 21Tr needs some band shots... I have no fear with this group... we will differ in opinion, but that difference will be executed with comedy... I can take a fucking picture if need be.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Back to the basics
Sunday night and my "vacation" is over.
I can't wait to get back to work so I can get some peace and quiet.
Is that negative, am I becoming the minister of No Fun. Well I do live in Vancouver the city of "No Fun", but I don't buy that malarkey.
The question is? How does one spell malarkey, and is it a real word. And not only that... what the hell am I going to eat for breakfast tomorrow. A quick look in the fridge puts me in Old Mother Hubbard territory.
An old nursery rime about an elderly woman and her dog who are starving to death... do they get any food at the end of the story?
It's probably only odd having grown up in a first world nation in the 70's under financially responsible parents who made a decent income. Not having food is a rare thing for me... I recall when I first moved out to Vancouver and I couldn't get a job and I eventually took one as a stereo salesman I ate a loaf of white wonder bread one day that I got for a dollar in the past due section. That was bad, and there were a few weeks in University where all I had was Oatmeal. But the food bank saved me in University, and welfare allowed me to quit my job as a stereo salesman (recall the out of body experience from the chronicles years ago) so that I could get a better job as a mailman.
And that's what I'll be doing tomorrow... a defined task. No surprises, just me and the sidewalk, and those 2 golden retrievers.
I can't wait to get back to work so I can get some peace and quiet.
Is that negative, am I becoming the minister of No Fun. Well I do live in Vancouver the city of "No Fun", but I don't buy that malarkey.
The question is? How does one spell malarkey, and is it a real word. And not only that... what the hell am I going to eat for breakfast tomorrow. A quick look in the fridge puts me in Old Mother Hubbard territory.
An old nursery rime about an elderly woman and her dog who are starving to death... do they get any food at the end of the story?
It's probably only odd having grown up in a first world nation in the 70's under financially responsible parents who made a decent income. Not having food is a rare thing for me... I recall when I first moved out to Vancouver and I couldn't get a job and I eventually took one as a stereo salesman I ate a loaf of white wonder bread one day that I got for a dollar in the past due section. That was bad, and there were a few weeks in University where all I had was Oatmeal. But the food bank saved me in University, and welfare allowed me to quit my job as a stereo salesman (recall the out of body experience from the chronicles years ago) so that I could get a better job as a mailman.
And that's what I'll be doing tomorrow... a defined task. No surprises, just me and the sidewalk, and those 2 golden retrievers.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
insert title here
Ah yes indeed, i just had a conversation with Willingdon black and a series of email replies with Mule Hughes.
Not bad for a guy that grew up in Scarborough a few years behind those two who come from the same street in Burnaby... i think it is the same street.
Funny how time does that to people. A man meets a friend through a friend and then decides to order a recording project (Jackass has hay breath) and the friend brings a friend and then they proceed to write Bengal Tiger, and 2 other hit songs in an evening.
And then years later, the man find himself on the phone with his friend/bandmate trying to figure out how the supper show will go given the tendency for insane maniac behavior of certain multiple persons, in between emails about a Monty python skit involving Arthur 'Two sheds' Jackson.
But that is life, you meet people, and some of them stick.
Funny how the Super Robertson Supper show can cause so much fear. It would make a great documentary... which of course is why i can't be there tomorrow (going down to L.A. to talk to some people about that).
The supper show can be a classic example of help gone wrong... only after the show can you say "that was a good idea, that was a bad idea"... it is usually the bad ideas that hurt the most.
The second time i got naked... Jack Freelance who was hosting was reading a letter sent in complaining about the nudity in the show 2 weeks prior when i did the burlesque dance. In the middle of the letter I walked out naked and asked him for a pen he didn't have one on him so he left to get his briefcase... I stood alone naked in front to the audience. Needless to say what was to be a brief gag turned into a fiasco. Roger Dean Young took it the hardest, and King dinosaur quipped "now that's the kind of puppet show I don't need to see".
i moped for days.
Not bad for a guy that grew up in Scarborough a few years behind those two who come from the same street in Burnaby... i think it is the same street.
Funny how time does that to people. A man meets a friend through a friend and then decides to order a recording project (Jackass has hay breath) and the friend brings a friend and then they proceed to write Bengal Tiger, and 2 other hit songs in an evening.
And then years later, the man find himself on the phone with his friend/bandmate trying to figure out how the supper show will go given the tendency for insane maniac behavior of certain multiple persons, in between emails about a Monty python skit involving Arthur 'Two sheds' Jackson.
But that is life, you meet people, and some of them stick.
Funny how the Super Robertson Supper show can cause so much fear. It would make a great documentary... which of course is why i can't be there tomorrow (going down to L.A. to talk to some people about that).
The supper show can be a classic example of help gone wrong... only after the show can you say "that was a good idea, that was a bad idea"... it is usually the bad ideas that hurt the most.
The second time i got naked... Jack Freelance who was hosting was reading a letter sent in complaining about the nudity in the show 2 weeks prior when i did the burlesque dance. In the middle of the letter I walked out naked and asked him for a pen he didn't have one on him so he left to get his briefcase... I stood alone naked in front to the audience. Needless to say what was to be a brief gag turned into a fiasco. Roger Dean Young took it the hardest, and King dinosaur quipped "now that's the kind of puppet show I don't need to see".
i moped for days.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Robertson, a simple man with complicated instruments.
Holy Bleep... what the flying fish was that last blogaroo.
Does it matter?
No
Let's digress for the sake of this whole format.
the question is... What is it that the people who come to the Super Robertson Chronicles II want to read?
the answer is... Don't answer that.
I mention this mostly because of the relation is has to Rock and Roll bands, which of course, is what got us into this whole mess in the first place.
Why, I had declared computers to be the downfall of our society years ago. I was right, but for the wrong reasons. I was in the mind frame that the society that I lived in in 1990 was worth cherishing and ultimately protecting... Ha Ha Ha!
But that's a whole different story, one which we could have gotten into had Cristina's friend not called earlier asking about building inspectors (if I could recommend one). That question prompted a patented Robertson 35 minute response complete with a scathing review of the policies that govern the local By Low foods grocery store... you get my drift.
The point is, or at least the one I had hoped to head toward is that the moment you start doing something in the world of art with a too keen eye on the response by the public to the finished product, you may as well go suck a *%*% out of an donkey... pardon my boorish language.
Many would strongly disagree with this, but I'm not one of them, and I don't ever think I will be given the rage that I immediately feel when presented with some far fetched nonsense like "people are going to want to hear...", because it assumes that you understand what people are feeling, and neglecting the idea that with time people change anyway.
wow, this is a harsh blogaroo who's original purpose was to somehow apologize for the soft love poem of last's blogaroo. The irony being that the theme of this blogaroo seems to be never apologize.
**** this blogaroo has been edited on the day after its posting*****
(much of the unnecessary and wildly inappropriate comments have been deleted as well as some of the more rudimentary grammatical errors have been nudged towards literacy)
Does it matter?
No
Let's digress for the sake of this whole format.
the question is... What is it that the people who come to the Super Robertson Chronicles II want to read?
the answer is... Don't answer that.
I mention this mostly because of the relation is has to Rock and Roll bands, which of course, is what got us into this whole mess in the first place.
Why, I had declared computers to be the downfall of our society years ago. I was right, but for the wrong reasons. I was in the mind frame that the society that I lived in in 1990 was worth cherishing and ultimately protecting... Ha Ha Ha!
But that's a whole different story, one which we could have gotten into had Cristina's friend not called earlier asking about building inspectors (if I could recommend one). That question prompted a patented Robertson 35 minute response complete with a scathing review of the policies that govern the local By Low foods grocery store... you get my drift.
The point is, or at least the one I had hoped to head toward is that the moment you start doing something in the world of art with a too keen eye on the response by the public to the finished product, you may as well go suck a *%*% out of an donkey... pardon my boorish language.
Many would strongly disagree with this, but I'm not one of them, and I don't ever think I will be given the rage that I immediately feel when presented with some far fetched nonsense like "people are going to want to hear...", because it assumes that you understand what people are feeling, and neglecting the idea that with time people change anyway.
wow, this is a harsh blogaroo who's original purpose was to somehow apologize for the soft love poem of last's blogaroo. The irony being that the theme of this blogaroo seems to be never apologize.
**** this blogaroo has been edited on the day after its posting*****
(much of the unnecessary and wildly inappropriate comments have been deleted as well as some of the more rudimentary grammatical errors have been nudged towards literacy)
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