Winter in Canada... Summer in Canada

http://www.youtube.com/watch_popup?v=vJRDpTUIrJI&vq=medium

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_PX-H4Uid3w&feature=related

For those of you below the 49th Parallel, Rick mercer is a CBC TV personality who is unabashedly in love with his country. The first video is his trip to Northern Ontario to count the bear population. The second: he visits Campbell River BC to swim with the salmon.

You know, while I'm at this You Tube thing, I might as well chuck this up. If you like Spanish Rock and Roll - what? there's Spanish Rock and Roll? Dios mio. Well, there is. This is a band from Murcia called Mclan. Play it through good speakers/headphones.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hEKJnaHwihw&ob=av2e

Blog Entries do not Have to be Lengthy.

This gem is from the Salem News Police Blotter

Chester P. Szczawinski, 44, of 11 Burke St., Lynn, was arrested and charged with larceny over $250 from Walmart on Highland Avenue at 5:11 p.m. Security told police they observed Szczawinski place four MP3 players valued at $99.98 apiece in his hat along with a $21.97 package of Extenze. 


Extenze has a specific function. Mr Szczawinski has yet again misread the instructions.

Had he made his escape, how might he have used the MP3 players?

These Marigolds... Chapter 21

21

We were nearly two beers into what was to be a six or seven beer night. Michael sat with his stocking-clad feet crossed in front of him, resting them on the coffee table. Both hands held the bottom of his beer as it rested on the stomach of his black-worn-gray Dropkick Murphys tee shirt. It reminded me of an inter-continental ballistic missile rising from its silo, Michael’s navel.

My Kooks’road shirt was draped over the back of my chair. I still had the rest of the uniform on.

I told Michael of the homicide/suicide in midtown Manhattan yesterday noon. Before I was able to share what had happened since, Michael, wide-eyed, personalized it.

“Holy…you know I slept with her, Finn?”

“I surmised as much.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I don’t think I have ever slept with a woman who then died…well, except for Shelly from the neck northward. That, however, was a pre-existing condition.”

We both snort-giggled self-consciously. I rose to go to the kitchen.

“I guess that makes her my suicide squeeze.” Michael said.

“Clever, Michael. Fucking morbid, but clever. Here’s the kicker. It appears that you may have been with someone other than with whom you thought.”

Michael rotated in his seat so he could face me as I passed him leaving the room. When he could turn no more, he stood and followed me into the kitchen. His brow was creased, his mouth ill-formed.

“What are ye saying, man?”

“She had some ID that said she was Mislava Hrvat and some saying she was Ivana Grdesic. Mary Frances Flaherty, too, for that matter. The NYPD…”

“Wait a minute, Finn. Wasn’t Grdesic the name of the woman who washed ashore down in Hull while you were in Canada? The selfsame one you found up in Portland?”

“Same name, yes, but wait. The NYPD…”

“Jesus.”

“The detectives in New…”

“I can guaran-damn-tee ye she was not a Mary Frances Fucking Whoever.” Michael’s hands were spread, palms up. His shoulders were hunched up under his ears.

“Flaherty.”

“Flaherty, aye. A daughter of the sod she was not.”

“The NYPD is trying to get to the bottom of just who is - and who isn’t - who, as it were.”

“It’s not whom in that sentence?”

“Follows the verb to be therefore subjective case and…”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.”

I handed a fresh long-necked El Presidente to my friend as I passed him in the doorway and sat back down. My last statement hadn’t done much to firm up the lines of his mouth.

“So, she never said anything that caused you to believe her name wasn’t Mislava?”

“No, not a blessed thing. Wow, Fintan. It seems typical of me luck that not only have I had memorable carnal relations with a dead woman, but I can’t even tell ye which dead woman it was. So much for the telling of the tale.”

“Therein may be your tale, Michael.”

“I suppose it is, though it’ll be a while before I am able to embellish this one even a tiny bit. It’s sort of creepy, don’t you know?”

We finished the beers mostly in silence. I excused myself to shower. Michael turned on the TV.

“Think about what you’d like to eat, Mikie.” I was removing my baseball socks, flicking them up over my shoulder with my toe to catch behind my back as I have done since I was kid. ”When I’m cleaned up I’ll go and…”

In the bathroom under the sink sat the orange duffel bag Ivana had brought with her from Portland... when she was still Mislava. It seemed to be pulsing but that was probably just the blood in my temples. There was a note with my name attached to the handle. I gently removed it so not to tear, unfolded and read it. The printing was both shaky and delicate.

For Fintan Okeefe

I am sorry for lie to you. I could not make what I need happen if I do not lie. I am Ivana Grdesic. Was best for me to be Mislava to you. Mislava was woman you saw in Portland. You had looked at wrong person in picture you had and thought you found me, Ivana. It was Mislava. Please call number at bottom and ask for Miljenko Boban. Please tell Boban what happened and where my self was take after I shot me. The money in bag is for you. If Boban asks you and you can help Boban it is your pay. If cannot it is for trouble I bring you. Is your money, Fintan. Please tell Michael I am sorry. He was kind to me as you were kind. He is very good lover.

Ivana Grdesic

“Michael, come in here. I found out who your fuck buddy was.” There was eleven thousand, four hundred seventy-one dollars in the bag. There was Croat currency, too. Lots of it. The phone number had a 617 area code: Boston.

“Mother of… Finn… what’s all this then?”

How BC and Saskatchewan are Different

This piece of deconstructionist wisdom comes to us courtesy of Kathy Smith, Lili's mum. Just try and guess where she lives.


Premier of B.C. Christy Clark is jogging with
her dog along a nature trail...
A coyote jumps out, attacks and kills the dog...

#1. The Premier starts to intervene,
reflects upon the movie "Bambi" and then realizes
he should stop; the coyote is only doing what is natural...

#2. She calls animal control...
Animal control captures coyote and spends $200 testing it for
diseases and $500 to relocate it...

#3. She calls veterinarian...  Vet collects dead dog and
spends $200 testing it for diseases...

#4. Premier goes to hospital and spends $3,500 getting checked
for diseases from the coyote and on getting
small scratch wound bandaged...

#5. Running trail gets shut down for 6 months while
wildlife services conducts a $100,000 survey to
make sure the area is clear of dangerous animals...

#6. Premier spends $50,000 of Provincial funds implementing a
"coyote awareness" program for residents of the area...

#7. B.C. Legislature spends $2 million investigating
how to better handle rabies and how to possibly
eradicate the disease...

#8. Premier's security agent is fired for not stopping
 the attack and for letting the Premier intervene...

#9. Cost: $75,000 to train new security agent...

#10. PETA protests the coyote relocation
and files suit against the Province...

BC Premier Christy Clark holds the leather-bound Auditor General's report on her extra-human/human confrontation. Chapters in Vancouver report 60,000 units sold

Saskatchewan:

Premier Brad Wall of Saskatchewan is jogging with
his dog along a nature trail...  A coyote jumps out and attacks the dog...

#1. Premier shoots coyote and keeps jogging...

#2. Cost: Premier has spent $0.50 on a .45 ACP hollow-point cartridge...

#3. Crows eat dead coyote...

Saskatchewan Premier demonstrates to the legislature how he and the well-armed coyote got the drop on each other. He then blamed everything on Saskatchewan teachers.


Disclaimer of sorts: this piece was originally circulated when Gordon Campbell was Premier of BC.  Christy Clark would be much more likely to order the round-up and extermination of the all coyotes, especially if the oil companies would benefit from it.

-----------------

These Marigolds Grow Too High, Chapter 20

There's a batch of new folks finding their way to this blog. I'd like to remind those folks to start These Marigolds Grow Too Tall at the start. It's the third Fintan O'Keefe story. The first two are available at  www.lulu.com  entitled Spineless (first) and Cancer in the Family.

20

Michael was pacing behind the ancient wood and steel bleachers on the first base side of a dusty diamond in Waltham. He was antsy were I even a little late. First pitch was five minutes away: I was more than a little late.

“Miran, chicos. Miran…” Fidel Arrojo addressed the team. “…el maestro esta aqui.”

He removed his cap, spread his arms wide, and bowed in my direction eliciting a mock cheer from the guys on the bench. Slipping my Adidas sandals off and my coach’s shoes on, I thanked them in two languages. I trotted out to my spot and started flashing the tools of the third base coach’s trade, a jumble of mostly meaningless words and gestures. Later in the game in certain combinations they might mean something, even produce something significant. In the first inning with no one on base, however, they were exercise.

Arrojo doubled to right center after two were out and died there as Gustavo Gutierrez took a called third strike. Bat still on his shoulder, he glared at the umpire as he slowly crossed the plate returning to the bench. I nudged him along.

“Nice wide plate tonight, huh, Ben?”

“Just like always, Finn.”

“Right. OK. Have a good game.”

And it was. Ben Salerno wanted teams to win or lose with their bats and their gloves. His games were generally quick and efficient. Tonight was no exception. Except for Gutierrez who argued always, with everybody, about everything and to no avail, no one had any complaints.

We scored two in the fourth, two more in the sixth and held off their last inning rally to take it 4-2. Waltham left the tying run at second.

What turned out to be our insurance run scored on a suicide squeeze, a baseball term the same in Spanish as it is in English. I hear it’s the same in Japanese. Michael loved the suicide squeeze.

“Michael, can you come by tonight?”

“Aye and to hear your New York stories, then?”

“Yeah, New York stories.”

Marigolds, 17,18,19

17

It was raining when I parted the heavy drapes the next morning. I like Manhattan in the rain. The thick gray light, shadows chased away and yet shadows everywhere, lends a film noir quality that suits this city as no other.

Rain only appears to fall straight when seen from the ground. From twenty-six floors up the paths and arcs of the droplets are random, tumbling. They scrum and dart and collide. Some drops seem to fall faster than others and some never reach the ground. Some cleanse and some sully. Some puddle while some seem to seek and soak the unslickered. A simple shower is anything but from twenty-six floors up.

A closing hotel room door has a unique sound. One slammed behind me at the Beekman right at checkout time. I felt rested but aimless. The dark clouds had moved to the east, out over Long Island and the Sound, I figured.

Fishman and McClain told me they would stay in touch, although I figured it more Pilsner-driven courtesy than anything else. Though I had no client, no legitimate interest, I made the same promise to them.

The same guy manned the booth at the parking garage. He was dressed as he had been yesterday except today he chose a New York Jets, Jets, Jets beret to complete his ensemble. There was a still-moist accumulation of cream cheese at the sides of his mouth and the remains of a bagel sitting on an open phone book to his right.

I wondered if I were on a hidden camera show when he asked me if I had enjoyed my stay. It seemed he was not as attuned to my dishevelment as I was to his.

“Yes. It was lovely. Thanks for asking.”

“Yeah? Well…whatever the fuck…”

18

“…and that’s what I know.” I switched the cell phone from my right ear to my left.

“Holy shit, Finn.”

“Holy shit indeed.”

“Where does that leave you?”

“I don’t know, I guess I’m out of it.” The connection between the rest stop tourist information center in southern Connecticut and Johnna’s Spartan though tasteful office in Springfield, Massachusetts was clear even as the thunder rolled to the south. I had been right about the direction of the storm clouds.

“So you’re going home?” Johnna asked.

“Un huh. There’s this legendary pizza place in New Haven called Pepe’s, I think. I might give it a try. If I can find it.”

“If you can get anywhere near it.”

“Even at lunch? Have you been there?”

“Yup, there and to Sally’s, too. They’re both amazing. Right up there with Regina’s. Listen, Finn, I have to go. I have someone here with whom I need to meet.”

“Sure, I’ll call you tonight. Nice use of the objective case, too, by the way.”

As I clicked off an image of Mislava/Mary Frances/Ivana from yesterday morning rose above the atmospheric fireworks that seemed to be approaching from the southwest. My appetite dried up. Pepe’s and Sally’s would have to wait.

An hour and some later I was in Rhode Island, in the southern suburbs of Providence. My phone rang.

“Frank McClain here. Want to hear about Niko Matulich?”

“Sure.”

“Their people at the UN never heard of him, but the guy at their consulate had. Niko was a businessman living in New York. His specialty seemed to be finding jobs for Croats who came to the tri-state area. The consulate used his services informally. They’d just give out his name and number to Croats looking for work. The guy at the consulate…”

“Frank, may I ask the guy’s name?”
“Ah, Franjo Salata’s his name…” I wrote it down as McClain spelled it. “…said Niko’s been doing that since before his, Franjo’s, posting to New York. He‘d met him at functions and parties but didn’t really know him.”

“Interesting. May I make a suggestion?” I interpreted the quiet as a yes.

“If you haven’t yet, could you fax Niko’s picture up to Bevilaqua? If no one is acknowledging Ivana’s, whichever one she was, and Mislava’s deaths as having a connection to either the mission or the consulate…

“We don’t now that for sure yet.”

“Still, it was somebody from New York claimed that body up in Boston, right? Maybe it was Niko.”

“Yeah, all right. What the hell, it’s worth a shot, I guess. Sending it up there might nudge Bevilaqua towards calling us back down here. He hasn’t yet.”

“How’d the Staten Island detectives make out?”

“Nothing special. Niko lived there, alone it seems, in a shitty little house close to the Verrazano Narrows Bridge.”

“Frank, thanks for doing this. I know you could have…”

“Yeah, yeah. Stay in touch O’Keefe."

19

The phone was quiet for the rest of the drive. It was quiet because I had turned it off. I stopped in Providence for gas and coffee. My head was awash in details I didn’t need. I wasn’t sure why I cared about them.

I decided sorting the information might be of some value. My imagination produced for its own edification a “plinko board.” At the bottom were categories such as I know, I don’t know, I think but can’t prove, might be important and need to know. I imagined dropping each manageable, bite-sized piece of information at my disposal into the maze from the top. Each disk-shaped chunk would bounce off the nails, redirecting itself any number of times before nestling into one of the spots at the bottom. Thus: order from chaos. Yeah, right.

I had to be road weary, or terribly distracted, or suffering from a brain-wasting disease if I thought this plinko strategy was going to produce anything meaningful. Man. I’d be home soon and was glad for it.

My mailbox contained nothing of consequence. I tossed it all with my keys and wallet next to the phone and blinking answering machine on the table beneath the intercom. The first message was from Michael – I was going to have to recount what happened for Michael – asking if I needed a ride to Waltham for tonight’s Cucarachas’ game.

“So, then, you’ll call me back by five if you do…”

It was already too late to reply. Baseball is therapeutic. I needed therapeutic. I put on my Kook’s uniform and was off to Waltham.

Hell, in a Controlled Environment

The Stonehenge, or Stickhenge to be more accurate, homage in the photo above was constructed by Steve and Ray for a Wicca/Druid/Thatcherite celebration scheduled for new Year's Eve. I am sad to report that it was cancelled when no virgins could be secured. Ever wise, the gentlemen said, "Screw it, we'll have a birthday party for Ray."

Instructions for turning the benign setting above into the forest-eating, though strangely pleasing conflagration below are under the photographs.

Ray, "This ain't a bad party for one with no secured virgins."

Swedish candles.

Steve, a fire fighter, ensured everyone the sparks were harmless, though he spent much of the evening surveying the forest, sighing deeply.

Painting with fire

Windows of flame

No, Ray is not extinguishing the blaze. I'll grant you it sure does look that way. However, he was heard to utter, "It's my birthday and I can do what I want."

Our host and his co-conspirator setting something else alight

Notice poor Steve has burned his fingers down to the first knuckle.
Still quite dexterous.

Fire lanterns... how would you characterize the look on Steve's face? Creepy?

Infinity... and beyond

One to beam up, Scotty.

How do you do this magic? The logs are cross cut (+) down from the top stopping about a foot from the bottom. An accelerant (fire starter) is placed in the cuts and lit. Before long, the draft created by the channels nurtures the fire and flame leaps from the top and the sides creating both intense warmth and light... and a shit load of pesky sparks.  As the burn subsides, the columns created by the cross cut fall to the sides leaving a stump and hundreds of burning and screaming innocent bystanders, if it's done right.

It's ironic that the only other notable invention for which a Swede is responsible, Gustav Erik Pasch (1788–1862), is the safety match.