|2 Feb - 750 Words
Today's Candlemas, or Imbolc, or for the true heathens among us, Groundhog's
Day. It's also my mom's birthday. Mom saw her shadow today and proclaimed
there'd be six more weeks of shopping. Dad was unimpressed. Anyway:
H A P P Y
B I R T H D A Y M O M!!!
(Not that she reads this.
Talk about your pagans. Sheesh!!)
Pen took me out to dinner
tonight, and bought me chocolate, which can only mean one
of three things:
1. She really, really
2. She's trying to
fatten me up so no one else will want me;
3. She wanted to go
out to dinner, and figured I was too cheap to taker her.
I vote for number one.
I'm warm. And comfortable. At least according to Pen. I'm thinking of adding
that to my resume.
"Well, Mr. Perry, what special qualities will you bring to your position
as Head of Security, should you get the job?"
"Well, I'm warm...and
Overheard at the
"That's Steve Perry.
I hear he's warm and comfortable."
Since last we chatted:
I saw my Career Mangler. This one's actually not half-bad. At least he
gave me the impression that he really felt guilty for screwing me over.
And I'm pretty certain I'm staying here in Esquimalt--unless I'm posted
to Borden. I'll know for certain, eventually.
I still haven't won the lottery, but I heard someone else did, so it's
not all bad.
Pen took me to see the Victoria Ballet's Production of Peter Pan this weekend
as an early Valentine's Day Present. Nothing tells a guy you love him like
the Ballet. Except maybe the Opera, which we're going to on Valentine's
Day. She must really love me.
In all fairness, the Ballet was pretty cool. Peter Pan is one of my favorite
stories, although strangely enough I've never actually read it, but I digress.
Strictly speaking it wasn't all Ballet. The Lost Boys, which were all girls,
by the way--but I digress--did this hip-hop power number, and the Indians
were authentic West Coast First Nations Peoples (now I know why we call
the Indians--it's shorter; but I digress) and performed real native dances.
The only thing I wasn't impressed by was the music. It sounded like a bargain
basement Tangerine Dream clone, and I swear the guy was actually playing
it in the basement, on his Casio organ.
Oh yeah. Pen got a dollar an hour raise that isn't really a dollar an hour.
Still not published, but I heard someone else is, so it's not all bad.
I read a report the other day that stated that the reason North Americans
are increasingly obese is that the average American eats 165 calories a
day more than they did in 2002. This, they informed us, is the equivalent
of one chocolate chip cookie a day. Are they trying to tell me that everyone's
getting fat from eating one cookie a day? That's some cookie. Personally,
I think it's skinny people that are getting ripped off. I mean, let's face
it, if you're thin, take a look around you. Someone's been eating your
And I don't know if this is one of Murphy's Laws, but if it isn't, I'm
nominating it for inclusion:
sun will always shine through your window at that spot just below or between
the sun visors on your car.
The military has a policy...tradition...rule? that says everyone has to
look the same. That's why they call it a uniform after all. Of course,
the military being what it is, they have to take it just a tad too far.
For instance, if one person is wearing gloves, everyone has to wear their
gloves. Conversely, if it's absolute zero outside and one chucklehead forgets
his gloves, no one can wear their gloves, even if we all get frostbite.
An no, I'm not exaggerating. Well, okay, maybe about the absolute zero
The policy probably dates all the way back to when Og wanted to wear his
loincloth, and everyone else wanted to wear their over-the-shoulder-furry-toga-thingie,
but I'm sure it made actual sense at one time. The military excels at that
sort of thing. Find a problem, make a policy to cover it, then warp that
policy until its intent becomes ludicrous, and then make it a tradition.
The thing is, it doesn't matter if you're twenty, or forty, or fifty, and
should know well enough for yourself whether you need your gloves or not,
the decision is taken away for you, and then everyone else pays for one
Heck, it may not even be a mistake. Maybe you've got Nanook in your platoon,
who can't understand why everyone's whining about a balmy spell of absolute
zero weather. Anyway, I've always railed against this policy, but the truth
is, it's much the same in real life.
Now I've always thought of myself as a rather empathic person. I hate to
see anyone else hurting, physically or mentally, whether I know them or
not. It really upsets me, but I'm a macho he-man type so I don't usually
let it show. It surprises me, therefore, that there are certain people
who I would just love to hold down and pummel until their faces are nothing
but bloody pulps. Because these people are ruining it for everyone. Either
they're some idiot who keeps forgetting their gloves, or they're the jackass
that came up with the policy in the first place.
So I guess what it all boils down to is, if you don't want me to beat you
to a bloody pulp, just leave me alone. I'll wear my gloves if and when
I like. Hey, I never said I was concise.
This just in:
Dear Mr. Perry,
Thanks for sending,
"Harbinger". It's not quite what BQ is after. Good luck placing
have you considered expanding this into a novel? Just a thought.
Damn, another nice rejection
So Pen and I went to the Opera again last night for the gala opening of
the Tempest. It wasn't bad, but it's not like it's chock full of little
ditties you can hum along to either. And it was long--three hours long,
with two intermissions. About halfway through the third act I was tempted
to jump from my seat and yell, "Sum up!" Hey, it works for the recruits.
We arrived a couple of hours before the gala began to set up the jewelry
display and stuff. Pen's company sponsors the opera, which is how we get
to attend in the first place. Anyway, the theater wasn't fully set up yet
either, and I watched as they struggled to hang this twenty-foot banner.
I'm assuming they normally have a ladder, but not this time, so they were
trying to hang over the balcony and place the end of the rolled up banner
in a slot about ten feet out of reach.
Well, after the second guy gave up in frustration, I took pity on them
and offered to help. I thought they were going to go into shock when I
climbed out over the balcony, held on by my finger tips, and perched on
a one inch ledge thirty feet up while trying to jam the end of the pole
into the appropriate slot. I managed to succeed, and climbed back over
the balcony when the manger thanked me, then said rather sheepishly, "Um,
there's another one on the other side."
Anyway, I hung both banners, and the joined the festivities, and at the
first intermission I had a chance to meet one of the singers. He was standing
there surrounded by a small crowd, when one of the girls pointed to me
and said, "Isn't that the psycho that climbed out there and hung those
The singer looked at me, grinned, and said, "Sure, twenty years of vocal
training, and they go all gaga over the guy that hangs the posters."
Nope, still don't feel better.
I sent my novel, DARKSIDE, out to BAEN about six months ago. They actually
let you submit by email to their slush pile now, and reply with an auto
response so you know it arrived for certain. I figured at least this time
I'd know they actually received it. Their turn around time is still eight
months to a year, though, so I was surprised to hear back from them this
Their response: Sorry, but there was nothing attached to your email.
Now I'm in a quandary. Should I kill myself, or everyone else? Sure, killing
myself is faster, but killing everyone else is more satisfying. And if
I just kill off other aspiring writers, I'd no doubt be doing them a favor,
thereby incurring some positive karma in the process. *sigh*
The only positive note is that at least the email address isn't the one
for their general slush addy, but to an actual editor/slush reader, so
chances are I won't have to wait the interminable year before finding out
Hey, behind every dark cloud...well, there's the cold, dark reaches of
space, waiting to chill the marrow in your bones, freeze the blood in your
veins, and dry you out like a piece of tough, stringy pemmican. So it isn't
I don't know who picks the music they play at the gym I go to, but they
other day they were on an old Barry Manilow kick. Not that I have anything
against Barry per se, it's just that his music just doesn't motivate you
to push for that extra rep. There's nothing like the sight of a bunch of
big, macho, muscle bound guys, laying on the bench and sobbing their eyes
"Mandy. She came, and she gave without taking. And he sent her away.
Next thing you know there's a lineup of guys at the payphone all trying
to call their moms at the same time. It's pathetic, I tell you.
Okay, can someone please tell me what the hell this means, because
I give up?
I had a dream the other night that I was in a house--it may have been a
house under construction. I walked by a door with a small window in it,
and crows where flying up against it and killing themselves. When I looked
closer, there was a man's face up against the window trying to get my attention,
and yelling in a muffled voice that the fifteen runners were all dead.
Sure enough, when I went outside there were fifteen old guys all dressed
in spandex lying in disarray in a field outside the house.
Just then a foreman appeared and told me that if they he couldn't get any
gasoline, his company would go bankrupt. I looked around the field and
there were all sorts of gas mains, the kind with meters that you find up
against your house. Anyway, I volunteered to help, and next thing I know
I'm leaving my parents place in my little Geo Tracker, towing this big
rig gasoline tanker.
Even in my dream I realized this was a little absurd, but the Tracker seemed
up to the task. I remember thinking that I was going to have a trouble
negotiating the turn at the end of the street that led to the railway crossing,
but I managed it all right only to find that traffic was backed up. I stopped
the Tracker just before the railway tracks, and was worried I might not
be able to get the rig moving again. I couldn't make out why we were stopped.
There wasn't a train coming, and the road seemed clear, but there were
hundreds of cars parked in the grass on both sides of the road, and people
in bright colours seemed to be milling all about.
Suddenly I realized that someone had disconnected the tanker from my car,
and were making off with it. I followed the culprits around a corner, where
they were unloading red gasoline cans from the back of the tanker, which
suddenly had double doors on the back, and looked square, and white--a
lot like a truck my dad used to use for work when I was young. (My dad
was a building contractor.) The guys all looked like construction workers
in jeans, workboots, and plaid shirts. Anyway, I managed to talk them out
of stealing the gas by convincing them that they were putting people out
of work, and how would they feel if that happened to them. They started
replacing the gasoline, and I woke up.
any wonder I never remember my dreams?
Conga Rats to my brother James and his wife Kathy, whose son, Andrew William
John Perry, was born yesterday at 2:14 PM weighing in at 8 lbs 11 1/2 ounces!!!
(Kathy did all the
work, as usual; James just showed up.)