Ballard Street Stories

Stephen hadn't paid much attention to the missing fluxweed in the garden. But as the polyjuice potion wore off, so did Stephen's concerns over the unlikely coincidence of Reggie's disappearance and Gordon's unannounced visit.

Ballard Street Stories

The last miniature pizza roll passed under his nose at a backyard wedding reception, and everyone lunged at the tempting hors d’oeuvre. Soon thereafter, out came the tiny celery and carrot sticks in a Mongolian yogurt cream dip. Each subsequent tray brought smaller more scrumptious morsels that, when prepared at home, usually come in larger sizes.

Gary was struck with a brilliant, yet not so overwhelming idea: smaller portions considered more high society!

If so, it explained the niggling notion that his grandiose concepts were being ignored simply due to their sheer magnitude. Were his BS neighbours secretly considering him a Johnny-come-lately? Shame and a reluctance to share too much of his mind forced his theoretical plans to shrink over time. And over that same time, he became aware that the mailman smiled at him, the neighbourhood watch didn't avoid his corner, and more noticeably, Rusty, Miss Millie and the pack did.

Small ideas... this was the way to go! Big enough still to notice, but small enough to be recognised for what they were... pure genius!

Ballard Street Stories

Rusty could not wrap his mind around the blatant contradiction that erupted in the backyard. Hoses and fun DO NOT go together. He tirelessly reminded Ted and Sandy every Saturday morning at the dreaded Bath Wars. Yet here they were, mindlessly repudiating years of canine intuition. And the fact that Sandy willingly waited, flaunted insensitive disregard Rusty's way. As his blood pressure rose and began to pound in his head, Rusty saw about setting in motion an amazing plan of his own...

Ballard Street Stories

Muffin sticks with these sessions because they are contractual. While progress may be measured by a variety of yardsticks, the therapists of Ballard’s Animal Regression Koncepts (insert acronym here) pride themselves on resolving every case, by any means.

Ballard Street Stories

Last year's veterinary expedition was successful and required no further treatment. However, since the event Reggie now refers to bitterly as "The Last Hump", no one other than Harold has been able to get within a ten foot radius without Reggie raising alarm. Never out of earshot, Harold is now his dog's best and only confidant. Oh, worry not, for Reggie is in fine health, but his caramel coat is ... well, no longer caramel. And as evidenced by his catlike climbing abilities, it has become disturbingly apparent that his claws have gone too long without trimming. Harold says he doesn't mind, as long as Reggie plasters whatever he peels, but the management at Ace Hardware on William Jefferson Blvd. no longer sees the value in humouring Reggie's biscuits as currency.

Harold admitted to us last night that Sandra started seeing other men... again. More adventurous men. He senses her dwindling respect for him, a man who is not the master of his own house. x_Tech could no longer stand to watch the man season his single malt scotch with tears as he sipped it sullenly. Something had to be done.

Reggie surely isn't going to be snuck upon, but x_Tech and I voted unanimously that he's quite vulnerable to the sneak down. It now became a matter of getting Harold out of the room without suspicion...

Ballard Street Stories

Ted's nonchalant expertise at balance is testament to his past triumphs, having conditioned himself to singular purpose at exponentially increasing speed, his patience is eclipsed only by that of Mayan numerologists.

His present pastime precludes potential paralysis by permitting his partner in pace to parade prior to his person. The forever-loving, eternally supportive, physical buffer, Ginger "Never-Snaps" Ferklewitz never tires, and never fails to balance the thrill of speed with the caution of reality. After the wet concrete incident of '96, and their insurance agent's warning of "This is the last time I look the other way," Ginger looks both ways for them both every day.

"Righty then. Are we ready, Ginger?"

"Ready, Ted!"

Ballard Street Stories

Dolores told her she needed to get out more, but every time Sandra set foot out of condo 16D, she found one more reason to invest in anything that offered "Free delivery".

Dumbstruck at the epitome of dumb dangling at the doorstep, Sandra ponders a time when wooing meant flowers, flowery prose at the front step, and flowery fragrances on Friday nights. It disheartened her that between the patent-pending Buddy Simmons, the Detroit exile Alan Jurgenson, and the insufferable Carl whatshisface, this was the most exciting week of her widowed life. And yet it was only Friday morning.

The complete idiot of a sweetheart Ryan Woodfield knew he faced a formidable line of suitors. Last night's binge with Essex60 filled him with liquid courage and renewed enthusiasm. However, unaccustomed to physical activity at 9:00am, his courage did nothing to improve his dexterity, much less his fool proof plans of sweeping Sandra off her feet... literally. As he swayed slowly in the brisk spring wind, trying to subtly subdue his struggles, Ryan spied Sandra shaking her head sadly.

He groaned inwardly, "Where was Lefty2 when you needed him?"

LN-05

Ballard Street Stories

William “Big Willy” Johnson couldn’t be bothered with the list. The head watchman told him to stick to the list, no exceptions. Whatever. They’re just a bunch of lazy caged animals. Stick to the list… please.

Big Willy was running low on his hash stash and his regular guy was sent to San Diego on monkey business. The mellow croc in sector MJ-420 was his only option. “$60 bucks for the swamp green?!? That’s safari piracy!” Big Willy complained.

“Boo freaking hoo,” mumbled the old croc, “you’re making me cry.”

“Whatever,” Big Willy groaned. As fished out his wallet, he couldn’t help flash back to something on the list, but it was vague. It had to do with the old croc: #8 – Whatever … something. “Whatever indeed.”

A sparkling glitter trail trickled into Big Willy’s peripheral vision. “What the…?” He glanced up and saw what looked like a line of gems forming along the old croc’s snout. As he took the cash from his wallet, Big Willy followed the trail up to the cold, shiny eye. The croc with the diamond eye! Suddenly, the list was crystal clear.

#8 - Whatever you do, don't look him in the eye.

The Story of Achilles

It was one year yesterday that I ruptured my Achilles tendon. I am back on my feet and I would say 90% healed. I still have to "warm up" my ankle every morning, or after sedentary periods but then it's relatively good to go, sometimes lasting even longer than my uninjured leg.

I am still tentative however, perhaps more out of fear than caution, assuming that something WILL suddenly go wrong. But nothing goes wrong, and everyday the fear ebbs away, just a little at a time. I made my first precision jump on Sunday after personally refusing to let today come to pass and not giving it a shot. It was more of a mental leap than physical because it took a while to convince myself to just leap ... landing will be what it may.

I leapt. I landed. I smiled.

And it was good.

LN-04

Ballard Street Stories

As the aconitine seeps down into Ted’s tear ducts from the plunger, he hears the soft whispered words drift by. “I told you there would be consequences.” He had almost come to crave those soft feminine whispers, late at night, stealing time wherever time could be found.

As time ran out, his final thought stumbled through his already collapsing mind. “She was right, I can’t play with time forever…”

LN-02

Ballard Street Stories

Her parents, teachers, and eventually her therapist repeatedly tried to convince her that clowns should be funny. Clowns should bring happiness. But for Sandy coulrophobia seemed more like a fear of her own joy. She couldn’t remember the specific encounter that ignited the fuse that would continually burn her growing up in south Brooklyn. She only knew that every weekend when the other children and even her own siblings would venture out to Coney Island, she was nowhere to be found. Her therapist told her that when individuals feel safe in a predetermined process, they might be more willing to address the issues with exceptional bravery and profound courage. Sandy had no idea what the response would be when confronted head on in the most “unsafe” manner.

In a desperate final attempt to cure her irrational occupation with the white-faced actors, her beau of six tumultuous years plans the perfect date. For days prior to the evening, Larry intimated of a fantastic night of romance, fantasy, elegance and most serendipitously, surprise. Though he should have learnt by experience, Larry threw caution to the wind, ignoring the fact that “surprise” was Sandy’s mortal enemy.

Sandy’s coulrophobia was about to clash with angrophobia – specifically her own. For in her 52 years on this planet, struggling with her fear of clowns had built up a personal rage she was terrified to release… again. Not after the Huntington Beach incident of 1968. Momentarily struck at the front door, an eerie uncharacteristic chuckle rose from deep within. Sandy understood that tonight, she would be rid of more than her fears.

“Surprise!” exclaimed Larry. HA… Ha… ha.

Ballard Street Stories

Barbara vowed never to dedicate her life to the routine of the competitive circuit if only she could take Best in Show just once. After finally emerging champion a decade ago, she stuck to her word and disappeared from the Westminster lifestyle, even refusing to address Millie by her proper title, Champion Surrey Spice Girl.

In the years to pass, Ron wondered if Barbara had made the right decision - after all, they were the husband and wife dynamic duo of the regional dog duels. But Barbara stood fast and slowly but surely, a welcome peace came over the Scott household where regimented prancing laps and posing around their trodden garden were substituted for casual romantic strolls along friendly neighbourhood lanes.

Then one uncharacteristically tepid winter afternoon, as Barbara perused her preferred periodical, she came upon a story that rattled something hidden deep down inside. Something she thought she had locked away forever. Millie felt a shift in Barbara’s mood and immediately sprung to her beloved’s lap, her little tail beating against Barbara’s thigh in earnest concern. From the study, Ron felt the tension fill the air and called out, “Barbara, what is it?”

The only sound, Millie’s flapping tail.

“A deerhound,” was the barely audible whisper of a reply. That bastard breed had made it’s way to the winners circle for the first time in the show’s history, closely edging out the year’s best poodle.

“You know what this means Ron,” grumbled Barbara reluctantly, “It’s time to return.” A sudden shredding erupted… Well, if it isn’t little Miss Millie High Maintenance!

LN-01

Heaven

Me doing a piece I originally wrote a few years back and posted here. I edited it a bit for performance and then memorised it an hour before going on stage.

Damn you, Sky Monkey.

12 monkeys made their way from cloud nine this morning carrying the fury of the marsupial sky king in buckets.

That's the only way I can accurately describe the weather today. From the earliest waking moments through press time, there has been no reprieve. My rainsuit needed and received makeshift patches and I boldly took to the road on Pandora with a few accessories as possible.

Here's to getting home dry tonight.

Notable Moments

My company was mentioned as a sponsor in arguably this year's largest party event - Colour Me Red: The Return.

The Story of Achilles: Chapter 3

I was supposed to have physiotherapy yesterday. When I checked the appointment card before leaving home, it didn't have a time, but rather a note to call. So I called.

The therapist and I had a brief banter about my leg and my activities and she concluded that I could continue at home as there was nothing we could do at therapy that I could not do (better) at home. Ultra-sound was the last aspect (for the pain and nerve damage) and that was now obsolete. "Congrats and keep up the good work," she said. When I started therapy a few days after taking off the cast, they told me it would be six to nine months before I could use the leg with any real significance.

It has been four months and 11 days since surgery.

Tomorrow will be just three months since taking off the cast!

And here's the magic news... I actually jogged yesterday. Yes, there was something of a limp in every stride, but it was surely much more than walking quickly! My initial goal was to be running again by the end of the year, but it seems that will not even be a consideration. Perhaps I need to aim even higher... like climbing the Pitons again before the end of the year. Hmmm... We'll see how it goes after carnival which happens in a hair's breadth over a month from now.

Funnily enough, a friend approached me to join our parkour movement yesterday. I guess time really doesn't wait. Why should I?

The new chapter begins.