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The Englishman
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: People
- Hits: 591
Monday, he comes into the restaurant. Oversized ears, nose bristling with hair, and a surreal wrap-around smile that reminds me of the Mad Hatter. Older, 70's, and in an English accent asks for a cup of coffee. Crystal bright blue eyes.
He's a lunatic, deranged, you can tell, good natured enough, but his eyes, appearance, there's no one home, no one at all. He sits with a big grin on his face and asks about little pastries and cakes and I refer him to the bakery across the way.
He's jolly. He drinks his coffee, unblinking, livid blue eyes, a madman, his smile is perpetual, stuck on as if he's looking into the void, I'm amazed - to all superficial appearances, normal, but - no, he's barking mad. He tells me he's paid for his coffee, and I pooh-pooh it, "On the house" I tell him, it was an older pot, thank you for coming in and all that, and he leaves, for such an unremarkable visit he's made an impression...
Uncles Flim and (Flam)
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Dreams
- Hits: 1211
After a night of unsettled dreams, the last and only one that I remembered...
I've just graduated. I don't know from what, or for what, but I put out a call for cash in lieu of gifts...
Who should show but good old uncles Flim and (Flam?). Both bespectacled, comfortable middle aged men, perfectly bland, you've seen a thousand like 'em. You'd never recognize them on the street. I didn't. But they're reaching through the windows of a classic luxury car, Rolls-Royce or some-such, and handing me big manila envelopes filled with cash, dense, like bricks, and I know there's millions in each, and they're like "take them, congratulations..." and I know I've made it...
...the uncles, they don't exist, and I first interpreted Uncle Flim as being a dream-anagram of Uncle Film...but Uncle Flam then joined him in the names, a natural they'd say...
Today, off prospecting, bought my ticket in Wyndel, site of the logging accident a couple of years ago that nearly killed me, but it had "Wyn" in the name, and I like "Dell", I have an aunt by the same name turning 100, so...
The Assholery Begins
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: People
- Hits: 942
Today, mundane, Christopher reading the reviews. One complains the food was shit and the waiter was creepy. Chris describes the order and I know who he's talking about, my table, a bland narcissistic couple from the city, vacuous blonde, impotent overly groomed man - which city? Don't know. I can't be bothered to search their Instagram or "Only Fans' page. Guess Alberta. But BC has it's share as well.
Online anonymity gives every entitled asshole a place to vent their worthless opinions.
A man, 2 kids, makes a reservation, sits outside at a patio table, beautiful view, but he'd prefer to sit next to a wall so he and his kids can charge their cellphones. A shit table, less of a view, but - it has a plug. Camping with your kids in the 21st Century.
He complains to me that we "need a no-hillbillies policy". The table next to him is loud, drunk-ass BC kids on vacation. I agree, but it's our bread and butter, and I'm in the awkward position of choosing between my values and the owners needs. I explain to him - "They're our bread and butter.".
Tonight - after yesterday, relatively slow. A few late tables, a drunk fat toad of a blonde waiting for guests, can't look up from her phone to order her double Caesar. Her friends, clueless as to how to work a mask, clutching napkins over their faces, show up late. 10 minutes to close. They don't like their table, want to sit on the beach.
I tell them no, the beach is closed. We're closing in 10 minutes.
She doesn't like this, immediately goes in search of another opinion, finds the owners' son, gets the same answer. I watch it all. I haven't primed him. Here - here, if you were managing and competent, here is where you chuck them out. Assholes. Bitches. Drunk-ass whores. Know trouble when you see it and get rid of them. Not kindly. Fuck off. Fuck right off.
One last chance. Toady blonde, prompted for order before the kitchen closes. "But your website says you close at 10:00". It has never said that ever.
But they complain to him about me, I'm - wait for it - "Anthony Bourdain" - and that's enough, they repeat it again and again as if it's he's the Satan of the restaurant world. I can't take it, "just take the table" I tell him, I can't put up with this shit, haven't the patience for it.
It's time for the old "Hills have eyes", work with your gut, start cleaning up the planet of all the excess shit of humanity that it's created. Really. Humanity, we've been breeding assholes for too long, rewarding them, promoting them, to President even, (or Premier of Alberta) - time, time to just burn them all down. They're fooling no one. The liberal ideology - it allows everyone to be whatever they want to be, but the asshole ideology - "if you're not what we want or expect we're going to complain on our Instagram/Only Fans" is gaining too much ground. Time to end it. Not kindly.
I've had enough, and the lotto, fuck, it's gotta be won, I've appointed my Dukes and Earls and Counts all already, just let me fucking win goddamnit!!!!!
Beryl, Garnets, Mica & Smoky Quartz
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Blog
- Hits: 534
The weekend (my weekend, an early day Monday, so the afternoon, Tuesday, Wednesday) - bills, errands, and numerous trips to the east shore.
I'm looking for the Garnets Brad spoke of, no luck as of yet, a dozen beaches combed, nada. But some good beach rocks, to be integrated into other projects.
Visit the Smoky Quartz place, dig for an hour, searching for pockets, I have a theory, yet to be proven, and I have yet to cough up the evidence. No pockets, but an unwelcome tick on the back of my neck, found before it latched but - always - how many did I miss?
Bloody hell.
Visit the Mica quarry, my fifth, sixth trip there, big (ish) books of mica, maybe an inch or two across, in the dirt, and I've dug holes, scraped the surface, can't find out why. I mean, I suspect a decomposed pegmatite, but then wouldn't the mica decompose first? Feldspar, after all, is a lot harder, and where's the smoky quartz?
Anyways, take my big boy pick and randomly trench, dig through the roots, gather my books of mica, and I finally find it, a beryl on feldspar, loose, it just falls off. About a centimeter in all directions, white, not at all gemmy, but 5 times here and I'm starting to find them - which means dig harder and deeper.
Staves, thick wood staffs to be collected for Wizarding purposes, Eagle feathers, a deer skull - I'll let it bleach out a little longer before I collect it, I've three months to gather my winter's work.
We'll see.
These days off, I want nothing more than a plate of tacos, food, put my feet up, read a book, people watch, but it's summer and make hay while the sun shines and before the ground freezes and there are too many holes to be dug, too many places to go, and I find myself paralyzed, unable to choose...
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