daughter

"...all that and I think she's pregnant."
Excuse me?
"Yeah. And I think its HIS!"
Poor girl. That guy is bad, bad news.
Pause. Light bulb...pause...PANIC.
IT COULD BE MINE!!!!
You are not serious.
"Yes. But I have something else to tell you."
OH NO!
"She did have a miscarriage back in September..."
THANK GOD!
Panic dissipates, heart starts beating again.

truth is beauty (or whatchu talkin' about Willis?)

At the bar last night the bubbly red headed waitress insisted that I look like somebody famous. She couldn't place the face for the life of her and proceeded to drag me to the bar and query the assemblage of barflies. Head shakes and shoulder shrugs were the responses all around except for the other waitress. "Montell," she blurted. FUCKING MONTELL WILLIAMS!

"No. That's not it. It's the older brother on that tv show." Puzzled looks all around and then someone threw out a "Different Strokes?"

"Yes that's it!" she shouted.

My god, she just told me in a bar full of people that I look like Willis. For future reference ladies, it is not a compliment to tell a man he looks like the crackhead older tv brother of Gary Coleman. Sinbad either. Will Smith on the other hand...

I ask you, do these people look alike?

drink and dial

"Hi Babe, it's me, 12:37 (giggle) wanted to apologize for the remark I made, left..the remark I made before I left. Anyways, NOT that I didn't mean it, it's all COOL as long as I get to make the decisions. I, I, I have a bunch of people on the menu (too?), it's okay with me but I don't want to share you unless it's in my better interest. Anyways, um, love you. I wanna see you later, and that's about it. Talk to you later my dear."

come as you are

“Leaving so soon?” she asked.
“Gotta leave when they tell me to. Sorry.”
“Well who’s going to go for breakfast with me now?”
Let’s ponder this for a second. Is this an invitation or an invitation? She is an acquaintance. A petite, exceptionally attractive blond in a well fitted business suit acquaintance asking you to go for breakfast. You may have made idle chit chat once or twice over drinks in group settings but that was as far as any social interaction had gone.
“What time are you off?”

To be continued...

wishin' and hopin'

I have a confession to make. Back in October of last year, while in Vegas with Carly, I met someone. Someone special, someone I've had a hard time forgetting. Black, petit, fit, with almost feline qualities about her. It was an instant attraction. We sat and had drinks, talked, touched. During our brief time together she told me about her belief in the magic known as Hoodoo.

A traditional folk magic born in Africa, the goal of hoodoo is to allow people access to supernatural forces to improve their daily lives by gaining power in many areas of life, including gambling, love, divination, cursing one's enemies, treatment of disease, and employment. Now I can't say I've ever been much of a believer in such Harry Potter-esque business but something about her made me want to listen and believe. I guess I'm just a sucker for a beautiful woman. Maybe just a sucker. Hell, I'm a male. We didn't have much time together but what time we did have was memorable. And some of her hoodoo must have rubbed off on me because for that one day I had nothing but luck in the casinos. We never exchanged names or numbers and our time was cut short because we both had other places to be. Had I known that Carly was busy welcoming the attentions of a wealthy, older gentleman from Texas, things may have turned out differently. There were no goodbyes. I left Vegas wishing and hoping that our paths would someday cross again.

Fast forward to this past Sunday. After what turned out to be an exceptionally frustrating day of car shopping, I stopped by a random bar in Burnaby for a drink. I cozy up to the bar, order a beer and try to relax a little. Slowly sipping my beer I gaze up into the mirror (because there is no mirror or reflective surface on the planet that I can resist) and I see her. I won't get into details but let's just say i got lucky.

welcome to the working week

A flood, a partial system crash and one perversely satisfying encounter...

Yes. How can I help you Sir?
I don't know what's going on here? Can you explain it to me?

I take a moment to assess the situation.

Well Sir, first things first, do not touch the screen. You have one of three options: one, you take the win, roughly 10,000 credits, we're talkin' 500 dollars or so. Two, you can forfeit the credits and take the mystery prize, could be more, could be less. And three, forfeit the credits and take the 15 bonus spins over. Could be more, could be less. I can't choose for you sir. Again, do not touch the screen until you decide what you want to do.

So what does Sir do?

Hey what's going on here?
Sir it appears that you have inadvertantly touched the screen. Looks like you have selected the mystery prize.

I watch the 10,000 credits evaporate before my eyes. Suspenseful music, flash of lights and voila...

454. What? I don't want that! That's bullshit!

Doh! 454 credits instead of 10,000. Ouch. Snicker, snicker.

I'm sorry Sir, I told you not to touch the screen.
But I didn't!
Uh yes you did Sir.
I want my credits back!
It doesn't work that way Sir.
Let me speak to your manager!

And so I happily radio my supervisor over to explain to the poor chap that basically he fucked up, but as a consolation here's a drink voucher for you.

i saw u

Blazers-Sonics game, Friday April 7, section 105, row m. You, cute blond, look like born with a touch of class, Jerome Kersey retro jersey, overheard Cake ring tone on your cell phone, with hot brunette, glasses, very European looking, oddly cheering for Blazers assistant coach. Me, bald, mocha, Blazers satin jacket and tear-away warm-up pants. Possible Soulmates. Love to meet up for chat, drinks and good times. Leave comment at www.warrickbrown.blogspot.com

kiss of beth

Helping my Moms today with her spring cleaning I stumbled upon a box of old lps. Beneath the Saturday Night Fever and Grease soundtracks, Foreigner 4, Pat Benetar, April Wine, Roger Whittaker and AC/DC I found them. My KISS records. More specifically Alive II. The first album I ever bought with my own money. I have no idea what it cost. I'm not sure whether it is embarrassing or not to admit that the first band I ever loved was KISS. I don't care that KISS has become the Rolling Stones of Glam Rock (let it go already boys) and that Gene Simmons may be one of the greasiest people on the planet. Not that I ever have a problem discussing my most embarrassing moments(ie. multiple shitting pants episodes, farting mid-stroke during sex and yelling simultaneously to mask the sound. Damn I wish I knew how to put sound effects on this thing). I just love(d) this album.


Maybe it was because I was born in Winnipeg, who knows? It was 1977, I was five years old and just fell in love with KISS. I think it was one of our neighbours in the old apartment that introduced me to the band. The songs, the album jacket(front, back and inside), but the best part for a five year old were the temporary tattoos that were inside. Talk about gift with purchase.

I can remember spending hours listening to that record while drawing, tracing and colouring the images from that album jacket. Before Luke Skywalker took me to a galaxy far, far away, there was Paul, Gene, Ace and Peter. The fire, the blood, the make-up and costumes provided me with endless ideas for my imagination to run wild with. I'm sure I had no idea what the lyrics meant but I know if I hear any of those songs now I could belt out a pretty damn good rendition.


It is only fitting and of great personal satisfaction to me that there is a scene in one of my favourite books, Never Mind Nirvana, that the patrons in a well-known Seattle bar bust out in a spontaneous and rousing rendition of the song Beth, the first ballad I ever memorized the words to. I can hear Peter Criss right now...

Beth, I hear you callin'
But I can't come home right now

visible injuries

(Sometime around 2 am an attempt is made to repair a broken necklace.)

Can you go get me the Krazy Glue?
No problem. Where is it?
Back closet, third shelf on the right.
(Off to the closet to retrieve the Krazy Glue. The container with four tiny tubes is exactly where specified.)

Can you help me open these? They are sealed shut.
I thought you just poke a hole in the top with a pin?
It's okay. I got this one open.
(Minutes elapse.)

Can you get me some alcohol?
Like a drink?
No. Some type of alcohol. I just glued my fingers together!
Seriously?
Seriously!
Where do you keep it?
Where do you think? Can you please hurry!
(Off to the medicine cabinet. Return with rubbing alcohol and a few cotton pads.)

It's working. You didn't have any idea how get Krazy Glue off did you?
I'm sure I would have figured something out.
I'm glad I'm friends with a lot of doulas. You'd be useless in there.
(I guess she means in the delivery room were we ever to consider procreating.)
(Silence.)

Could you get me some more cotton pads?
Sure. Why?
I'm stuck to the necklace.
(Silence.)

Do you think I'm stupid?

see you in the next millenium

It's amazing how, in his five years at the 'boo, Clay was able to get good grades considering he dozed in his classes. His most memorable time was summer '89 when his parents journeyed to darkest Africa without him. His pet peeve is people whose feet stink and the Boston Celtics. This hip-hop mugster says thanks to God, Mom, Pop, Dunni, Ang, M.C., B.H., Coach John Thompson for making Georgetown great, and to Chuck D., Flavor Flaw and krs-1 for spreading the word. PEACE.

The actual prose, spelling and punctuation of one Clayton Earl Sutherland Hendricks, circa 1990, Cariboo Hill yearbook.

Check me out right here yo!


You can almost hear in the background...
That girl is poison
Never trust a big butt and smile
That girl is poison...