Between the vagaries of my web development work and daily life — “minor” updates to glade.ca that turned so easily into a complete three-week site overhaul, that challenging Levi’s “Go Forth” campaign, endless TD Canada Trust banners, assorted Purolator stuff, birthdays, and a visit to Canada’s Wonderland (Behemoth is pretty kick-ass, I must say ), I’ve hardly had room to swing a cat through my schedule.
Just as well – Ollie probably wouldn’t have taken well to it.
I finally managed to convince one of the agencies I work with that the term “independent contractor” isn’t merely a figure of speech (that and the liberal use of the term “employee” – why do I keep running into this?!), so I was looking forward to doing some work from home and mixing in healthy doses of blogging. But fate, being the filthy whore she is, pulled another steamy week out of her ass.
That window fan I’ve had going non-stop for about three months now has simply been circulating oven-like heat throughout my living room, over the exposed chassis of my computer and two surprisingly warm monitors (programming with just one monitor is a sort of punishment), and right back at my puffy, bloated face. Oh yeah, and it’s allergy season again.
Anyhow, I finally ran out of excuses tonight and took it to the streets.
Not that it’s significantly cooler, mind you. You know what they say, it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity. I mean, they say a lot of stuff that’s asinine, but in this case it’s true. The only reason it’s slightly cooler is because the sun’s gone down; we’re all pretty much still swimming.
But it’s kinda nice to be outside at night. Lotsa stuff happens that I probably wouldn’t ever get to experience during the day. To begin with, there’s all that night-time work that takes place so that when we wake up, parts of the city have magically changed.
That and trash collection from all the public bins. Maybe it’s the lack of surly morning people (having just lugged their reeking receptacles to the curb), but the garbage men (no offense, ladies, but I haven’t seen any females on the job), all seem to be a lot more casual and chatty. One of them happily took me through the steps of unlocking and emptying one of those newer, gray, pedestal jobs with the foot-pedal-operated flaps. I don’t care what anybody says, I find that kinda stuff fascinating. I always hope that, one day, this knowledge will be put to the test in some sort of high-stakes trivia contest.
Not everything that happens at night is that thought-provoking, though.
While passing my locally renowned strip joint (seedy hotel and reputation attached), I was accosted by a tall ruddy-faced man with a thick moustache, tiny feather-adorned hat, and protruding belly, pronouncing, “Ya! Ich bin Randolph!” I was the only one beneath the marquee with him so I thought he was addressing me, but almost immediately he turned away and gazed at the entrance to the peeler bar. And remained that way.
Shortly after this I stopped by George’s for a bit of rotisserie chicken.
George’s is another well-known local spot (the original of a few others scattered around town). For a fair price you get enough chicken to feed a small family, their dog, and a few relatives overseas, and there’s always an entertaining crackhead or prostitute in there to distract you while you wait for your bird. Tonight it was a trio of bike cops, one of whom was especially vocal and all “buddy” this and “yeah, eh?” that.
Once the tall verbose black officer and his cadre exited, George leaned over the counter and asked, “You know who that was?”
“You know that officer that had the bubbles blown at him by that girl?”
I thought for a bit – there are so many!
“You mean at the G20 protests?”
“Yeah! That’s the guy!”
“Ha! Officer Bubbles … you don’t say.”
Yes indeed, Officer Bubbles’ beat is my neighbourhood. Small town.
So that was this evening. Okay, I know … no gun fight or exploding car chase, but it’s a sight more interesting than my days have been lately. Not to say Glade didn’t have its interesting aspects, but watching sparkles fall down the screen gets a little tired after the fiftieth time. Throw in some soupy heat and you’ve practically got monotony.
Right now, the night’s where it’s at!