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Hockey Sticks

        I lived on Buckingham drive. The district known as Sandwich East; the east side of the city better known as Windsor Ontario. That one lane pothole street was our playground. The arena. The stadium. We were average kids with time on our hands. Instead of cell phones.  Every kid grew up dreaming of playing hockey. They imagined playing for his or her favorite team. I was just one of many. I was Dave Keon and when I played net, of course, Jacques Plante. The Toronto Maple Leaf's was (okay still are) my team. Had I known the ribbing I was going to receive my whole life, I might have changed teams. A new hockey stick was key to childhood hockey fantasy. A simple hockey stick. I didn't get one often, so when I did, I used it until it was almost used up. My younger brothers got my hand me down Sherwood's. Every kid had a hand me down Sherwood. It was what the pros used, so it was the only acceptable brand. By the time I was done with them, they were no longer hockey sti

The Street hockey net

                         A cheap hockey net. Seemed like a simple request. Not too demanding. We were sick and tired of collecting a missed shots that rolled down the entire length of the block. Tired of the using bricks for goal posts. Tired of the in and out childhood disputes. Was the shot in or was it out. We wanted a hockey net. Not the flimsy skinny aluminum tubular L shaped ball of string. We wanted a real official size skinny aluminum tubular ball of string. We tried to convince my mom and dad that for the good of the neighborhood, we needed it. My parents weren't buying it. My parents money went to more important things, like food for seven kids. And our piggy banks were always empty. The money went to more important things, like penny candy and hockey cards. We could have bugged my dad and I suppose he'd eventually give in. Well, he kind of did. He did get us some empty oat bags from his brother's barn. We got free wood from a pile that was lying next to the f

Boarding the plane

  I find it offensive that you're allowed to have a personal bag but they have to measure your carry on. I am thankful it's not the other way around. That old guy in front of you slowing the line while they measure his stretched out abacus sack. Inconvenient and offensive.  I put my personal bag is in my back pack and I only unzip and pull it out when I'm on the plane. If she looked close enough I'd probably get a discount. *****   The Purge Game-show. Tagline   We've got your number and it's up!  

Who Is Q

  A Bit Wordy: Before I came out, I had questions. Questions like. Can you be be bisexual and bipolar?   Not sure who you want and if you're happy or sad about it. I'm not bipolar . OCD, Maybe. I still have questions .  Questions like. Why are straight people not part of the LGBTQ community? What about the NDSLGBTQ (Non discriminating straight, lesbian, bi, gay, trans or questioning) community? The question is obvious. Who invited the straight guy? I'm curious. When did questioning overtake curiosity? Who the f*ck am I? Wait, that's a question.  How did Q make it to the club? Did they have a pronoun meeting? All in favour of letting the guy with the questions hang out at the end? Any questions? Precisely. Hey Q, you're in or you're out, anyway, welcome to the club.  ****** Just a random thought .   Baseball.  Not just baseball but Q baseball.   Its a beautiful day at the ball park. The sun is shining. The fans are drinking mimosas, eating skittles

Shy Johnny

  When I got to go and I want to go alone. Lets just say, it doesn't always work out the way I want.   I have a shy Johnny. I call it Johnny because it's no Johnson. Whenever I go take leak I have to time it. Before entering the restroom, I have to look over my shoulder. Like I'm being followed by the urinal police. I have to give Johnny a little pep talk. Okay an average pep talk. Okay, maybe I'm stretching a bit.  I'm like the pitching coach on the mound and Johnny is the relief pitcher. O kay the count is two balls and no strikes. You got this! You got a one minute window. Now get busy! No one is coming in. No one is looking at you junior. Besides you're walled up at the thighs with porcelain.   Then it happens, someone walks in and he stands right next to me. It's not like he didn't have any other options. He did. There was at least four other available urinals. Right next to me and the shy guy. Now the shy guy becomes the dry guy. It's not like

To shrink or not to shrink

 I don't like talking about my crazy shit stuff. I've spent the better half of sixty years hiding, fearing and shaming. Gee, that sounds like a new Journey song. Na na na na na na na. Anyway and yes I know, you should never start a sentence with anyway but I'm doing it, anyway. Hey! this is all about comedy, errors are expected. Sue me! Anyway ( there, I did it ) I went to see a therapist for a couple reasons. One, to debunk my then wife's' diagnosis. To prove that I wasn't a passive aggressive ass-hole.   Moron? Maybe.  But I'm not an oxymoron, moron. I mean, can you be passive and aggressive at the same time? The second reason was obvious, to rearrange the therapists office, starting with her unused coasters. They were definitely placed haphazardly. Then it happened. She started asking questions. Imagine that, a social worker asking questions. I thought I was there as interior designer not a client. Question one. Why did your wife call you passive aggr

One Foot Out

 I was born with one foot out. I think it was my left. Well, I wasn't quite born yet. I couldn't see where I was going or when I was going to get there but I did see a little light shining up through well, I'd rather not say. So there I was hanging out of the, rather not say, when my Mother's water broke. She didn't even know it. How did she not know, you might ask? Well, I'll just assume you did. She was in the shower. It wasn't her first rodeo. I was just another small clown trying to get to the circus. She prepared like all the previous births. At the first sign of contractions, she thought might as well get cleaned up . I don't know why, things are going to get messed up, in the hospital. You could say I was born a son of a breach. But that would mean my mom was too. Never mind. I came out alright and being a breach never gave me a big head. Okay, maybe a little bit. Thanks for stopping by. If you like my stories, I would love to hear from you. Feel