Our Lady of Perpetual Hell

Actually, there’s only been one skunk so far. And it wasn’t in the middle of the road. In fact, I didn’t see it. I just smelled it.

It’s mostly raccoons I see splattered on the road or lying, slowly bloating, by the side of it. A few opossums, too, I think–hard to tell when they’re smooshed, but that’s what they look like they are. Or, rather, were. The occasional cat. It’s like an Animal Kingdom war zone out there.

I have been keeping tabs on one particular(ly) dead raccoon that lies on Kimball Road, just north of the turn into Wallaceburg… I noticed it as soon as it appeared, and then charted its progressive bloat each day as I drove past. My copy of Mary Roach’s Stiff (easily the funniest, most fabulous & interesting book I’ve read in years!)
is packed away with the rest of my books in the storage unit I rented, so I couldn’t look to it to find out if I should be expecting the corpse to finally explode in a gassy plume of rotten guts or if it would just eventually quietly collapse. But it kept getting more and more like a furry balloon, and every time I drove by I winced, hoping that the damned thing wouldn’t choose that particular moment to kerpow and splatter the parents’ car with a maggoty soup of ex-raccoon organs.

But it never did. When I caught my morning glimpse of it a few days ago, it had collapsed in on itself. Didn’t see any evidence of it having exploded first, so it looks like it just imploded. Must confess I was a little disappointed… It was so anticlimactic. *sigh*

Further north on Kimball, there is something on the shoulder of the road that has interested me even more. It’s a box.

Did you see the movie Se7en? Remember the end of it? That box that was delivered by John Doe to the rendezvous spot where he led Detectives Mills and Somerset…? If so, then you know what I think is in that box at the side of Kimball Road…

Dude. It’s a head. It hasta be! I know it! How do I know? Because the box has been squashed at one end and there is blood spray out the other end, all over the gravel. At least, it looks like blood. And no, I’m certainly not gonna stop and check because, bleah, I don’t wanna see a severed, squashed human head up close, thank you very much. (Well… okay, I kinda do.)

I wonder… Could the (obviously unmedicated) masked man pictured above be exacting revenge on behalf of his little furry friends that we are so heedlessly squooshing whenever they creep out onto the pavement we rule? [shivers]

Then again, I guess it could just be a Box O’ Wine, run over like some poor little critter on the road.

Oh. Speaking of X, here’s the Music that soured milk in Southwestern Ontario over the past week or so…

Sugar - File Under: Easy Listening

Big Star - In Space

Talking Heads - Stop Making Sense

Frank Black and the Catholics - pistolero

The Replacements - Pleased To Meet Me

X - Live at the Whisky A Go-Go On the Fabulous Sunset Strip

New Order - Low-life

Beck - Odelay

Sloan - Navy Blues

Eric Clapton - Unplugged

R.E.M. - Green

Neil Young - Sleeps With Angels

Replacements - Sorry Ma, Forgot to Take Out the Trash

and a set by treble charger: maybe it’s me, wide awake bored, self-title

(Yes, the car’s cd player is working again. Dad fixed it himself. He inserted Mom’s copy of the Beaches soundtrack and it proved to be a perfect dose of ipecac: it made the cd player throw up the four other disks that were stuck inside. Y’know, I think that soundtrack would work the same way on me.)

I am in love with my Samsung DVD-L75 portable dvd player.

Hell, it’s practically attained the stature of lover. I mean, I take it to bed with me every night. And (pathetically) it has proven to be better company there than most of the boyfriends I’ve had over the years. I fold before it ever does, what with that extended battery that lasts more than 5 hours at a time. These 7 inches are the most fun 7 inches I’ve ever had in my bed.

Ohhh, that’s so sad–I know, I know! [weeps for self]

It accompanies me on trips–protecting me from the bawling baby in the row behind and the increasingly soused project leader pounding back the four-dollar Buds beside me–and makes each extended wait in each crowded airport for each delayed flight more tolerable. It takes my mind off those stray, anonymous hairs in cheesy motel rooms.

It stimulates me, culturally and intellectually, but it can also lower itself to my level without complaint or even a sidelong glance. It is truly open-minded and non-judgmental.

It is so sleek and attractive, so powerful and efficient, so practical and dependable. It is possibly the smartest and most satisfying purchase I’ve ever made. I love it, I love it!

Damn. This is more than a little depressing. Will I ever find a man that can match it?

Check out what’s going on over at JABS, and cast your votes in the first annual (mebbe) “Rawk the Puck!” thingee.

Don’t worry, you don’t need to actually know anything about hockey to vote. What you’re pronouncing judgment on ain’t which team is liable to advance to the next round of NHL playoffs–you’re judging the matchup between the songs that Maggie the Monkey Chris Young picked to represent each team.

Vote now! Vote often!

What follows is the (disingenuous sounding) email I got from my close personal friend John Ferguson Jr. yesterday:

Dear Carla,

Sincerely,
John Ferguson
General Manager

…and, to be honest, I’m not surprised that Quinn was fired, but I’m not so sure that he deserved to be. Frankly, the team did better than I expected it to this season. And Quinn wasn’t responsible for signing (or re-signing) the players who were so unimpressive this season—that was Junior’s handiwork.

Was it Quinn’s fault that he was saddled with unimpressive performances from a slew of veteran players? No. It was Quinn’s fault, however, that he relied so heavily on those vets for so long even though they were stinkin’ up the joint. Once he had no choice (thanks—if I can say that—to injuries), he played the youngsters and—as everybody now knows—they were a lot more impressive and fun to watch than any of the mooks that Junior signed/re-signed. But I believe that Quinn is a smart man, capable of learning from his mistakes. And so I think that the makeup of his lines next season would’ve borne more resemblance to the lines that he was using at the end of this season than those he (fruitlessly) relied on during most of the rest of it. But now I guess we’ll never know. And I freely admit that I’m prolly just being as presumptuous as Junior is in the last sentence of his email…

I wouldn’t have minded seeing Quinn moved out from behind the bench and back to the GM position—leaving the coaching position available for somebody new (in a perfect world, Brent Sutter). And what about Junior? Given a choice between the two of ‘em, he’s the one I’d’ve fired.

I am still pulling for Pat to coach his way to getting his name engraved on the Cup. Just wish it could’ve been with Tronna.

Me with my close personal friend Pat.

Agh. The cd player in the car has choked on one of my disks. It was “Snake Handler” by Divine Horseman that gagged it.

There are four disks now trapped in its awful maw.

So Dad took the car over to the dealer (it’s still under warranty) to see if they could fix it. They said to bring it back on Monday (whut?! that’s five fuggin’ days without a cd player! are they outta their minds??) and they’d see if their technician could get it out. If not, they’ll hafta take the whole shebang outta the car and send it away to be fixed or replaced. Oh, joy. Oh, bliss. Aw, fug.

Two hours a day in the car–without my cds? Listening to the raaaaaaaaadio?? Ye gods. Just shoot me now.

So I scrounged around and found my portable cd player. I can plug it into the 12 volt outlet (formerly known–in the Dark Ages of the 70s–as the cigarette lighter) and use it with headphones, I guess. Beats the radio. I mean, if you’ve been reading this blog (or this “blob”, as a friend of mine called it, heh-heh-heh…), you already know how I feel about being stuck with only the radio when I’m driving… The other drivers on the road between here and the office tremble at the thought of me driving while I’m pissed off. They want that cd player fixed. Now.

Music that soured milk in Southwestern Ontario over the past week or so…

A set by John Hiatt: Crossing Muddy Waters, Riding With the King

A set by Bobby Darin (two more disks from The Capitol Years box set)

Louis Jordan (one disk from the …and his Tympany 5 box set)

Kevin Spacey, Beyond the Sea s’track

Warren Zevon, Mr. Bad Example

Flesh Eaters, A Hard Road to Follow

Buffalo Tom, big red letter day

Joy Division, Substance

…and *urp* Divine Horsemen, Snake Handler

It’s over. This Leafs season is in the books. Here’s your hat–what’s your hurry?

At least they went out in that proverbial blaze of glory–finally beating those dratted Ottawaaaah Senaturds for the first freakin’ time this season. But it was all for naught, as the Tampa Bay Lightning also beat the Carolina Huricanes in OT on Saturday night, guaranteeing the Lightning would finish with more points than Toronto. When “Hockey Night in Canada” switched over to the Tampa/Carolina game that night, I imagined the Toronto dressingroom–guys sitting around, dripping with sweat because they didn’t take the time to shower yet and dare miss the Tampa/Carolina finish–the excitement and hope mounting in them as it did in me as Carolina fought back from a two-goal deficit to tie the game by the end of the third and send it into OT. Then, with only 10 seconds left in that OT, Tampa’s Martin St. Louis handed them the soap. G’wan have yer showers, boys. Get the stink of this season offa y’selves.