Archive for November, 2013

Office Parties are a Mine Field

November 29, 2013 Leave a comment


It’s the time of year again when many companies have office parties.  They can be treacherous, as many humiliated people might know.

It was generally acknowledged that Jerry Goldstone was quite a good looking man in his thirties.  He went to work as a copywriter for a large advertising agency, and although he was a devout womanizer, he wasn’t during his time at this particular office.  He was in a committed relationship with an exotic dancer.  They lived together, and Jerry just didn’t have any interest in other women.  It was an unusual state of mind for him, and he was enjoying it.  To this day, he still wonders if the things that happened at that year’s Christmas party were subconsciously generated by his comfortable commitment, and the aura that it caused in him.

Early in the day of the party, the attractive little receptionist, nineteen years old, took advantage of an opportunity to speak to Jerry as he stood at her desk sorting through the messages she’d handed him.

   “I’ve never met a man who could get me off through penetration.  I know that you’re the one who could do it,” she said softly. He smiled at her warmly.

   “Thank you,” he said.  “Maybe sometime, somewhere, it could happen, but not these days. Sorry.”

As the time drew near for the party to start, Jerry sat in his office, not really working, but just anticipating the party.  He hated parties, and especially office parties.  Somebody always got hurt in some way.  As he sat there just musing, Diane Clark came in the open door and closed it behind her.  This was unusual, because she rarely visited his office.  In fact, they interfaced very little between him in creative and her in management.  Anyway, she looked splendid in her expensive business suit that went well with her slender body and substantial butt and boobs.

   “I just want to wish you a happy season, Hannukah or whatever you celebrate, and to tell you that if you ever feel the need to experience a different woman, don’t hesitate to call.”

  “Thank you, I won’t,” he said. “hesitate that is.”  Diane Clark opened the door and stepped out to disappear toward her office.  Suddenly, just a few moments later, Christie from accounting dashed into his office, slid across his desk to drop off the other side into Jerry’s lap.

  “Do I have to beg?” she said.  “I will, if I have to.”  She was obviously drunk already, and when her friends told her the next day what she had done, she resigned from her job and was never seen again… except by Jerry some time later.  Apparently she felt humiliated.  Jerry felt like an innocent bystander.

He stays away from office parties.  At other parties, Jerry was sometimes the one to be humiliated.  Just a final note: eighteen months later the stripper and Jerry broke up.  He then sought out each of the women who had made her availability known to him, and was happy to share intimate moments with each of them.


Morning Moon

November 29, 2013 Leave a comment

Morning Moon

Taken from our back deck, approximately 9:AM, October 20, 2013

Categories: Uncategorized

The Good Life of Frank and Francis

November 29, 2013 Leave a comment


Francis Noaks was a very pretty girl.  She was not stuck up or arrogant, so most of the kids who knew her at Wilhelm Wilson Secondary School liked her.  That would include Franklin Olivier Bathgate, the school’s athletic hero.  He was not one of those superior-acting athletic heroes.  He was surprisingly quiet, perhaps shy, and hung about on the periphery of his classmates cliques. He found Francis very attractive, but didn’t know how to approach her, or even if he should approach her.

Frank Bathgate would never know that Francis Noaks was planning to meet him, but had not yet worked out how to do it.  She had seen him in Donovan Park on a Sunday morning.  She was walking her German Sheppard and she saw him sitting under a tree,  eating a donut and reading a book.  Her Sheppard, Damion, loved donuts.  She suddenly saw her opportunity and let Damion off his leash.  He immediately loped over to Bathgate and stood staring at the donut.  When Francis strode up to her dog, she saw Frank twitching uncomfortably as he glanced nervously at the large, staring dog.

   “Damion, you naughty boy.  Let the nice man alone. Oh, it’s you, Franklin.  I didn’t realize…,” she said.  “I’m so sorry.  I hope we haven’t interrupted your reading.  It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it?  A bit warm, but it’s nice and cool, here in the shade.  You’ve picked a perfect spot to relax,” she said as she sat down beside him.  “Do you mind if I share your spot.”  She snapped Damion’s leash onto his thick, leather collar and said, “What are you reading?” Frank turned the book to show Francis the cover.

   “The Book Thief,” Frank replied.

   “Is it any good?” Francis said.  “Y’know, they’ve made a movie of it.  I’m going to see it tonight.  Wanna come?”

   “No, thanks.  I don’t go to movies.”


   “No, Never,” Frank said.  He looked into Francis’ face for the first time.  His nervous system quaked as he viewed her at close range for the first time.  He was simultaneously happy that she was sitting with him, and eager for her to depart.  He was never nervous on the playing fields or in the gymnasium, but talking face to face with Francis Noaks had him weak in the knees.

   “Why not?”  Francis was genuinely curious.

  “It bothers me when people cough when a key word is spoken on screen, or when they laugh in the wrong places, or rattle candy wrappers during meaningful scenes.”

   “I’d really like to see that movie with you,” Francis sighed.  “I have an idea!  My Dad has a sixty-inch flat screen television.  He won’t mind if we watch it there.  We just have to rent the DVD somewhere.”

   “I don’t know…,” Frank replied feebly.

Not to beleaguer the thing, Francis maneuvered poor Frank into an young marriage.  As the years passed, Frank grew increasingly depressed and grouchy.  Francis never changed.  Always a bright outlook, tolerant and generous of spirit.  However, everyone has their limit, as we know.  One day, some time after their thirtieth anniversary, Francis was knitting in her comfortable chair while Frank sat in his own favourite chair, silently glaring at Francis.  Her remarkable cheerfulness was driving Frank ’round the bend, as he’d say to no one in particular.  Just to the room, and the only other one there was Francis.

Francis smiled to herself, benignly as always, absorbed in her knitting and perhaps her own thoughts.  She was knitting a scarf in a pattern of smiley faces.  Frank found that excessively cheerful.  With great stealth, he picked up the stitch at the far end of the scarf where it had been started.  Vengefully, he began to deconstruct the scarf, winding the kinked, two coloured strand of yarn into a ball.

Faster than Francis could add rows, Frank was ripping the scarf and harvesting the wool.  After a while, Francis noticed that the scarf was rapidly shrinking instead of growing longer as she knitted.  She looked over at Frank and at the ball of wool in his hand.  The benign smile did not leave Francis’ face.  She put her knitting down and left her chair to go to their library.  She returned a moment later with a cigar box.

   “I’m sorry, Frank, that I’ve never been able to give you relief from your suffering.  Even when we were kids and we fell in love, you showed signs of depression.  We’ve had all the years, all the experiences together, and through it all, you’ve become more dissatisfied, more self-oriented, and generally more unpleasant.  Finally, I have to help you lose your demons so we can both find peace.

  “It can’t be done,” Frank snapped.  “If it could have been done, I’d have done it long ago.”

  “I’ve got the solution right here in this box,” Francis said as she flipped open the top of the cigar box.”

   “What’s that?” Frank grumbled.

   “A Smith and Wesson twenty-two caliber revolver,” Francis smiled.  She leveled the gun at her husband of more than thirty years and put a bullet into his forehead.  “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time, Frank,” she said to the lifeless cadaver.  “Unraveling the lovely, cheerful pattern that I was putting into our daughter’s Christmas gift was just too much.”

Francis Noaks Bathgate went to her comfortable chair, picked up her knitting, and with a benign smile on her face, resumed knitting the smiley face scarf for Noreen.

Life is (usually) easier for good looking people

November 27, 2013 Leave a comment
Categories: Uncategorized

Life is (usually) easier for good looking people

November 27, 2013 Leave a comment


Photos from CBC Toronto

   Simple things, like having an elevator held for you, or learning how a client is feeling by charming his receptionist is a daily occurrence for an attractive person.  Attractive, of course, means more than physical appearance.  One must be likeable, too.  A person who has only physical good looks and nothing else will not get along as well.  I knew a boy in high school who was almost unbelievably good looking.  On top of that, he was rich, and drove a red Jaguar roadster.  Most girls wanted to go out with him – once.  Rarely did they share his company more than once.  They said he was completely boring.  Nothing to say.  Not very bright.  Just beautiful to look at… from a distance.

In the two photos above, the pretty girl with the bright smile is dead.  She was murdered by the boyfriend of the dog below.  She pressured him to do it, because she hated the pretty girl – although she’d never met her.  It was, she claimed, because her boyfriend had been the pretty girl’s boyfriend before.  Of course, we don’t know why that matters… unless you understand the motivations of a not good looking girl who is somewhat depressed and maladjusted.  As for the boyfriend… he’s obviously a moron and a misfit.  How else did he fall from the openly smiling pretty girl to the low-life dog?  Pussy whipped no doubt.  The dog put out for him, the pretty girl had plenty of options, and didn’t put out.  That would be my guess.

An Atheist in Heaven

November 25, 2013 1 comment

I was invited to a dinner party at the home of a socialite I met through my profession.  There was the eclectic gathering of characters for which the hostess was well known.  She delighted in putting a group of about a dozen guests together, and then watch the evolution in relationships, if any.  On the occasion when I was invited for the first time, I fell into a conversation with an older man who was there.  It turned out that he was a defrocked priest, and that would explain his presence at the party.  I was there, I assumed, because I had stirred up a bit of conflict in the city because of a scathing column I’d done on the importance of Christian teachings in public schools.

The former priest had actually chosen to be a committed atheist.  He said it was to obliterate his connection with the church, so disenchanted had he become.  I asked if it wouldn’t be uncomfortable, having immersed himself in the faith for several decades, then to be of a mind that disbelieves even the existence of a god, or prophesies, or any other of the many symbols of belief in a higher power with intelligent design in mind. He said that he had witnessed things, had experienced things that left him totally convinced and committed to the belief that there is no god, religion is a hoax.

“Could I ask you to go along with me for a moment, to see if we can learn something in the exchange?” I said.

“I suppose so.  What have you in mind?”

“What do you expect will happen to you when you die?” I said.  Our dialogue caught the ears of Claude Pulman and Mrs. Jeffery, and they sidled in beside us to listen in.

“I hope I will be incinerated, cremated that is, and just return to the earth as ash.”

“No spirit or anything to carry on?”

“No.  When it’s over, it’s over.  Curtain down on this long improvised drama.” he said with great confidence.

“Well, just for the exercise, let’s say you die and find yourself at a point wherein you are to be directed to heaven, purgatory, or hell,” I said.  “I know you would evince the heaven myth, but let’s just say…”

“I know what you’re getting at,” he said.  “Of course, I thought about it a great deal before I woke up to the preposerous nonsense that is organized christianity.”

“What will you do if you are surprised at that juncture?” I said.  “Where would you be directed.”

“I would be directed to heaven, with a curtsie and a bow.”

“How can you justify entry into heaven if you are an atheist?” I was puzzled by this response.

“Heaven would be for people who have lived properly, shown love and generosity, regardless of their religious beliefs or lack thereof,” he said.  “I have lived infinately more cleanly and honestly than dozens of deeply devout men I have witnessed.  They seem to think that their devotion to their faith means they need not be decent people in our society.  I hope there is a heaven, purgatory and hell, because those sons’ of bitches are gonna get flung into the flames, as they deserve.”

“Hmmm… bit of anger here, I see,” I said.

“Yeah, sorry,” he said. He looked at the floor.

“What would heaven be, to you?” I asked.

“I think heaven and hell would be personal, to each individual.  Purgatory is probably us, now, this earth-life.”  He pause for a moment, deciding if he wanted to continue.  Then he began, somewhat more animated than he had been.  “My heaven would be one of vengeance.  I believe I would be washed with waves of warmth and comfort as I went through a list of wrongs against me and just told the perpetrators what I feel about it, with the wisdom and point of view that I have now.”

“For example,” I said.

“I’d find my father and berate him for times when he embarrassed me infront of friends, and his general coldness and arrogance.”

“Your own family?  I’m surprised,” I said.

“One of my brothers always made me feel bad.  I think he was jealous of me, and it showed.  I’d like to tell him what an asshole he was for having that attitude.  My other brother is a sweetheart.  I love him a lot, and he loves me.  I would be impoverished without him.”

“How about outside of your family?” I said.

“I had a friend who was insincere, and made some trouble for me,” he said.  “I’d like to have the opportunity to come upon him while

he’s in a troublesome situation which I could resolve for him with one word… and refuse to utter the word.”


“Oo… cold.” I said.

“He richly deserves it.”

All the guests were called to the table, and the conversation never resumed.  I got stuck in a table conversation about the relative pros and cons of cosmetic surgery.  I don’t even know how I feel about that.  Dessert was baked Alaska.  Fabulous.

Categories: writing Tags: , , , ,

Victims’ Vengeance

November 24, 2013 Leave a comment

Some people join the police force because they believe they can make a difference in supporting justice.  Some go into law enforcement to garner the respect of the uniform, the power and sometimes even privilege of being a police professional.  Some enter the police profession to take advantage of the respect, power and privilege given to people in law enforcement.  Such was the attraction of police work for Big Mike Fedora.

Big Mike was born Mikhail Fedorov, in a Moscow suburb.  His father had been a tough street cop in Russia, and regaled his son with stories of exploits performed and perpetrated by his colleagues.  Some of the stories were about real police work, finding clues, squeezing information out of street stool-pigeons, and beating the crap out of incorrigible criminals.  Some other stories were about taking advantage of the trades persons along the beat.  Coercing the butcher for a free string of sausages, the baker for the fresh rye, and the smoke shop for a pack of cigarettes.

The stories Mike liked best were the stories of how the cops dealt with prostitutes. The poor girls, and often women who rented  themselves out in desperation, to pay rent, buy food, care for children.  It didn’t matter to Mikhail’s father and his colleagues – they would have their fill of flesh.  Cut to twenty years later, and Mikhail Fedorov is Detective Lieutenant Mike Fedora, an anglicized version of his Russian roots.  The last name was partly an adaptation of his real Russian name, but also reflected the fact that Mikhail constantly wore Fedoras.  He had several colours of one style, and the colours he chose, day by day, reflected how he was feeling.

All the hookers knew that when Big Mike was sporting the black fedora, they’d best call it a day.  The black hat indicated that somebody was going to get raped before the day and night were done. Mike would cruise the area under the sparse street lights until he saw a girl that seemed right for that night.  None of the girls could figure out what governed Mike’s preferences.  Sometimes he’d victimize a plump, white, blonde girl, other times a scrawny Latino, tall black girl or short Asian.  Of course, none of them could report it for fear of what might happen in retaliation.

One night there was a new girl on the stroll.  Truly gorgeous, with long, wavy, coal-black hair that framed a sweet, youthful face.  She wore a knee-length, flowing dress of dark green with a crisp, white blouse.  Not the flashing, fleshy garb of most working girls.  Mike Fedora saw her on the corner of Westerly and Lawson and circled the block to come back around and stop in front of her… but she wasn’t there.  A John had picked her up.

The next night, Fedora went cruising especially to find her.  When he did, he pulled up at the curb and stepped out of the car to accost her.

“You’re a real cutie, you are,” Mike said.

“Are you looking for a date?” the girl replied.

“What’s your name?” he said.

“What do you want it to be?” she smiled.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?” Mike murmured.

“Should I?”

“You should and you soon will.  I’m Mike Fedora – Detective Captain Fedora.  I’m not going to run you in, but we will get together real soon and become …. intimate acquaintances.

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, bloodhound.  I don’t pay my way like that.” the girl said, flippantly.

“What’s your name,” Mike asked again, forcefully.

“Morrissa,” she shot back.

“Last name!”


“I’ll see you again, Goldstone, real soon,” Big Mike Fedora snarled, in his most threatening way.  He stepped into his large, black, unmarked car, started it and smiled up at Morrissa as he slid the car smoothly into the passing line of traffic.  In his rear view mirror, he saw an open convertible BMW pull up beside the girl.  The driver was a tanned man with salt and pepper hair cut short.  With very little hesitation, she slid into the seat beside the man when Mike lost sight of her.

The next day shortly before noon, Big Mike Fedora parked his car in the visitors/guests area in the parking lot of Morrissa’s hotel.  He flashed his badge at the check-in counter and got her room number.  He knocked on the door of her second-floor room until she was roused from sleep.  She wore a thick bathrobe when she looked out the peep hole and saw a police badge up close.  She opened the door and invited Mike in with a wave.  He glanced at the rumpled bed as he strode across and sat in one of the obligatory two chairs with a small table between.

“It must be expensive,” he said, “living in a hotel.”

“I’ve just been in town a week, and don’t know up from down yet,” she said as she sat in the other chair with the small table between them.

“Get yourself together,” he said, “and I’ll take you out for breakfast and fill you in on this town.  If we’re both working in the same district, we might as well be friends.”

The girl accepted the invitation and went to shower.  As she stepped out of the steaming enclosure, she was seized by Big Mike Fedora who was as stark naked as she was.  He was huge next to her petite form, and she was helpless to forestall what was about to happen.  Mike made use of every opening in her body.  He slapped her so hard with his huge hand she became too dizzy to reason.  She was groggy from the slap, and from the pressure on her throat as the big cop turned her this way and that, lifted her and put her down as suited his salacious whims.

Morrissa took two days to partially recover from the beating and rape.  As soon as she felt confident in her mobility she went to her nearly empty closet.  She extracted a cheap guitar case and laid it on the bed.  She flipped it open and looked down at the beautiful Winchester 30-30 with the gold anniversary inlays and polished ebony stock.  She took a utility knife from her luggage and set about modifying the guitar case.  She opened the back of its body and made a small opening at the extremity of the neck.

The next evening, dressed in a very drab, academic-looking, tweedy suit, with a floppy, eccentric hat.  She walked quickly, as if hoping to get through safely and get to the concert or whatever it was to which she was rushing. she saw Mike Fedora chatting up two of the working girls.  She strode past them unrecognized and stopped beside a pile of commercial garbage from the surrounding stores.  She glanced around and decided she was not observed.  She lifted the guitar case to shoulder level.

Big Mike Fedora dropped like a rock.  Morrissa was sorry the two girls got splattered with Fedora’s blood and guts, but they’ll be glad they won’t have to take punishment from him ever again.  She resumed her posture and performance, hurrying along with her guitar case.  She saw through the corner of her eye, the prowl cars racing to the scene, but didn’t display any interest.

She took the weekend off and was back on the stroll on Monday night.  All the talk among the girls was about who could have done it.  One of the girl’s wanted to give the guy a medal, whoever he was.  Morrissa never said a word about it, and felt fine about the safer work environment.  She never imagined that her participation in firearms competition back home would give her the opportunity to use her championship skill to  advantage.