bloody caesar

vegetarian: "I just don't like the idea of a tomato in juice form."

friend: "I know, and when you add clam juice in there, well that's just disgusting."

v: "How do they get the clam juice in clamato? Do they, like, squeeze them?"

f: "You don't squeeze the juice out of the clams."

v: "Huh? You mean they just give it to you?"

That conversation may have been a lot funnier to the people present, who were mostly drunk and completely silly (including yours truly, of course). So go to your kitchen right now, pour half a litre of some nice peppery merlot down your wordhole, and then come back and re-read it. I'll wait right here.

cue rocky theme

I remember the days when I was dragging my ass along the trail in my new running shoes, sweat streaming into my eyes, just enough breath left to curse the day my mom and dad decided one more kid could really help around the store. In those days, my ire would be raised by 93-year-old joggers running me off the trail. Where were they going in such a hurry? Was there a sale on turbo-walkers? Geripoweraid? They thought they were so cool.

That was last month. Now my shoes are dirty, and I've spat into the carragana hedges a few times. So it was with a well-earned sense of pride and superiority that I passed the guy with cerebral palsy yesterday.

So sing it with me, chorus of triumphant athlete cheerers! Feeling strong now! Gonna fly now! Punching sides of beef now.

overcast and undercooked

So there we were on the lawn at work. Some charitable soul had decided to sell hamburgers to raise money for people who actually have something to complain about. The barbecue huddled under a little shelter, as though trying to hide from both the rainclouds and the ugly industrial scenery. Festive? Like a shunning.

My burger was pink and oozed in protest as I eyed it up. This burger was the sacrificial cow that would pay for my breakup of the previous night. The intra-office love affair had reached last call, and my intimacy hangover needed fuel.

Suddenly, he appeared in front of me, a column of fork lightening, an electric presence that illuminated me and my shitty burger - the beautiful vegetarian ex-boyfriend/co-worker, as wholesome as organic soymilk, his eyes as sad as Ted Neely's in Jesus Christ Superstar. I knew we would have to talk, and talk small. I started:

"Some weather."

"Yeah."

"This burger's pretty gross."

"Yeah. They should have veggie burgers."

"How are you?"

"OK."

"Good."

"Yeah."

"So..."

"Yeah, I better get to work."

"Right. Seeya."

"Yeah, bye."

It's going to get a lot better, though. Poignant anticlimax is just the first of several phases. The cougar will roam again.