Dec 30

Sooooo, I met one of our loyal readers for a coffee

Well, we didn’t actually have a coffee, but that was the original plan. Unfortunately the Village Cafe in Grafton, wasn’t open, because of renovations. When Scotty told me he lived close by, I figured we could meet there; Joey, Mrs. Birdman and I love their breakfast, and I think Tim Hortons has enough of the public’s money, so why not give it to a hardworking family? When Scotty stepped out of the car, I was glad I hadn’t come looking for him the day I jokingly said I was going to punch him in the lips. I probably couldn’t reach his lips, unless I had a step stool and a longer arm; that guy is fucking monolithic. When I suggested we then head to Colborne, he told me he had found out his mother was getting out of the hospital, so he had to head to the city and pick her up. He promised that we’d get together though, so all is well with that. I guess they found that she has an infection, and are going to keep her a little longer, to make sure she gets rid of it, so we’re hoping she gets home soon. Although we aren’t hypocritical enough to pray, we are sending many positive vibes her way, and wishing her the speediest of recoveries.

Now for something we haven’t tried before.

The Mrs and I have been tossing around the idea of introducing our cocoon via video-blog.  The cocoon is a sacred place of fun and love, and one of our most favorite places in the world.  It seemed only natural that it would make an appearance on the blog eventually.  We aren’t sure how this is going to fly, but we thought we would let ‘er rip, and sort things out after the dust settles.  Without further adieu, I give to you, Dear Reader, our first

Cocoon-Cast #1

If you’re after getting the honey – hey

Then you don’t go killing all the bees,


P.S. It’s true that I left a warm bed with a naked woman in it to have coffee with a dude, but let’s be fair it was after 9 and I was a little dehydrated.

Dec 22

I’ve been a little preoccupied

Man, it’s sure been a fast few days. Now I’m home, had some beautiful cocoon time with my gorgeous lady, and had a few hours sleep. I had a new tooth constructed out of a small piece of wood that Paul carved for me, had it painted a yellowish white and tapped into the hole, and I’m now waiting for a shave and a haircut at John’s Barbershop in Cobourg. Thanks to Chin, I know that he’s still around, and I can get my hair cut, old school. I used to get my hair cuts and shaves here before I moved away, but that was so long ago, and he has changed locations since then. There are not too many places anymore that do shaves, so it’s pretty awesome to find one anywhere. I used to get a shave, haircut, and neck massage at The Barbershop in Fort St. John, BC for $65, and I’ll let you know how much it is here, when I’m done. Holy shit, it was only $26 for the shave and haircut, and he did a very nice shave. I guess I’ll be getting my “Just out of the bush, man pampering” when I get home, from now on. While I was there, I dropped my drawers to see if he could give an estimate on my other “bush beard”, and was told it would be at least $100, because he charges by the hour on big jobs like that. I guess I’ll be singeing it off like last time. Sorry about the smell, Baby, but you know it’ll go away by next week.

The after

The before














Now I’m curious. Do any of you know of a barbershop that does shaves? I know a lot of dudes love getting a nice close shave from time to time, and most don’t know where to go to get one. I am also curious as to the price of a haircut and shave at said barber’s.

Man, it’s so nice to be home. I haven’t seen the girls yet, because they were with their dad to go pick up their new grandmother at the airport. I say “new grandmother” because it’s their step mother’s mother and they’ve never met her before. I bet they are totally excited to get another new family member, and I’m sure that she will just love those two little munchkins to death. How could she not? I know they melted my heart, and everyone in my family’s heart as well. I can’t imagine a better Christmas present than seeing those two opening their gifts on Christmas morning. It was my excitement last year, and now this year, someone else gets to experience that feeling of happiness. I have to say that I’m pretty sad about not seeing them wake up to a tree full of presents, but I’m also glad that “Santa” isn’t getting the chance to be too drunk to dole out the gifts this year.

I checked my list, and you've been very naughty

Yes, that’s correct, Santa got herself a little tipsy last year, and was completely unable to fill the tall order of gift distribution. Luckily she wasn’t spending the holidays alone, and a good little elf stayed sober, drove her drunk ass home from his family Christmas party (where she was the life of the party, and might have put her finger in someone’s ass crack), and managed to decipher her passed out ramblings about Liv Dolls, Zhu-Zhu Pets and what goes into what stocking (he may or may not have heard that one correctly). I had never experienced another child’s Christmas morning until then, and it was magical. I took video, while those excited little hands tore open wrapping paper and ribbons to expose the long sought after trinkets and baubles, that would be played with for days, and maybe as much as a week later. I know that I won’t soon forget that morning, as I’m sure that “new grandmother” won’t either.

Well, it’s nighttime now, and we are tucked away in the cocoon for the duration. We picked up the kids from school, and there was much rejoicing. I got some pretty heavy-duty hugs and huge smiles, so that sure made my already amazing return, that much better. We then went home for supper, and got ready for the Christmas recital at the school. It was so fucking cute to watch those kids show us what they had. Some were inching their way for the wings, while others were giving it that extra little bit of diva flair. It didn’t matter which ones were doing what, they were all adorable, and deserved all of the applause that they got. Jesus, I sure do love being a step-dad, and one thing I love even more, is being a fiance to the greatest person in the world. She makes my life perfect, and truly deserves more than I can give her. Luckily I will get a chance to try and reach that summit, hopefully until the day I die.

Do a little dance, make a little love, get down tonight,


P.S. With all of the chicks and gay dudes (I hope) that read this blog, you don’t think I’d leave you hanging, did ya?

Relax, I'm only kidding, look down for the real one

You didn’t think that was it, did you? I saw that on a friend’s profile, and thought it was funny. Here you go, a nice cheesy hot Santa, because Mrs. B wouldn’t put her glasses on and pick one for me.

I'm sorry if he's not your type. I really tried to find the right man for you.

Nov 12

Sometimes I get choked up

Remembrance Day is one of those times. It’s the one day a year, where I sing the national anthem, look around at all of the people gathered to honour the fallen, and actually think about how everything in my life could have been so different. I think about that all the time, really. I am so very lucky to be where I am, with the people I surround myself with. This Remembrance Day was no different, well, except the first part.

Last week the girls asked me when I was going to BC. I told them that it was probably Friday, and they got a little whiny, then Yaya asked what time I was leaving. I told her it would probably be late in the morning or lunchtime. She got that sad look in her eyes and asked if I was going to miss her performance in the Remembrance Day ceremony at school. I told her that I would be there for sure, and I really meant it. It almost made me cry right there, when I came to the realization that she would want, or even care, for me to be there. It’s things like that, that really get me now. It’s one thing to have your heart filled with love for someone, but to have that returned, even in such a small gesture, means the world to me. I went to bed that night with a great big smile in my heart.

Now it’s Remembrance Day. O got herself up at 6:15 AM, so that she would be prepared for her performance. She was going to be a war widow, with two children, and she sure looked the part. We got them all packed up and took the girls to school, but forgot the camera. After a quick rip home, we get situated in the gymnasium, and await the ceremony. Everyone was getting set up, and some very mournful music was playing. A teacher explained that because of the somber occasion, there was to be no clapping after any performances, and I didn’t think that would be a problem; it’s a bunch of kids doing a Remembrance Day presentation. How good could it be? They don’t even realize the impact that these men made on our country, and the world, so how could they properly portray them in a school tableau vivant. Well, I was wrong again. From the start, it was all I could do to not clap. These kids were very good, and you could tell that they had practiced their parts well. It was so moving to see these little singers, actors and poets up there, giving it their all. I was so proud of them, but what really brought the tears to my eyes, was looking up at that little girl that wanted me to be there. I, of course, held back the flood, but what I really wanted to do, was to run up there and hug her until her ears hurt.

You see, I wasn’t just proud of her up there, I was proud of myself as well. I can’t explain it, but I felt this over-powering sense of self worth. Maybe other step-parents feel that too. I don’t know, but I’d like to hear from you if you do, because I don’t understand it. I didn’t raise these kids, so I can’t take credit for how good they are at anything, how smart they are, or how kind-hearted they are. They were like that before I came along. Maybe it’s because they see something in me that they love, or at least admire? I guess that’s possible; I’m not a psychologist. Well, not a licensed one, anyhow. When I looked over at Mrs. Birdman, taking photos of all the kids and their performances, I felt such deep adoration and respect for her. She was the main influence on those girls, all their lives. Don’t get me wrong. Their father is a great guy, and a great dad, but dads work a lot, and the moms are usually the ones who spend the most time with the kids. They are two well-raised girls, despite me, so I guess it’s just the phenomenon of step-parenting that gives me that amazing, fulfilled feeling. I thought that my life was complete with Mrs. B, but you add those two little sweethearts into the mix, and my cup runneth over for sure.

After the presentation at the school, we went to the cenotaph in Colborne, and remembered with a healthy gathering of townsfolk. Other than one lady that answered her phone during the two minutes of silence, it was a good ceremony, and there were many wreaths lain in memory. I feel great pride in my country, my fellow man, and myself on Remembrance Day. It’s not that I don’t feel that way every day, but that’s the one day, that no one asks what’s wrong while you are standing in the middle of a park with tears running down your face. I worry that the meaning will get lost on our young, as our parents probably worried about us, but I think if we continue to teach the importance of freedom to our children, they will remember, as we remember. At least I hope they do.

I’ll never forget,


Nov 11

I remember this

I don’t know where to start on this Remembrance Day post. I guess I can try to remember some of the things that My Great-Grandpa Hircock told me before he died. I was only a young boy when he went, but I used to spend as many Friday nights with him as possible. Friday was card night, when my Nana, Papa, Uncle Ed, Aunt Helen, Granny and Grandpa used to get together and play games for nickles. When I would get to go, I would ask Grandpa about when he was in the war, and he would tell me stories about the time he served.

One of the funny ones was when he was in Italy and they had to get their tanks through a small town that they were occupying, but there was a big, old olive tree in the center of a circle in the street. They couldn’t get their tanks around it, so they hooked a chain on, and started pulling it out of the ground. I guess the women were not too happy about that, seeing as it was their source of olives, so they all grabbed whatever they could throw, and started their assault. He said that they got the tree out, but not before a few of them had their helmets knocked off by rocks and assorted pieces of garbage. I asked him why they didn’t fight back, and he just looked very cross at me for a few seconds and said, “They were women, and they were only fighting for what was theirs. We shouldn’t have been there. They didn’t ask for war.” I didn’t understand war at that age, I just knew that if someone was throwing rocks at me, I’d throw them right back, and harder.

I look back and think about how hard it must have been to be there. Having to deal with some angry women, and knowing that you might have just killed some of their husbands or sons. I guess I’d show them a little bit of slack too. My Grandpa said that I was the only one of his grandchildren that ever asked about the war, and I learned pretty quick to not ask in front of Granny. I asked him once in front of her, and she sharply told me that he didn’t like talking about those times, and to not ask about it again, so I’d ask him to play pool with me, and I’d hit him up for a story. He was the only person I knew with a pool table in his basement, and while I could barely reach the table, I loved to watch him sink every ball, while telling me something about his time overseas. I don’t know if it was playing pool that relaxed him, that he could be himself with a seven year old kid, or that someone genuinely wanted to know what he had been through, but every so often he’d tell me a story. For that I’ll be forever grateful.

As I said, he told me some funny stories, many of which I can’t remember, but there were also other stories. Like when he was being hidden in an attic in Holland, and the children would sneak food and water to him, so that the Germans wouldn’t find him. I wish I could remember their names, but as I’ve said, I was a little kid. Maybe Mom remembers, I’ll ask her tomorrow when I talk to her. You really don’t realize what you need to remember, until you’ve already forgotten. When he would tell me about living in the attic, was the only time I’d ever seen him cry. He traveled back to the town as a much older man and visited the family that housed him, so many years ago. The parents were long since passed, but he did meet the children that had brought him nourishment whenever they could. He had said what a treat it was to get a glass of goat milk or some fresh bread, because he had taken fresh milk and baking for granted all his life, living on the farm. He was so thankful to those people for hiding him in their home, partly because he knew what the nazis would do to him if he was found, but mostly because he knew what would happen to the family. It was very intense watching him tell that story, with tears in his eyes, and his voice shaking. I remember hugging him, and telling him not to cry anymore, mostly because I was scared and didn’t know why, but partly because I was afraid Granny would hear and give me hell.

She did come down and told me to get upstairs and let him alone, but he told her I could stay, and we’d be up when we’re damn good and ready. I should add that he drank rye and water on card nights, and he rarely took shit from anyone. We stayed for a few more minutes until he regained his composure, because he wouldn’t want anyone knowing he was crying. After we went upstairs and the card game resumed, I said that he had three jacks out loud, and he punched me in the nose. Hard.

He died a few years later, and he left me his war medals, his army documents, and his WWII Armed Forces book. Granny said it was left to me, because I was the only one of his grandchildren that ever asked him about his military service. I was, and still am, proud of that, but kind of sad that no one else asked him about it. It may be a dead end, but I think I’m going to find those people’s names, and look into who their great-grandchildren are. Even just to send them an email, letting them know that someone in Canada remembers what their ancestors did for my ancestor, and how much it meant to him, and eventually, me. I really miss you Grandpa, and thank you. I wish I had understood the extent of your sacrifice when I was young, but be assured that I fully understand now. We could sure use a country full of you, now.

Lest we forget,



Oct 31

My ultimate dream prize

As some of you may know, I received an invite to the 107.9 The Breeze $10000 dream prize party. I had a chance to win my choice of six different prizes worth ten grand. I didn’t win the prize, but I never really figured I would. I was just excited to meet the morning show crew that I listen to when I start my daily routine. Sure ten thousand bucks worth of groceries would have been a sweet bonus, but it was just nice to know I was going to put some faces to the names that I hear every day.

I listen to The Breeze every morning when I’m in the area (you can listen online), and I really like the Big Breakfast, featuring Jay Sharp, Joe Snider, Inga Belge and Megan Murphy. The personalities of the gang are very complimentary, and they completely make up for the repetitive music playlist. You know I love Rag Mama Rag a lot, but The Band has so many more, deserving songs that I feel could be played as well, and as much as I like Bruce Cockburn, I don’t feel we need to hear Tokyo, or Coldest Night of the Year, every single day. I have never even seen them in someone’s playlist or CD library before, so why do they garner so much air play. Anyhow, enough of my griping, I have been listening to them for a year and a half now, since I moved back from the west, and I have found them to be very interesting people from hearing their stories and on-air lives. That is why I was so excited to score this invitation to the party.

When I went in to pick up my invite from the beautiful, funny and, I assume, brilliant Kristy, I was pleasantly surprised when the one and only Jay Sharp walked out into the reception area. It was like meeting royalty for me, and I felt like I should give him some money or some baubles or something. I had received countless hours of free entertainment from this man, and I felt I should repay him in some small way. Then the thought came to me. Maybe I should hug him and cup his buttocks with my strong hands. I am embarrassed to say that I got too nervous and just stammered something that sounded like a leopard killing an antelope. There was one of my people to meet crossed off the list, now only three more to go.

How sexy is this man?

Fast forward to Sunday morning. We piled into the van, with three quarters of us nursing sore heads and bellies, and headed to Kawartha Downs for the party. I gotta say, calling it a party was a little misleading. We showed up with a cooler full of beer and rum, an ounce of weed, a hookah pipe, and two strippers that we picked up in Belleville. The security guards stopped us at the entrance, and promptly called the cops. (Apparently, the topless law in Ontario only applies to public property.) I voiced my opinion on the subject, and explained that I had an invitation, which I quickly produced for them. By now Joey had given the pot to the strippers, Chastity and Destiny were their names, and had set the pipe on the ground. You see, Joey’s no dummy when it comes to dodging the po po, so when the law came screaming up, Destiny got pinched, and they had an outstanding warrant for Chastity. Turns out they were lying to us, and their real names were Judy and Ted, so I didn’t feel too bad when they got hauled off, and I was thankful their shorts had stayed on. We put the cooler back in the van and went inside, only to find out that there wasn’t much happening in the way of a party. Joey pulled a couple of T-Dolls out of his pocket and handed me one. I crushed it up on the picnic table and snorted it, while a couple of ladies checked out the camper trailer right beside me.

Okay, maybe it was more like this: Joey, Mrs.Birdman, Khrissy and I waited in line for half an hour, went in to meet my idols, saw that they were busy and then went outside to let the sun hurt my brain. I got to meet Rob “The Rocket” Mitchell, and then we went back inside where the folks were setting things up, so I went over and introduced myself to Joseph P Snider. I was kind of hoping for a deeper voiced, Les Nessman, but was presented with one hell of a strapping fellow. The sheer power of the man’s handshake was emotionally crippling, and his rapt gaze pierced my very being to the core. I had to pull myself away as I felt him extracting tiny, but very important bits of my tender soul. I then turned my attention to the beautiful, angelic face of Megan P Murphy, and found my faith in humanity slowly being restored. I envisioned African children, having their bellies filled by her aura, and dictators freeing their citizens from tyranny. I wanted to hug her more than I’ve ever wanted anything, but alas, Mrs. Birdman beat me to it. I was saddened to hear that Inga B. was not attending the event, because I wanted to commend her for her bravery, working in such close quarters with these formidable specimens of humankind. I also got to see Jay Sharp again, but not for very long. I felt him making me wish I was gay, and then he broke the connection to get something ready with the production.

Ethereal beauty, personified

Don't look into his eyes

I did not win the $10000 dream prize, but I walked away with a new respect for people who work in radio. I also got to see some wonderful sets of breasts, hold hands with the love of my life, meet some of my morning heroes and see two people win a prize that made them so happy that I didn’t care whether I won a million dollars. I left that place with a huge smile on my hungover face, a beautiful woman on my arm, and a mission to try for a job at The Breeze when I get back in the spring.

I hate graveyards and old pawn shops,


P.S. Jay Sharp smelled like charisma and Puritan Irish Stew, two of my favorite things.