Thoughts on turning 34

Meh.

I have a cold, and I think I'm going to die. Oh well. 34 is a ripe old age.

If I choke to death on snot, tell my wife I love her.

Happy Lloydmas everyone. (I was planning to write a Lloydmas carol for this blog entry, but I don't have the energy. I had a few lines figured out already. It would have ended with "Jesus! Lloyd at thy birth".)

Post-Halloween Analysis

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted November 3, 2006.

So, how was your Halloween? What kind of costume did you wear?

I decided to dress up as something really, really scary this year. I was an executive from the Ontario Lottery and Gaming Corporation, and I went around terrorizing old men and trying to keep their rightful lottery winnings from them, even though internal documents show that I believe that the old men did indeed purchase the winning tickets. Here is my inspiration. My evil muse.

Of course, it cost me $426,900, but it was worth it, in order to have the scariest, most evil costume on the block.

We only had about 10 trick-or-treaters at our house, up from 3 last year. But we had enough candy for about 30-40 kids, so there were lots of leftovers. When Mrs. Lloyd got home from work on Wednesday, she couldn't believe that I had eaten all of the leftovers.

But really, what is it about this physique that would make anyone suspect that I would be generous with chocolate?

Watch out baby, fatty might eat you!

Saskatoon

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted October 29, 2006

I got back from Saskatoon today, after a last-minute trip there on Wednesday to help my wife's company with a convention (one of her colleagues had a death in the family and couldn't attend). It was nice. Try the berries!

On Thursday morning, I was running from the convention hall across the street to our hotel to print something off for a presentation my wife was giving. On the way, I saw a guy standing on the street corner, and thought "I didn't realize that we were staying in Saskatoon's gay district."

And then, I remembered that, unlike in Toronto, people in Saskatoon who wear cowboy outfits are probably cowboys. And Saskatoon probably doesn't have a gay district.

Don't judge a city by its belt buckles is all I'm saying.

Port Hope, Ontario - October 7, 2006

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted October 25, 2006

I always thought the purpose of tanning was to get past that AMBER stage. But then again, look at me. What do I know about tanning?

Why clean today what you can clean in 50 or so years?

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted October 20, 2006

I was planning to write something about recent announcements from Canada's environment minister, Rona Ambrose. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I couldn't say it any better than the CBC's Rick Mercer.

So, rather than do any actual work on the topic, I will let the linkie-links do the work for me.

Watch these videos.

Rick's rant from October 10. (By the way - I was at the taping of this episode, and it was a lot of fun)

Rick's rant from October 17.

A future "Canadian Heritage Moment".

Even if the Canadian environment isn't in good hands, at least the Canadian funny bone is.

One thing I would like to add is that from now on, when something is all fucked up, we should refer to it as "all Ambrosed up". It has a nice ring to it, eh?

Rotten in Denmark

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted October 19, 2006.

I know you've been waiting for this moment! Here it is! Part III of my blogs about our time in Europe from 1996-1998. (on the off chance that you haven't been following along - I mean, hasn't everyone? - and are dying to know about parts I and II, go here and here.

While living in London, we took a few trips around the UK, Ireland and the rest of Europe. Today, you're in for a treat. A smelly, blue treat. Because I'm going to tell you all about our trip to Denmark!

And I promise that there will be no inappropriate images of any religious leaders, unless, like me, you consider Lloydism to be a religion.

The main reason we went to Denmark was to dig up my roots. (Not literally. I'm not a plant, although I sometimes sit still for long periods, much like a plant).

My father's family came to Canada from Denmark in the early 1900s, so it was cool to be able to see where they came from. This is me, in front of Gamtofte Kirke, the church where my grandmother was baptised, my grandparents were married, and all of my father's five brothers and sisters were baptised (he was the only one born in Canada).

Arriving in Gamtofte, near Odense

But our Danish trip wasn't only about checking out the family church. In fact, when we first arrived in Denmark, we headed up to Helsingør, north of Copenhagen. Helsingør is the setting for Shakespeare's Hamlet.

When you think of the Danes, you tend to think of tall, Viking-like people. But this is a myth. Most Danes are, in fact, very small. For an idea of how small, have a look at this picture of me, trying to get into Helsingør Castle.

Knock, Knock, Knocking on Helsingør

That's only partly true, actually. While some Danes are tiny little Trolls, many Danes are tall. The tall ones tend to live in tall, narrow houses, like this gentleman, seen outside his home, near Queen Margrethe's palace in Copenhagen.

It's not much, but it's his home and he loves it

As an aside - while I was Googling the Queen of Denmark, to make sure I spelled her name correctly, I came across this, about Princess Alexandra, Countess of Frederiksborg. Wow! Delicious!

Ok, on with the tour.

One of the coolest parts of Copenhagen is Nyhavn. On a nice day, there are more beautiful people per square foot in this area than anywhere else on the planet. It's a fact.

On a cool, rainy day, there are people like this:

Yes, I am touching myself in this picture.

It's true that there are loads of beautiful women in Copenhagen. Like this moist little tart:

I can see her boobies!

Finally, the most important thing to know before you go to Denmark, is that the Danes are more obsessed with farts than Howard Stern is! They even have a place named after them:

It is a well-known fact that the people of Middelfart are made fun of because their farts aren't as potent as the people of Upperfart.

The Danish Government even monitors you, to make sure that you can keep your farts under control. They have a huge database, maintained in Odense, that keeps track of people's farting habits, cross-referenced with their car's license plate numbers. I know, you don't believe me, but look:

It's true - something IS rotten in Denmark, and it's not just the cheese!

Canadian Media Sinking to a New Low!

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted October 18, 2006.

I can't believe how low the media can sink sometimes. This time, it's the Scarborough Mirror. The free newspaper that gets tossed somewhere in the vicinity of residents' front steps every Wednesday and Friday has really crossed the line.

As I do twice a week, I was standing over the recycling bin, quickly browsing through the headlines and skimming the letters to the editor from local nutjobs when I saw the following disgusting headline:

"Inner gerbil emerges as jogging heads indoors".

How revolting!

Now, I will admit that I didn't even read the article. But why would I read anything about gerbilling? Wikipedia claims that gerbilling is only an urban legend. I guess someone forgot to tell this writer before he wrote about his little gerbil slipping out as he was running on his treadmill.

I hope the publishers of the Scarborough Mirror are ashamed of themselves.

I haven't seen such an inappropriate story since back in May, when the Edmonton Sun tried to "out" Canadian Finance Minister, Jim Flaherty and the rest of the Conservative Party in their article titled "Tories ride strong buck". Again, I didn't read the article, but I assume it has lots of photoshopped pictures of Tory party members atop strapping young male strippers.

Shame on the Canadian media. Shame.

Kids, don't try this at home (or in a restaurant)

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted October 17, 2006.

Last evening, Mrs. Lloyd, Llittle Lloyd and I were at a local eatery. After the server brought our 20 month-old his pasta, he started blowing kisses to her, one of his current favourite games.

My wife said "oh, are you blowing her kisses because she brought your yummy dinner?"

I said "or is it because she has an amazing ass?"

Or at least, that's what I wanted to say, but then my life flashed before my eyes, ending with a very violent death involving garlic bread and spoons. I had the common sense to say "isn't that cute?" instead.

As I have said on my blog before, the key to a good marraige is keeping your stupid mouth shut.

PS - By "Isn't that cute" I meant the waitress' butt.

The Weight, Mate

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted October 16, 2006

In a recent blog, I offered some tips for travelers heading to the UK. I focused on the importance of understanding the difference between North American English versus English English. One reader reminded me of one word that I had forgotten, so I have decided to release part 2.

Today, I will offer more advice to North American travelers on understanding our bangers 'n' mash-loving friends across the Atlantic. Specifically, this bloggy thingy will highlight some of the differences in:

DIRTY WORDS.

On this side of the ocean, kids call their bottoms their "bums". It's a cute term. In London, my wife was a school teacher. On one of her first days with English kids, she told the rowdy class to quiet down and sit on their bums. The children went wild. They couldn't believe that she would use that word in a classroom. She expressed her surprise to her fellow teachers who agreed with the children - she was out of line to say bum.

And it's not just in classrooms that the word bum is seen as indecent. I had a boss who, when he was upset, would mutter "oh, bum!" and then apologize for swearing in the office.

But the same guy had no qualms about using that c-word that is considered to be very vulgar here. That's right, many Brits will call you a cunt as quickly as a North American will eat a triple cheeseburger from Wendy's.

But don't be a cunt and call your "waist pack" a "fanny pack". In North America, "fanny" means the same thing as "bum" and it's as harmless. But in the UK, it's means the same thing as "cunt" and it's just as vulgar!

I know, this is confusing!

Peter, a chef I worked with in London once asked me how the song "The Weight" by The Band could be so popular in North America. He had misunderstood the lyrics "Take a load off, Fanny" as "take a load of fanny." Peter, who was gay, pictured Robbie Robertson offering concert-goers some free vagina to take home with them.

He felt better about the song once I told him the proper lyrics, although he still kind of doubted me when I said that Fanny is a perfectly fine name.

Then, he felt worse about us "New Worlders" when I told him about the local ski hill back in my hometown. The most difficult run on the hill was called "The Fanny". Because you might fall on your bum. Peter thought it was another sign that Canadians and Americans are big fat pigs.

Anyhow, I wrote this while watching tv, so it probably doesn't make much sense, but if it does, I hope that it will be helpful to you if you ever travel to the UK from North America.

Remember, bum is bad, cunt is good. That sounds like a homophobic man's mantra, doesn't it? But it's not - it's all you need to know to make sure that everyone you meet in the UK thinks you're the dog's bollocks. You don't want your visit to be a total balls-up, because that's bad, innit?

Toronto Night Life, Baby

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted October 10, 2006.

Last week, I was on my way home from The Laugh Resort at about 11:30pm. Stopped at a red light in Scarborough, I noticed that the baby in the stroller crossing the street in front of me had the same little cloth book as my son (Playtime, Maisy). Cute.

Then I thought "forget the book, what the Hell is that infant doing out in Scarborough at this time of night?" I thought all the baby night clubs were downtown.

Now, don't go calling Child Services on me

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted October 3, 2006.

It's not like Coor's Light even counts as a real beer.

The Complete History of Canadian Politics

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted September 30, 2006.

I have always found Canadian Politics to be very exciting, even though I know that many people disagree with me. I think the reason for this disagreement is simple ignorance of the excitement that is Canadian politics. So, I thought I would enlighten the masses about how much fun politics in the Great White North can be.

Here, for your enjoyment and education, is my version of the complete history of Canadian politics.

On July 1, 1867, the Fathers of Confederation gathered in Charlottetown and cooked up a country. One of them, Edward Palmer, was my wife's great-great-(I don't know how many greats)-grandfather. But he's not the important one. My favourite one is Sir John A. MacDonald, the first Prime Minister of Canada.

Sir John A. was a heavy drinker. That's why he was my favourite. That's about all you need to know about him.

Then, a bunch of stuff happened.

Then, Pierre Elliott Trudeau was elected as the fifteenth Prime Minister of Canada in 1968. Some people liked him, and some hated him. Even today, his name makes Albertans vomit.

But, whether you liked Trudeau or not, you cannot deny that he did the following really cool things:

- He did a pirouette while walking behind Queen Elizabeth II, which is pretty funny, you have to admit.

- Rather than debate with protestors, he just flipped them the bird.

- When he was questioned about how far he would take his use of the military during the October Crisis, he simply said "just watch me". Arrogant bastard. I love it.

Then, there were some other Prime Ministers. Some didn't last very long, some probably lasted too long. Some swore a lot. Some, rather than give protestors the finger, simply beat the crap out of them.

But, in the past couple of years, things have gotten really interesting. Now we're getting to the good stuff.

First, Belinda Stronach ran for leadership of the newly-formed Conservative Party of Canada. Finally, a hot chick in Canadian politics!

She lost. But, she did make a friend during the whole thing. However, her romance with Peter MacKay ended when she left him for another party. Off she went to the Liberal Party, who were in power at the time. She was promptly given a cabinet post and seemed happy with the change.

Peter, however, was not so happy. So unhappy, in fact that he invited photographers to his father's farm to take pictures of him sadly scratching his doggy's ears. Ah, man's best friend. But he didn't want to talk about it.

Belinda's change of heart didn't pay off in the end, because the Conservatives beat the Liberals in the next election and she was back to the opposition side of the house. Poor dear.

And as if that wasn't enough payback, Peter went out and got himself a new ladyfriend.

Now that the rumours are flying about Peter and US Secretary of State, Condoleezza Rice, he must really be laughing it up at Belinda's expense!

But that's not the end of Belinda's romantic life! Now, she's been brought up in the divorce proceedings of hockey hero Tie Domi. Not a very pretty rebound.

I can just hear what MacKay would have to say to his ex's new boyfriend. "Belinda may be 'the bomb', but Condi HAS the bomb! HAHAHAHA! I WIN!".

Well, that's pretty much it. I hope you enjoyed this accont of all the interesting things that have ever happened in Canadian politics. Fun, eh?

Talk about niche marketing!

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted September 29, 2006.

A business on Bathurst Street just south of Highway 401 in Toronto.

"Thanks, I just had it cleaned!"

Alright?

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted September 27, 2006

A little over ten years ago, my girlfriend (who would later become my wife) saw an ad in the newspaper advertising job openings for teachers in London, England. So, off we went. We spent two years living in London, with her teaching and me cooking and doing some other stuff. We had lots of opportunities to travel throughout the UK and around Europe.

In honour of the 10-year anniversary of our departure from Canada, I am going to try to do a few blogs about our adventures. This is the first one. Here it goes:

If you are planning on heading to England from North America, the first thing you should do is learn how to speak English. Seriously. Because what we speak here is not the same language they speak there. We call it English, but it's not the same.

I will save you some research and offer some tips on learning to speak English like the English do.

First, even though in North America, we tend to pronounce the letter W when it is in the middle of a word, they don't. And they will laugh at you if you do. Don't go up to a ticket seller in a tube station and ask for a ticket to Chiswick station. Even though that's how it's spelled. Ask for Chisick. And it's not Dionne Warwick. Her name is pronounced Dionne Warrick. I'm telling you, they will laugh at you.

What's that I said back there? Tube station? That's right. It's not a subway. It's The Tube. But you probably know that, if you watched any news coverage of the London bombings last year.

Another thing you should know is that pants are not pants. I mean, what we call pants, they call trousers. And what we call underwear, they call pants. That can lead to confusion. I once walked into a store and asked the clerk to help me find a nice pair of pants that I could wear to the office, as well as casually. He looked at me like I was a freak and took me to the underwear section and said "I don't think it really matters where you wear them. They're just pants!" I felt silly. Remember the underwear=pants, pants=trousers thing and you can avoid feeling silly too.

Here in North America, when we say "are you alright?" it's because we suspect there is a reason that the person might not be alright. For instance, if they are looking sad. Or if they have fallen. In the UK, it is a friendly greeting. It tends to come out more like "alright, mate?" to which the answer is always "yeah, alright." Even if you say something more North American, like "how are you today?" the answer will usually be "yeah." That made me feel confused several times.

But not as confused as the lady who I saw fall on the tube platform one day. She had gotten on the train at Acton Town station. She thought she was on the Uxbridge train, but she was on the Heathrow train. The driver said "This is the Heathrow train. All passengers for Uxbridge, change here." But instead of then giving people the chance to get off, it came out more like "ThisistheHeathrowtrain.AllpassengersforUxbridgechangehere. Standclearoftheclosingdoors" with the doors closing as he said it.

She jumped from her seat and lunged out through the closing doors. She made it, but landed in the gap between the train and platform (MIND THE GAP!). It looked like she might have broken her leg. I ran up to her, and out of concern for her safety, I blurted out "Are you alright?" This would be the equivilant of going up to someone in Toronto who has just broken their leg and saying "hey, how are you today?"

She looked at me like she wanted me to die, and then the station guard guy came along and told me to clear off while he helped her. I felt silly. Again.

The last tip in today's English lesson is to learn how to ask someone for a cigarette in English. This is important even if you don't smoke, because you don't want to be caught off-guard when someone stops you on the street and asks you for a cigarette.

Around these parts, you would say something like "could I bum a smoke?" Not in England.

If you are brand new to England, and someone comes up to you at Picadilly Circus and says "Excuse me, mate. Could I pinch a fag?" He is not coming on to you. Do not respond by saying that you are perfectly fine with that, and have no problem with whatever two consenting adults do, but that you are straight. You will feel silly. Stupid even.

Either say "sorry, I don't smoke" or say "sure" and give the kind gentleman a cigarette. "Pinch a fag" does not mean what you think it means. Really.

It is also useful to note that when you come back to North America, you should practice saying "bum a smoke" again. You do not want to be in some sports bar and ask someone if you can pinch a fag. And don't ask in a half-English, half-Canadian way either. Then it comes out as "Could I bum a fag?"

Unless that's really what you want, and I'm ok with whatever two consenting adults decide to do with each other. But I'm straight.

Happy Birthday

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted September 22, 2006.

Today would have been my father's 77th birthday. I've mentioned on here before that he died in March of last year, so this is the second birthday since he died. It's a strange day.

My father is probably my biggest inspiration to get into this comedy thing that I've been playing around with lately. People who didn't know him well would probably not have thought of him as a funny guy, but he was once you got to know him. Between him and my brother Mark, I grew up in a house where there was a lot of comedy happening.

Dad always liked a joke, and was always asking me to tell him a new one. Before my weekly-ish call home (sometimes it would be longer than a week, and sometimes, particularly when he was sick, it was more frequent), I would often go online to find a joke I thought he might like. Some of them were probably a bit too off-colour to be telling your parents, but he always laughed anyhow.

He was in a men's group where each week when they met, different men would speak, and he liked to be able to share a good joke with the group. I suppose that makes him the first stand up comic in the family. So in a way, I'm just following in the old man's footsteps.

So, as my birthday gift to him today, I will share with you one of the jokes that he thought was funny (but that he decided was a bit too much to share with his group). I picked this one because it's about fathers.

A boy from Bountiful, BC comes home and says to his father "Daddy, I met a girl. I'm in love and I'm gonna marry her.

The father says "that's great news, son. Tell me about her."

"Well, she's beautiful, smart, funny. And best of all, she's a virgin!" replies the son.

The father's jaw drops and he says "Woah, son. You can't marry her! If she's not good enough for her own family, she sure isn't good enough for ours!"

Happy Birthday, Dad. We miss you.

Taking it to the next level

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted September 19, 2006

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a blog thingy about getting too comfortable with my new stay-at-home father role.

Tonight, I took it to a whole new level of creepy.

We were watching TV, and an ad came on for some LG washing machines and dryers. They had a steam feature in the dryer to help get rid of wrinkles and stuff. A STEAM FEATURE!

I watched the ad and then said to my wife "that kicks ass!"

Then I realized that I had just gotten hard over a clothes dryer. WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME?

Premature Honkulation

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted September 15, 2006.

I used to have a blog where, among other things, I did a semi-regular thing called "Firing Squad Friday" where I nominated a group of people I hate to be put in front of a firing squad. The site that hosted that free blog disapeared suddenly, so the blog is gone. But trust me, it was hilarious.

There was one group of people who were mentioned on that blog who I think should be discussed again. They are the premature honkers. If you are one of these people, I hate you.

Sitting at a red light, behind someone. Hand hovering over the horn. The light is red. Red. Red. Red. Red. Gr..HONK!!!!

FUCK OFF! I can see that it's green. It's been green for about a third of a second! GET YOUR FUCKING HAND OFF OF THE HORN! I'm going! Sorry it took me two thirds of a second to react.

If I could pick a fate for these assholes, it would be that they spend eternity sitting at an intersection behind my Uncle George, who has fallen asleep at the wheel waiting for the light to change again.

I am a ROCKSTAR!

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted September 14, 2006.

Last night, Toronto's Lukas Rossi won the lead spot in super band Supernova. How huge is that? He will be singing for a band that includes the guy with the huge weiner who filmed himself banging Pamela Anderson. You know, what's his name.

So this is the second Canadian in a row to win the Rock Star show, after Nova Scotia's J.D. Fortune won the lead spot in INXS last year. So, two seasons, and both times a Canadian has won.

Being a professional statistician (that may be a stretch, since I failed level two stats in marketing school, but humour me, ok?) I have been crunching some numbers.

(a) 2 Canadian Rockstars out of 2 shows is a 100% Canadian Rockstar rate. This means that (b) 100% of Canadians are Rockstars. (I left out some of the complex formulas that helped me get from point A to point B and arrive at that conclusion so this wouldn't get too difficult to follow for the layman).

If I had known this all along, I would have gone to Hollywood or something instead of cooking school. All this time, I thought I couldn't sing, dance, or do anything related to being a rockstar. But statistics don't lie. Clearly I am meant to front some super rock band, as are all Canadians.

From now on, when I am singing, and people laugh, or ask me to stop hurting their ears, or their dogs' ears, I will tell them to kiss my ass. Because that's what rockstars do.

Why? No, really. Why?

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted September 12, 2006.

Hey, assholes. When you are in the park, and you see me coming, on rollerblades, being pulled by a 70-lb husky at top speed, what is it that makes you want to whistle at the dog, or make kissey or clicking noises or whatever, to get his attention?

Are you a retard?

What have I ever done to you that makes you want to hurt me?

I hate you.

Go hug a tree

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted September 7, 2006

There's something about this tree, in Thomson Park in Scarborough that I love.

I can't figure out what it is.

Ivan loves it too.

Dear Lord

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted September 4, 2006.

I was recently driving on Lakeshore Boulevard in Toronto and I saw a car with Michigan license plates. They had a bumper sticker on the car saying "Pray for our President". That sounded like a great idea. So I have been doing just that. I have been praying for President Bush ever since I read that bumper sticker. For instance, this evening, I prayed for him.

To get Gonorrhea.

Taking it too far

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted on August 31, 2006

I realised that I have taken this whole "stay-at-home father" thing too far when this evening, I was racing around to clean the house up before my wife got home. There I was, vaccuming the floor, after loading the dishwasher, with Dido playing in the background.

Drinking a glass of white wine.

I am practically castrated.

In his defense

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted August 28, 2006.

So, it's hurricane season again. Fingers crossed for less death and destruction than last year.

You hear a lot about how President Bush was warned that the levees in New Orleans would not be able to hold back the flooding caused by Hurricane Katrina, which would leave many homeless and kill others. They say that he just simply ignored the warnings, rather than try to help.

I say give the guy a break. I can't imagine that he would have just ignored those warnings. He can't be that heartless, can he?

I think I've come up with what probably happened. And I think it's time to clear the President's name. I think that he did listen to the warnings. And I think he did put together an action plan to try to save lives in New Orleans.

But then, after he left the meeting, headed back to the White House, he turned on his favourite radio station. There, he heard a commentator, whose opinion he trusted a great deal, say that he himself had taken his Chevy to the levee and the levee was dry. So the President figured that the crisis was averted and canceled the mission to get people out of harm's way.

It's the only explanation I can come up with.

Taking a ribbing

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted August 26, 2006.

The local Rotary Club puts on a ribfest every year in the park across from our house. This was our first summer in this house, so it was the first time we had heard of it. I like food, beer and music, so we went to check it out.

I had never been to a ribfest before, and when I saw the signs all over Scarborough advertising it, I pictured some old Rotary dudes standing over a BBQ, re-heating pre-cooked ribs they bought from GFS or Sysco or something.

It turns out that it's a big-ass party, with companies coming from all over to cook their ribs. They call them ribbers. Not to be confused with rubbers, which do not mix well with barbecue sauce. Apparently. (or so the Trojan company claimed when I asked them why their product failed).

Anyhow, we went a few times, since it was just across the street and we could just bring the grub home to eat, rather than sit there with the inbred folks who seem to frequent ribfests.

My favourite ribber was Blazin' BBQ. Because the girls working there were hot. Hot like the fire on which they cooked my Chicken 'n' Rib Combo. Yes, that hot.

Llittle Lloyd liked the ribs too. I apologize in advance if the following pictures make any vegetarians gag.

You think he's messy, you should have seen my sauce-glazed face!

So, the ribfest was pretty good. The problem is after the ribfest. It's been almost three weeks since this thing ended, and our park is still littered with rib bones and chicken bones. You try walking a dog under those conditions. It's like navigating a mine field.

Ivan has been called, by someone who dogsits him on occasion, a "nose on legs". He will find any piece of anything tasty within a one mile radius. Then he will eat it. And when that anything tasty happens to be a pork rib bone or a chicken bone, chances are, he will later puke it up in my house.

Or, even better, it will get lodged in his guts, backing everything up for a couple of days, until it works its way free, resulting in a spray of dog shit and rib bone, wherever the dog happens to be standing at the time.

Now, my dog is cute.

But no amount of cute is worth that.

Every walk, I find myself digging down his throat, fishing out someone else's table scraps. Nice. And if I'm lucky, he won't bite me too hard when I am doing it.

People see me doing it, and give me a look like "lighten up, man. Dogs have been eating food scraps for generations." Well, you come clean up the living room floor after he pukes it up and then see how much you can lighten up, buddy.

So, what I'm trying to say here is: please, do me a favour. BOYCOTT THE SCARBOROUGH RIBFEST NEXT YEAR! Unless, of course, you really want to check out the hotties working at the Blazin' BBQ stand. It's probably worth it.

Llove,

Lloyd

The Language Barrier

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted August 24, 2006

I just saw a comedian on TV talking about misunderstandings that can arise when two people who speak different languages try to communicate with one another. It reminded me of a couple of stories from an old job. So I thought I would share. Because that's what I do. I am a sharing kind of guy.

I used to work in a roadside restaurant along the Trans-Canada Highway in New Brunswick. It was attached to a Motel. I think you can picture the kind of classy joint I'm talking about. I loved working there, but classy it wasn't.

I was the only one there who could speak any French, and I can't speak French. But when the servers had a problem understanding someone, they would call me. Which didn't often help.

One time, I spent five minutes trying to figure out what Onaise was. This French woman wanted Onaise. I thought she was asking for something in French, but I couldn't figure it out. Finally, I asked her to spell it. She said "H-O-N-E-Y. Onaise." I felt stupid.

Not as stupid as the late-night bartender guy did one night. After the restaurant closed and the "lounge" (AKA a bar with some stools and some taxidermy on the wall) was the only thing open, the bartender would also work at the front desk in case someone checked in to the motel late or if a guest called from their room.

One night, a Dutch family was staying there on their way through town. The mother came in to ask a question, just as Dave was about to start closing up. She asked him for "stems from lettuce." He asked her to repeat it several times and every time she asked for "stems from lettuce". He figured that it was some strange foreign thing, so rather than seem culturally retarded, he went into the kitchen and cut the bottom off of a couple of heads of romaine lettuce.

When he presented her with her lettuce stems, she laughed and said "no, stems from lettuce. You know." She reached into her purse to pull out an envelope and said "Stems, from mailing our lettuce."

"AH! Stamps for mailing your letters."

"Yes, that's what I said."

Stupid English speakers.

Thrashing Down Memory Lane

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted August 22, 2006.

As I was sitting on my couch this evening, enjoying a beer and watching the Canadian Idol top five contestants sing with country star Martina McBride, I thought to myself, "man, she has a killer voice. What a beautiful song."

Then I thought to myself. "Canadian Idol? Martina McBride? When did I become so friggin lame?" I thought hard, but couldn't pinpoint the moment when I entered full-fledged lameness.

Since I was just sitting there, being lame, I decided that I would do something I had been planning to do for a while, and get some old pictures scanned. I recently discovered a high school friend on the internet, and told him that I would scan some pictures of our skateboarding adventures for him to see.

In going through those old pictures, I found the answer to my question. I didn't become lame. I was born that way. Good lord what a loser I was in high school!

Looking back at the pictures, my friends don't seem lame.

Sheldon was pretty cool.

Nothing wrong with Darrell (unless you count skinny legs ).

The old friend I mentioned above was Pat. Pat was always an artist in school, and still is. Check out his website here and his MySpace page here. He's done very well for himself as an artist, just like everyone knew he would.

Here's a picture of skate hero Jason Jesse going through Pat's sketch book at a demo in August of 1989. He was rightly impressed.

In addition to being a good artist, Pat was a good skater too.

And then there was me. The reason I took so many pictures is because I was afraid to try the skateboarding stuff. My board was just for transportation. Once we all got somewhere to actually skate, I parked the board and took pictures.

But on the few occasions when someone took my picture, it sure was scary. I was usually wearing sweatpants that were about two inches too short. The ones with the elastic around the ankle. Nice. And I had these cycling gloves that I wore to protect my hands when I was skating (not for protection during any tricks, but in case I hit a pebble and went flying face first).

And I had these horrible turquoise Vans (size 12, I think) that looked like clown shoes. Heres a picture of them I took while we were on the back of a friends father's flatbed truck that we used to move our ramps around.

Nice, eh?

But the picture that sums up "High School Lloyd" the best is this one, taken the day I got my new Kevin Staab board, by Sims. Check out the mullet. Wow.

So, you see, I have always been lame. Now Im just a different kind of lame.

Oh well. I have a wife with a great butt and we have a cute kid. Even lame people do some things right.

Rules Rule!

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted August 21, 2006

As a parent, there is a lot to keep straight. There are rules and laws that you have to follow. Some of them are obvious.

Like the rule that says don't leave your baby home alone while you go out dancing. (it's a good thing I HATE dancing).

Or, don't get your 18 month-old son drunk. That one just means more beer for me!

Some of them are less obvious, at least to me. Like if you put one cheerio on your son's high chair tray, he will eat it; but if you put ten cheerios on his tray, he will play with them and throw them on the floor. The dog loves it when I forget that one.

One thing that I have learned since becoming a parent is that many Canadian provinces, including Ontario (where I live, which is why I am pointing it out), have a law that says that they must be in some kind of special child restraint in the car until they are 80 lbs. So, we bought one of those carseats that shifts through the various stages and eventually becomes a booster seat until he hits the 80 lbs mark.

Some people scoff at this law, saying "when I was a kid, my parents threw me into the car, and where ever I landed was where I stayed for the 18-hour drive" and such things.

But I take these things very seriously. I think it's important that we protect our kids. As we learn more and more about how to best protect kids, and as there are more and more cars on the road, we need to adjust our thinking to accept things like booster seats until they hit 80 lbs.

Which is why I was so pissed off when, a few weeks ago, I saw a show on TV that completely disregarded this law. They didn't care about the 80 lbs rule at all! They were just sitting there, in the car with no safety seat at all. And nobody seemed to care.

Well, I cared. And that's why I wrote to the producers of the show to complain.

Eventually, I found out that it was actually OK, even though it looked dangerous. Apparently, the girls that were on season one of Canada's Next Top Model stay just above the 80 lbs mark if they keep their fingers out of their throats until at least mid-afternoon.

My bad. Sorry to the CNTM contestants for assuming that they weren't keeping their own safety in mind.

Dads Can Be So Dumb

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted August 18, 2006.

It's time for me to admit it. Daddies don't make the decisions. We do what the Mommies tell us to.

For instance, as a stay-at-home Dad, I still have to rely on my wife's input to get through the day. I am thinking of having her take pictures of our son in every possible combination of clothes, so that I can use it as a reference when dressing him.

OK, so these shorts are clean. What shirt goes with them? According to the pictures, it's either this one or this one.

That way I can avoid that look. You know the one. It says "I can't tell which of you is cuter: you sitting there wearing those clothes; or your Daddy for thinking it was ok to dress you in them."

I hate that look. Especially at the end of the day, when Mrs. Lloyd gets home from work and our son has been dressed like that all day, and we've been out shopping or something.

I witnessed another example of the Daddy doing what he is told last Friday, at Pearson Airport in Toronto. Mind you, it was 5:00 AM so the father's brain was probably still sleeping, but it was pretty funny. It went like this:

SETTING: At the snack bar, just inside the security checkpoint at Terminal 3

Daddy: Ok, what do you guys want? Mommy said that you can't have sweets, only muffins or croissants.

Kid: I want an apple.

Daddy: NO! Mommy said only a muffin or a croissant because she doesn't want you eating too many sweets so early! So, what do you want? They've got chocolate chip muffins or chocolate croissants. Pick one.

THE END

Stupid yukky nutritious chocolate.

Good parenting

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted August 15, 2006

A few days ago, my wife and I were lined up to renew our health cards. There was a group of kids running around, absolutely out of control. The three kids ranged in age from about 3 to 8.

Then their mother decided to take control of the situation and shouted

"if you kids don't calm down right now, you won't get your iced cappuccino from Tim Hortons!"

At first, I thought this woman must be crazy. Calm down, or you won't get a great big cup of sugar and caffeine. I mean, according to an unreliable source that I found online, there is 87 mg of caffeine in that stuff. Should a three year old really be drinking that kind of beverage? What ever happened to apple juice? Or water?

Then I thought about it, and realized that this woman was in fact a very good mother. She was practicing preventative maintenance. She must have read Rebecca's blog entry about the recent study that shows that coffee can counteract alcohols poisonous effects on the liver and help prevent cirrhosis.

But wait? She is concerned about her three year old's liver? Well, she should be, if she is also taking the right steps to protect the poor kid's prostate. Apparently, accoring to another study quoted by Rebecca, there is an ingredient in beer that can help prevent prostate cancer. Approximately 17 beers a day will help to keep the old prostate cancer free.

So, I feel bad for thinking bad things about this mother for feeding her kids buckets full of sugar and caffeine. Obviously this is to protect their liver from all the beer she is feeding them to protect their prostates.

This lady is a shining example of loving parenting. I plan to follow her example. So while my son is napping, I'll pop out to Tim Hortons and the Beer Store for some supplies. Why are you looking at me like that? It's not like I'm leaving him alone while I go out. I'm leaving the dog to watch over him.

Off the North Coast of Prince Edward Island July 22 2006

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted August 9, 2006

While we were relaxing in beautiful Prince Edward Island recently, my father-in-law called up his friend Earl, a lobster fisherman (fisherperson?). Earl agreed to take us out for a day on his lobster boat. We left from French River, and headed out along the North Shore.

We had a great tour of the coastline of PEI, and got some cool pictures of the scenery.

The whole gang

Trying not to fall into the Gulf of St. Lawrence!

Some of the crew even jumped off the side for a nice ocean swim:

Then, just as things were going well, I decided to take a few more nice shots of the coastline. And some guy kept getting in the way. Don't you hate it when people do that? No matter what I did, he wouldn't stop popping up in front of the camera. Jerk.

Anyhow, here are the pictures. Too bad they suck. If that idiot hadn't gotten in the way, they would be much better.

So, as you can see, a perfectly good day was ruined by this attention whore. God, I hate people like that. Anyhow, I hope the pictures show enough of the beautiful coastline that you get an idea of what a great day it is.

Llove,

Lloyd

East Point PEI, July 18 2006

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted August 6, 2006.

Reason Number 986 Why My Son Will Hate Me In 20 Years

The day was going so well. My wife, mother-in-law, son and I left Cavendish and drove along the north shore of Prince Edward Island towards the eastern point of the island, called East Point (I think I figured out why it's called that).

We stopped at beautiful Priest's Pond to take a picture.

It was a great day. The kind of day that one day, I could have told my son about, when we took a nice drive in the country when he was a baby.

Then we got to East Point. We watched some seals bob around in the water where the Gulf of St. Lawerence and the Northumberland Straight meet. It was so nice. Then we went into the gift shop. It was lovely. There was even a hot chick working there. Great day.

There was an old school desk there, as a part of a display about Prince Edward Island in the "olden days". We put little Eric into the desk to take a picture. Nice.

SO CUTE! We took another one.

And another.

Then, I had to go and ruin it, and say "hey, let's take a picture of him wearing that hat from the gift shop, in the...

...Anne of Green Gables display." I took it too far, and ruined it for the poor kid. One day, he will find out about this, no matter what I do to try and hide it. He will have yet another reason to hate his father. The therapy bills will be sky high.

I am a bad father.

Canada Day Parade - North Rustico PEI July 1 2006

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted August 4, 2006

When I think of the ultimate Canadian symbol, I don't think of mounties, beavers (hehehe, beaver) or moose. I don't even think of Her Majesty. Not hockey or even lacrosse. No, when I think of Canadian symbols, I think of...

A guy driving a tractor pulling a wagon with a dog in it

I love small town parades.

North Rustico, PEI, July 1, 2006

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted August 4, 2006

How "deep sea" can it be if you can wade?

Something to keep in mind

Copied from my MySpace blog. Posted sometime in July 2006

When you give beets to your one-and-a-half year-old son for the first time, remember the next time that you change his diaper, he does NOT have colon cancer. Beets make poopies red.

The end.

Llove,

Lloyd

Cherries!

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted July 13 2006.

I was at the grocery store last week, and as I walked in, there was a big display of beautiful, fresh cherries. Now, I loves me some cherries, so I stopped and started filling a bag. MMMMM!

Then, this cougar-type rocker chick (she kind of looked like Sass Jordan) stepped up next to me. She started going through the cherries, but I noticed that she wasn't putting any of them in a bag. Just picking them up, looking at them and putting them back. Over and over again, just going through all of the cherries.

Finally, I said to her "Lady, give it up. I guarantee yours isn't in there. You didn't misplace it on prom night in 1979, you lost it. Don't live in the past, man."

Notes from the "I'm glad I decided not to say it" file

Copied from my MySpace blog. First posted sometime in July (I forgot to check the date before I deleted it from MySpace).

Mrs. Lloyd and I stopped into the Boardwalk Pub last week for lunch. We sat out on the patio and enjoyed the nice weather and jalapeno poppers. Just before our food came, my wife said "we should change places, so you get a nice view of the lake for a while."

I turned around and looked out towards the lake. I saw the water, and a few people enjoying the park, but nothing remarkable. Then I looked back at the view I had of the server's station where several waitresses were assembled and fought the urge to say "no thanks, the view is better from here" and instead said "no, that's ok. You've had a long week, you enjoy the view."

Thinking before you speak is the cornerstone of a successful marraige.

A Taste of NY

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted July 12, 2006.

We went to New York City for a few days in early June. It was my first time there and I can say that I do heart NY. It rained a lot while we were there, but that didn't keep us from enjoying ourselves. We had a lot of fun eating too much, wandering around in the rain and listening to the chorus of honking horns. I love how New Yorkers still believe, after years of trying, that honking their horns will make the light turn green, or make the construction disappear.

One of the highlights for me was on our first night. Mrs. Lloyd lined the rest of us up for a picture of us standing, drenched from the pouring rain, on the sidewalk in Times Square. Just as she snapped the picture, a guy who was crossing the street stepped up onto the curb and slipped and came crashing down. Ouch! Here is the picture.

The absolute best part for me came on our last day. Just south of Times Square, I saw perhaps the worst restaurant sign ever. I know New Yorkers are proud of their tough guy image, and to prove it they will eat anything. Even those pretzels that you buy on the street that taste like whatever kind of meat the pretzel vendor is also selling; hot dogs, kebabs, whatever. But this sign takes the "I'll eat anything" game too far.

Hair and Nail Deli Salad? Wow. Follow one of those suckers up with a big slab of turd cheesecake and you're a real New Yorker. What? Are you afraid of a little hair in your salad? Don't like eating fingernails? Don't be a baby.

I guess that they don't have the same strict public health laws in New York as we have here, designed to keep the hair and nails out of the salad.

Anyhow, I ordered up a big bowl of blonde garnished with Lee Press-ons . It was delicious.

An open letter…

Copied from my MySpace blog. Originally posted August 4, 2006

...to the parents of the kids who I saw the other day flying their kite underneath the dozens of power lines at Brimley and Lawerence in Scarborough, while the parents sat and watched.

Dear Parents,

You suck at the parenting.

Llove,

Lloyd

A Touching Story for Animal Lovers

Copied from my old MySpace Blog. Originally posted July 12, 2006

Internet people, meet my dog, Ivan the Siberian. Ivan, meet the internet people. I wanted to introduce you because Ivan plays a small, supporting role in the story I am about to tell (just because the event happened when I was walking him). And any time I have an excuse to show off how beautiful my dog is, I'm all over that.

One day last summer, Ivan and I were walking around in the park in the Beaches area of Toronto. I noticed a young couple acting strangely. The guy was dancing around, and I realized as we approached that he was trying to catch a little bird that had injured itself. He would sneak up on the bird and, just as he was about to grab it, off it would fly.

His girlfriend was almost in tears for this poor little sparrow (or whatever kind of bird it was what do I look like, a birder? Shut up). It was so nice to see a young couple who cared so much for wildlife. Very touching. A crowd is gathering, impressed with the selfless nature of these inspiring nature lovers.

Finally, just as Ivan and I are passing, the guy pulls out his best ninja moves. He sneaks up to the bird, and it looks like he is about to snatch the wee thing up, when off it jumps. Yay! The bird seems to be recovering, because it is flying further than it has flown during the whole event.

Up he flew! Away! Fly free, little birdie!

SNAP! Ivan jumps up and grabs the bird, snapping it in half with his massive, wolf-like teeth. Oh, the screaming! The guy shouted. His girlfriend started sobbing uncontrollably while the would-be bird catcher sheltered her from the grotesque sight. The onlookers all screamed and some small children cried. There were feathers and screaming people and bird bits everywhere.

It was awesome! Good dog!

*** Note: no animals were harmed during the making of this blog entry. Wait. Are birds animals? Maybe one animal was harmed. If you consider dead to be harmed. Besides, it was already harmed before we even got there.***

Super!

This blog entry was copied from my old MySpace blog. Originally posted May 10, 2006.

Have you heard the ad on the radio for WestJet (this question is for Canadians, but the rest of the world may read along), where you are supposedly hearing a letter sent by a customer, whose name is Sandy? She raves about the service she gets from WestJet, using the word "super" a lot.

Then, the WestJet guy says "do you know what else is super, Sandy?"

I always answer "a beach?"

Yes, I talk to my radio.

Blue Alert! Beautiful.

This blog entry was copied from my MySpace blog, originally posted May 9, 2006

Note: I apologize in advance for the artsy, sensitive blog entry. I know this will surprise you, but I am very artsy and sensitive.

Blue Alert is not a warning about a stand-up comedy routine that contains mature subject matter and course language. No, it is the title of the new CD by Anjani(Leonard Cohen's ladyfriend). And guess who bought it on the weekend? Three guesses. No, it's not him. No. No. You really suck at this game, don't you? It was me!

It is a beautiful CD. This chick can sing. Manalive! Beautiful lyrics.

Check out these lyric samples, they are beautiful:

- Track 5 - Nightengale:

I built my house beside the wood
So I could hear you singing
And it was sweet and it was good
And love was all beginning

Beautiful, eh?

-Track 8 - The Mist

As the mist leaves no scar
On the dark green hill
So my body leaves no scar
On you, nor ever will

Chillingly beautiful.

-Track 10 - Thanks for the Dance

It was fine it was fast
I was first I was last
In line at the
Temple of Pleasure
But the green was so green
And the blue was so blue
I was so I
And you were so you
The crisis was light
As a feather

I really love that song. So beautiful.

-Track 9 - Crazy to Love You

I had to go crazy to love you
You who were never the one
Whom I chased through the
Souvenir heartache
My braids and my blouse all undone

Now we're talking! If there's one thing I like better than beautiful lyrics sung by a beautiful woman with a beautiful voice, it's beautiful lyrics sung by a beautiful woman with a beautiful voice about her boobies peeking out!

- Track 4 - Half the Perfect World

Every night she'd come to me
I'd cook for her; I'd pour her tea
She was in her thirties then
Had made some money, lived with men

We'd lay us down to give and get
Beneath the white mosquito net
And since no counting had begun
We lived a thousand years in one

AWESOME! GIRL-ON-GIRL ACTION! BEAUTIFUL!!!

Go buy this album - beautiful, sensitive lyrics about lesbos! You'll love it.

Anyhow, sorry again for the deep, artsy post. I promise that my next blog post will be less serious..

Anyhow, sorry again for the deep, artsy post.  I promise that my next blog post will be less serious..

A new leaf?

Welcome to my first blog entry on this bloggy thingy.

Here's how it's going to work: I am going to start by copying some old blog entries from my MySpace blog thing. Then I will write some new stuff.

Understand? Cool.

Bye for now.

Llove,

Lloyd