inner democratic turmoil

Yesterday was the federal elections. I pondered long and hard about this particular vote, something I hadn't done often before. I live in a town that is fairly split along linguistic and federalist/separatist lines, with a slowly growing franco side as the city develops. However, we are but a drop in the bucket in a riding that is overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the neighbouring town. A town who has historically voted yes/Parti Québécois/Bloc Québécois. But also a town whose mayor, incidentally, was running for office as a member of the Conservative party.

Which is what got me thinking. Would their healthy support for their longtime mayor mean enough of a shift that we would be represented by a Conservative? Hmm, hard to say for someone who tends to hold her nose in the general arena that is politics. A coworker of mine was/is a diehard supporter of said mayor was convinced that victory was not only within reach, but almost a given.

So, what to do? I considered taking part in that vote-swapping facebook group, but then my unhealthy levels of cynicism wondered whether that was putting too much faith in the honesty of fellow participants. Then, I did what I thought I would never do: for a moment, and I can't even say it was a brief moment, for it took up part of election day, I considered, I mean gave serious thought, to the idea of voting for the Bloc representative. If that isn't a significant indicator of just how terrifying I find the prospect of a majority Conservative government, I don't know what is. And yet, there it was, a singular prospect for my perusal.

Then, my cynical side took a nap, and I had a moment of glorious honesty, if somewhat tinged by merciless optimism. I figured that voting negatively or preemptively was disgracing the honor and duty it was as a member of a democratic society. That, in fact, voting for the candidate whose ideals I admire and who I would truly want to see lead the country was the only honourable thing to do. So, as I crossed the lawn of a local grade school I once attended, I resolved to actually put an X next to the person who best represented my admittedly limited political views.

After having been dutifully carded by the two ladies at my polling booth (it really was like being carded at a bar. Notwithstanding the fact you just handed over a voter card and your driver's license, can you actually recite your address by heart? Really, just like old times. But I digress.), I walked to the gloriously unceremonious foldout cardboard “booth” meant to afford me some level of privacy as I performed by basic civic duty. Same old #2 pencils like you find at golf courses. My hand trembled for a second, as paranoia from the last referendum meant an X could never be quite perfectly centered or even. Nonetheless, I marked by ballot as cleanly as I could, folded it back, and proudly marched back to the two ladies at the table. Alea jacta est. The die, or in this case the vote, was cast. I could no more add or subtract from it without spoiling the ballot, which would have been for naught. Instead, my federally-allocated amount of (oh, I forget how much it is) will be allotted to the party of my choice. The elder of the two, the one with graying roots, cleanly ripped off the tear-off numbered portion of my ballot and ceremoniously removed the sheet of paper covering the ballot box slot before solemnly proclaiming I could officially deposit my ballot in the box.

After completing the ritual, I turned on my heels and walked out into the autumn air, heavy with smokers who crowded the door, even on a warm sunny afternoon. On my way home, looking up at the coroplast signs lining the streets, I wondered whether I had made the right decision. Time would tell.

Time did, in fact, tell. Early in the evening, the CBC announced that the Bloc candidate in our riding was elected. Looking at the number of polls returning, I wondered whether they hadn't gotten ahead of themselves. After all, even with an early commanding lead, did they know whether any of those results were coming from his home turf? If not, a massive groundswell of support could easily shift numbers back to the Conservatives' advantage. In the end, though, the trend was maintained and ou neighbouring mayor was soundly defeated, much to my coworker's chagrin, I would assume. I actually cheered when I saw the numbers. So mark the date of October 14, 2008 on your calendars, because such things, I hope, will not occur again. Although, if yesterday's elections are any indication, history will be repeating itself.

(814)

web drifting

I can't even call it surfing - it's not directional enough. The pace is also slower, as I stop to find delightful details where I wouldn't expect anything mind-boggling.

So here we go, somewhat randomly:

From Word Ferret (a usual haunt), a quote from Gustave Flaubert: I am irritated by my own writing. I am like a violinist whose ear is true, but whose fingers refuse to reproduce precisely the sound he hears within.

Or rather, in the original French:

(...) j'ai si peu l'habitude d'écrire et je deviens si hargneux là-dessus, surtout vis-à-vis de moi-même, qu'il ne laisse pas que de me donner assez de souci. C'est comme un homme qui a l'oreille juste et qui joue faux du violon ; ses doigts se refusent à reproduire juste le son dont il a conscience. Alors les larmes coulent des yeux du pauvre racleur et l'archet lui tombe des doigts...

Looking for the original quote, I stumbled upon another too-true thought of his:

Pour qu'une chose soit intéressante, il suffit de la regarder longtemps.

Moving along, I laughed until I cried while discovering a recent blog of note, Cake Wrecks. The tartan wedding-cake fiasco is absolutely priceless. This is one blog that I read from front to back in its entirety.

Which then led me to Cakelava, cake decorators in Hawaii, whose work is completely at the other end of the spectrum. Pat thought the Tiki cakes were really cool, but then, who wouldn't?

On the main blogger page, you can see the names of blogs flash by as they are updated. Sometimes I click on one when the title appears promising. It's a hit or miss process, but in a relatively "miss" click, I found a link to a book whose concept is so insanely appealing I may just order it: A Field Guide to Weeds, by Kim Beck. Once again, my fondness for dandelions shines through.

What does this show? That I'm procrastinating again. I should be doing something more productive (it's been fairly quiet lately on the freelancing front, so I actually have my evenings to myself...W00t!) but then, isn't this what summer is for? And for my sake, please don't mention that September is just around the corner!

(372)

exercises for the wordless mind

telling / twenty / energize / stylist / problematic

Twenty minutes to go. The situation was quickly shifting from problematic to outright dire. His head was pounding, his mouth was dry; he wanted to be anywhere but here. But Perez knows divas can't take on the red carpet singlehandedly, especially not this train wreck. There was just no telling what she could dream up next to further derail her now-faltering career. Her team of stylists stood at the ready, and he had to lead them. Except he just couldn't think. He ducked in to the nearest trailer; one coke/MDMA bump with a Red Bull chaser later, he felt energized, refreshed and fuckin' invincible. Time to roll.

towel / burner / stingy / unravel / sponge

Her world was unravelling, that much was clear. That stingy prick had sponged off her for months, while she put her big dreams on the back burner. But when her finances had taken a turn for the worse, he'd taken the first bus out of her life. She clung to the notion that the answer was be 42, and she always knew where her towel was. At that point, those were her only certainties.

bribery / cohesive / prove / slope / down

Somewhere along the way, things stopped making sense. His once-cohesive world view fractured into tiny little jagged shards that rained down hard and broke his skin. What exactly had started this tumble down the slippery slope of insanity? Was it his father's rejection? Was it his meager attempts at reconciliation, lubricated by financial windfalls that amounted to bribery? Was it his mother standing mutely by, unable or unwilling to shelter her child? And did any of his own ensuing acts of random horror prove that deep down, they had been right all along? He smiled and banged his head softly against the padded wall of his cell.

(316)

some calisthenics, because I'm out of shape

unacceptable / pathological / service / democratic / assume

During his service, Jim was told that defeat was unacceptable, that their mission was to help ensure democratic rule of the tiny island nation. He always assumed they were doing the right thing for the right reasons. Unfortunately, political and military leaders are, more often than not, pathological liars.

tune / cart / exam / knot / quarter

He tried to whistle a tune to calm his nerves. No luck. He looked at his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. A quarter to one. His stomach was in knots. He'd dreamed of this day for so long. And by the end of the afternoon, he was gonna be allowed to drive more than just scooters and golf carts, if he had any say in the matter.

counterculture / cream / smoke / PIN / deny

Where had she gone wrong, she wondered, as she stirred extra cream into her Starbucks latte. She lit up a smoke the minute she was out the door; she relished her last rebellious stance. She had a SIN number, a PIN number, more passwords than she could ever forget, and a new "smart" ID card that held her deepest biometric secrets. It was no use denying it: one of the 80s counterculture's greatest icons had fallen prey to the Man. She had been absorbed into the System.

cell / dynamite / kit / nausea / doll

She huddled in the dark alley, waiting anxiously to rendez-vous with her contact. The stench of urine was overwhelming. She fought back a wave of nausea and watched passerbys from the shadows: an elderly couple, a gaggle of boisterous teenagers, a stressed-out executive on a Blackberry, a harried soccer mom and her child, dragging behind her a limp rag doll. How it would all change. When Stavros arrived, he would provide the last element for their bomb kits. Once assembled, they would detonate with forty times the force of dynamite. Their cell may be the smallest of the network, but they were certainly going to make an impact.

In six, these days: I'm still the only one rowing.

Today: Some itches are better left unscratched.

(368)

a funny little dreambit

Now follow me deep into the convolutions of my mind, into a little dreambit I had over the weekend. I actually dreamt that the dreambit I wrote about earlier, about the car crashing into the mall, was happening right before my eyes. All I could think (in my dream) was "Wow! That dream was actually déjà-vu!" Oh, and the fact I identified the mall as Place Alexis-Nihon, even though it really doesn't match up with the actual mall which, the last time I was there, was one of the darkest and dreariest downtown malls. But I have to admit, it is the very first time I remember dreaming about a previous dream. I mean, there have been times when, after being semi-awakened in the middle of a dream, I have resumed said dream, but never days apart like this.

In other news, I just learned that Finger Eleven used to be the Rainbow Butt Monkeys - hey! I've seen them live! Opening for I don't remember who, but I have seen them on stage! Wow! Who knew you could learn something from the MMVAs?

(184)

in the company of presidents

Once upon a time, at a previous job...

Someone had slammed the fridge door shut, upending the milk carton in the fridge door in the process. The spill in the fridge had been cleaned up in short order; the milk that had dripped down the door seal, onto the front base, and onto the floor under the fridge was another matter. It crusted up nicely, maturing into a scent not experienced this side of the fourth level of hell. One afternoon, I decided I had had enough; with the help of a colleague, I budged the fridge and attacked the putrid culprit puddle with the meek tools available in your standard office kitchenette. There I was, scrubbing on all fours, my back, or rather my butt to the door, when who should walk in but the company president. He quickly recovered from the initial shock, barely acknowledged my presence, and made himself a cappuccino before retreating to the safe, sane, sanctity of his corner office.

Needless to say, in the year we were in those offices, that was the only time I ever saw him in that kitchenette - our formal break room was at the opposite end of the building and much closer to both his office and the executive boardroom than our little hole in the wall, which was probably set up merely for productivity's sake, to make sure groggy non-morning types like myself didn't spend half the morning trekking between desk and coffee pot.

Tuesday in six: Midterm, dictionaries and the electoral map.

Wednesday: Flat broke - uninspiring but cheap lunches.

(263)

"half a second away!"

That's the first thing that comes to mind when I think of Paul Heyman of (the original) ECW fame.

I stumbled onto his column for London's The Sun newspaper, and I've been watching his "Heyman Hustle" webisodes. His videos are all over the map, and a little too sloppy for my taste. Maybe I've just been spoiled by WWE over the years, as far as slick production goes. Once in a while, there'll be a good, solid bit, but it's too hit-or-miss so far for me. It is half a second away.

On the other hand, I find his written columns intelligent, articulated, and perfectly on-point. Perhaps the best example was his post on the Chris Benoit saga, in which he expresses the finality of the senselessness of it all, and how everyone has tried to come to terms with it, family, co-workers and fans alike. I myself have tried to wrap my mind around it, with no amount of success; the tribute shows are still on my DVD's hard drive, neither archived nor erased. I just can't watch them, but I don't want to gloss over the events and pretend they never happened.

I've wanted to write about it, too. But once my mind starts thinking that professional recognition should bear on professional achievements only, I start to think that three people were denied to right to have further professional achievements (or any, in the case of young Daniel), and that that cannot be honoured. All my thoughts string together with "Yes, but..."s. In that, Paul E. sums it up well: "I've no answers and I never will."

But I digress. Point is, Paul Heyman does a great job of analyzing the field of sports entertainment and MMA, particularly from a marketing standpoint, and he is quite enjoyable to read. Give him a try.

He has a particularly interesting viewpoint concerning the Joey Styles/Mike Adamle, um, debacle? Heck, it's the only thing that makes sense. Personally, I think they want to rebuild a "kickable" interviewer, like Coach was in the Rock's heyday. With Jonathan Coachman's rumoured departure for ESPN, they had the opportunity to juggle things around. I think the addition of Mick Foley was brilliant - he's not perfect yet, but give him time to settle in. Besides, he's already better than JBL ever was. Removing Joey Styles, to me, was a mistake for ECW, the weakest brand WWE has. But parachuting Adamle was a great way to turn him heel almost instantaneously - not that he's evil, just that his eagerness to impress and his incompetence are a perfect combination to get people to want him to get beat up. Check out this week's Dirt Sheet; I think that's the best clue to where WWE is trying to head with Adamle.

I just hope they haven't sacrificed a great voice (Styles, I hope you enjoy running the website), if not all of ECW, for the sake of a shortcut to building a minor character. Unless they name him GM of Raw, in which case I quit!

(509)

word exercises

Cue / Sacrifice / Monster / Resurrect / Detection

Detection would spell doom for them all, and possibly for civilization as they knew it. What they were about to engage in had long been deemed illegal, immoral and contrary to everything humanity strived for. But it was the only chance they had left. Cue the music. Somehow, they needed the music, something for their sanity to cling to. It was time for the sacrifice. It was time to resurrect the monster.

Thursday in six: Over the hump - woo hoo!

Friday: Overcoming an unusual desire for shoes.

(97)

now imagine my brain on drugs

I had my first class of the spring term this evening.

Our professor came in, wearing a beige blouse, with a floral pattern of darker gold, pastel yellow, dusty rose and two shades of green. Which perfectly matches the dusty rose wall behind her, the chalkboard, the beige walls, the corkboard, the yellow notice on the bulletin board and the chair backs. It was really all I could focus on for the first half hour or so. I tell you, it's been rough going at the office lately!

By the end of class, all I was thinking was, "One down, twelve to go." And then my Buddha chant flooded my mind: shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up. I will try real hard to apply that wisdom next class.

On the other hand, I had a few really good ideas about my NaNoWriMo story on the train home. I guess being tired lets the good kind of weird ideas float to the surface...

(178)

brain exercises

I've been having a tough time at work this week, so I did a few little "random word" exercises to loosen up over lunch. Yes, playing with words and being creative is actually more helpful than say, stepping away from the computer, as sad as that may seem. For the uninitiated, I try to string together five words picked at random from the dictionary into a mini-story. So here's the fruit of today's calisthenics:

ochre / soundman / constitutional / huddle / leafage

The policy makers and national leaders converged on the upscale secluded retreat for a series of scheming thinly disguised as constitutional debate. They huddled in small groups in the mansion’s many rooms, hatching plans and conspiring against the other liberal cliques and conservative factions, oblivious to everything around them, as the surrounding thicket’s leafage burst into autumnal colour, from the mildest ochre to the deepest red, and as an undercover CBC soundman, posing as a humble, tuxedoed waiter, recorded every word that was uttered.

crossbreed / hulk / jurisdiction / pistol / sliver

The hulk of a man pounced on him and they tumbled to the ground. The youngster
quickly realized he would be on the losing end of this particular fight. He regained a sliver of hope when he managed to free his right arm and quickly drew his 9mm semi-automatic pistol. Startled, the big guy rolled off him and stood up, unsure how to restore the balance of power that had just tipped in his disfavour. He wasn’t in his jurisdiction anymore; in fact, he’d been stripped of his turf for introducing a new crossbred variety of weed that enhanced both the buzz and the ensuing physical addiction; its popularity left all other suppliers in the dust, and even a couple of dealers of the harder shit complained. He’d always been radical, even among the ranks of organized crime. And now, he’d made a lot of people real angry.

bureaucratic / cattle call / converse / mellow / pen

It was a cattle call, to put it mildly. Anyone and everyone who had ever even given a thought to acting were lined up, in the hopes of being the next big thing. People conversed uneasily in line, wondering if the person before them would rob them of their dream. The closer you got to the front of the line, the more palpable the tension became; the bureaucratic system set up to register the auditioning slowed things to a crawl, and generally just made things worse. But there she stood, calm, mellow even, almost in a trance, in the midst of increasingly jittery blondes, fake and real; someone had finally penned the screenplay for Anna Nicole Smoth’s biopic and, damnit, that role was hers.

busybody / Dictaphone / Samoyed / twenty / instinctive

She had always been on the go, barely even slowing down to sleep; meals were always consumed while doing something else. She had also always been a busybody, and half the things she did in a day weren’t hers to handle to begin with. But she would never admit to such an outrageous claim; she simply did what needed to be done for the good of the company. That she was slowly killing herself in the process was irrelevant. That she needed to keep a digital Dictaphone handy to keep track of her endless to-do lists was merely a fact of life. That, some twenty years on, she would adopt a Samoyed from the local pound was an aberration, unless one considers how his deep instinctive drive to run and pull and herd perfectly matched her own.

Wednesday in six: Walked twelve point three kilometres today.

Thursday: Translating without understanding is utterly painful.

(600)

random updates

Good news: I finally downloaded Hardy Heron.
Bad news: it refuses to boot on Live CD, due to a BIOS error I cannot seem to overcome.

One last thing about WWE this week (at least until Smackdown airs): Fo-ley! Fo-ley! Fo-ley!

OK, make it two: Why don't the guys have studio photos, too?

Sunday in six: Flea market, migraine, sleep, no PPV.

Monday: Watching Raw alone with the cat.

Tuesday: At least they still love me.

(76)

this isn't rocket science

Quebec roads are an extreme sport. Potholes yield to craters, into which I’m sure small dogs and dump trucks disappear; jaywalking is a national sport, since crosswalks are just ornamental; yellow lights means go faster lest the guy behind you, who’s also flooring it, land in your back seat; and speed limits are mere suggestions even less respected than on the Autobahn. So we have the accident/injury/death toll that goes with it.

Lately, politicians have been discussing the possibility of reducing speed limits by 10 km/h in the city. This will create more work for the poor, overworked blue-collar workers, require a slew of new, and probably overpriced, signs, and generate traffic all over the island as security perimeters are erected at rush hour around said workers diligently taking a break while being paid overtime before attempting the installation of said new signs.

Everyone knows that cops in Quebec do not give out speeding tickets for excesses of under 20 km/h, i.e. you can drive at 49 km/h in a 30 km/h school zone, 69 km/h in a 50 km/h normal city street, and 119 km/h on the highway. You can do this in full view of a traffic cop holding a radar gun. Heck, even the signs the government put up to dissuade speeders indicated the fines for 20 km/h speeding and above. You can claim your speed limit is X until you’re blue in the face, but if you enforce at Y level, then Y is your effective speed limit. It’s that simple, really.

If you want to slow people down, just CHANGE THE LEVEL AT WHICH YOU TICKET. No infrastructure required. Start ticketing at 10 km/h over the posted limit, and ENFORCE the darn thing. Changing speed limits is just numbers on signs. Enforcement levels means dollar signs and safety.

But it’s probably too simplistic for bureaucracy. Common sense need not apply.

Today in six: Quoth Peter: “Beware of strange orifices.”

(324)

lo-hi morning

What a trying morning. On/Off. Hot/Cold. Up/Down. I would say I'm PMSsing, but I'm not, and even when I do, my mood swings are usually subtler and better contained. But not today.

The cat was jumpy from the minute I opened the bedroom door. Dudley quickly rose to get out of the way, but soon settled back down on Pat's warm, filthy camo pants - perhaps he knew better than to stay under foot. My hair's full of flyaways, including a stubborn strand that flips resolutely out over my right ear, making for an odd, lopsided silhouette. My forehead and the tip of my nose are still dry and flaky, remnants of dry, heated air. I finally remembered to grab that envelope I've been meaning to mail, but I kept going up and down the stairs, to get the envelope, then my watch, then because I forgot the envelope I'd put down, then I realized my sneakers were downstairs.

Rounding the corner of my street, I almost stepped on a frog. I couldn't have done much more damage, as it has been flattened by a car, its innards spewed out over a respectable distance from its backside from the pressure.

Barely three houses fuether, my neighbour drove up and offered me a lift. It was only part way, it meant I would miss the mailbox, and it kinda shot my eco-motivation out of the water, but I accepted nonetheless; they are our friendliest neighbours - I didn't want to be rude. As she dropped me off, maybe a mile or so up the road, a low-flying V formation crossed the sky. A baker's dozen. Only one of them honked loudly. I found another mailbox along the way, and the thought that I would be early for work cheered me up because it meant I could leave earlier too. I kept walking and turned onto the boulevard.

Now, I'm well-acquainted with the trash that litters the most perillous segment of my route. There are four 10-oz. bottles of vodka: 3 Troika and a single Smirnoff. Did they all come from the same source, I wonder? And if so, did their taste evolve over time, or did they drink the good stuff first until they just couldn't taste it anymore? Further on, there's a diaper that looks like its been there for ages yet steadfastly refuses to decompose. But today, I discovered a new piece of litter, just pas the highway overpass: a flattened stuffed spider, like a cheap Beanie Baby rip-off. It startled me anyway, with all its legs spread out to what would be an impressive width in the arachnid world.

*As I wrote this down on paper, I got a paper cut. !@#$%? *

Soon after, I heard a car horn, and my own car pulled up beside me. Turned out the dogs had been barking since I left, and Pat wanted money...for something he deems essential, and something I see as utterly worthless. I ripped into him, probably worse than the situation actually warranted. But it's the same basic argument we've been having for years. Ten years, in fact. And he hasn't done a thing to help. So whenever he opens that door, even just a crack, I let him have it. I just don't know how else to get my point across.

At work, it appeared that I wasn't the only one having difficulty: two close-working colleagues (both in function and working quarters) also went at it, the elder basically pissing at the four corners of her territory in a not-so-subtle display of seniority. The younger busybody may have had it coming, I don't know. I was too busy imploring Buddha to help me stay out of most of the morning's conversations, just in case.

And then, as abruptly as it had begun, it stopped, just like a sudden downpour; everyone returned to normal, and the rest of the day was entirely uneventful.

Or, in six: Up/Down loop. Then, normalcy returned.

(665)

national poetry month

Yep, it would appear that April is National Poetry Month, so in honour thereof, a link to another blog I accidentally stumbled upon but enjoy very much: Poem of the Week.

(31)

i really, really love the next blog button

This one, I'm not even sure why I scrolled down the page. It's devoted to the Democrat presidential nomination. But I sure am happy I did.

You see, I enjoy...how can I put this...rejects. Favourite birds? Ravens and crows. Not colourful, not melodious, not even powerful predators. Black, raucous scavengers that most ornithologists can't be bothered with. Yet I think they're magnificent.

Some of my favourite flowers? (Disclaimer: Gardeners may want to look away.) Dandelions. Yup, one of the most common weeds in North America. I find their yellow beautiful, their resilience a thing of marvel, and their method of propagation simply brilliant.

OK, what does this have to do with the Democrat presidential nomination blog I found? Nothing, per se, if only that one of the Barack supporters has a dandelion tattoo on her shoulder blade.

Dandelion tattoos are few and far between, and most artists, seeing as they think themselves deprived of using white ink (but that's a matter for another day), twist the dandelion into all sorts of graphic illustrations of the plant. And this guy/gal's particular interpretation is one I hadn't come across before and which I find quite interesting - even if the quality of the tattoo line itself seems poor.

Wow. I love these unexpected finds.

(212)

single fixed hot blue point Siamese seeks...

...Well, this, apparently:

Unfortunately, it would appear there's no i988888888888888888888888888u777777777777ÈÈÈÈÈÈÈqwwwwwww54
out there, waiting to respond to my cat. Maybe it's alien communication. Considering my cat, that would be entirely possible.

(37)

11 days into the experience

...and I've written just over 1,700 words. What that basically means is that I need to accelerate my writing tenfold by November 1st. Wow. Real life will really have to stop getting in the way.

On to a few exercises:

Friday: Three-day weekend means sleeping in.

Saturday: Dude, were you on the news?

firm / economy / eighteen / fume / luxury

He fumed. Mere weeks after she left because he could no longer guarantee the luxury she had grown accustomed to, the economy began to rebound and he secured eighteen firm orders for his latest machine. His wealth was safe, but he was now alone.

weekend exercises

Between a translation assignment and a little bit of volunteer work, I haven't stopped to create much over the past two days. Mind you, the six-word exercise on my Saturday is also fairly telling. So here we go, two six-word days, and a few random word stories...

Saturday: CSI marathon on Spike. Thank you.

Sunday: I still do not speak Legalese.

1. befall / metal / purvey / wise / physical

For years, the company he had built with his bare hands and ferocious capitalistic streak had purveyed the entire Tri-State area in ball bearings. Now, with the rising cost of metals and fuel, combined with the increasing encroachment of Chinese-made bearings, the wise patriarch of Roland Enterprises could only watch as his company’s stock plummeted, a cruel parallel to the ills that had befallen his physical health in the last week.

2. altercation / conglomerate / march / Prussian blue / liver

On her first day as Vice President of Product Development, she marched into the executive boardroom of the fast food conglomerate in her best Prussian-blue pin-striped pant suit. Across the table, the COO glared at her. An altercation was inevitable. Heads would roll. And, like her mentor, she would eventually have his liver with a nice Chianti.

3. exponential / ping-pong / square / pert / coup d’état

The crowd seemed to be growing exponentially in the town square, whipped into a frenzy by the pert blonde with the megaphone. For centuries, the tiny nation had been invaded and oppressed by neighbouring powers. Heck, the Chinese had even stolen the noble discipline of ping-pong and claimed it as their own. But no more; tonight’s coup d’état would set them free.

today's exercises

In six words: Afraid the roof will cave in.

Random words:

sound / nordic / frank / spirit / birthplace

As she stepped off the seaplane, her spirit soared as she surveyed her birthplace. It had been a long journey since her stepfather had proclaimed, in a frank if bourbon-fueled announcement last New Year’s Eve, that she wasn’t biologically-related to the Suzukis. As it were, her Nordic looks and her fondness for reindeer steak were not an astronomically-improbable genetic anomaly, merely the sound reflection of her origins. Rasmussen.

word calisthenics

When I was a teenager, I took drawing classes. One of my favourite exercises consisted in having a fellow classmate draw a wild, free scribble on a page in our sketchpad, and transforming it into whatever our mind happened to see.

I wondered what the equivalent would be for a writer. If we were many, we could continue each other's stories, bounce words and ideas off each other, but on my own? Then it occurred to me: simply pick words at random and weave them into whatever story my mind happened to see.

So here are my first two attempts.

1. but / jukebox / reel / motive / tutoyer

(For those unfamiliar with the last selected word - tutoyer - it is the act of using the French familiar “tu” rather than the formal “vous”. It’s similar to the Spanish “tu/usted”. I never would have guessed that tutoyer was in an English dictionary, but there it was, under my finger, in my Merriam-Webster.)

He ordered a coffee, then slid out the banquette and fished some coins from his front jeans pocket. He peered at his weatherworn hands; it appeared he succeeded in getting all the blood off. His mind reeled, and he steadied himself on the old jukebox in the corner of the diner. Of course, the cops would soon come; they could show means and opportunity – but they would never understand his motive. Even he wasn’t sure he did. “Tu veux-tu aut’ chose?” asked the waitress, in the hoarse voice of someone who’s spent far too many years in smoky dive bars. Goddamn, how he hated being tutoyé’d by complete strangers – how rude.

For the second take, I decided to try an online
"random word generator",
which yielded

2. cyclist / cold / bill / coding / capitalist

All words in "b" and "c"...how odd.

The bitterly cold wind blasted the cyclist in the face; he tucked in his head and kept pedaling through the slushy streets of the city. He dreamt of being a trapeze artist in the Caribbean, but coding for the man at the center of the most evil capitalist empire of the Great White North paid the bills.