Peter Pan arrested for murder

Prison pan

NEVERLAND – News is filtering in that famed fly-boy Peter Pan has been arrested by the Neverland Police Department. While details are sketchy, inside sources say the green-tightsed man-child was charged with the stabbing death of Captain Hook’s right-hand man.

This is the second such set of charges laid on the former leader of the Lost Boys, who was questioned in the death of maniacal monodexter Captain James Hook. When the local District Attorney was attacked by a dust mote and unexpectedly turned into a sea slug, the original charge of manslaughter was dropped.

Sources suggest the sword-wielding pixie possessor was distraught over rumours that his life-long girlfriend Wendy Darling was seeing another man. Upon confronting her with his suspicions, she reportedly denied the allegations but did admit she was interested in terminating their relationship.

Still emotionally connected, however, she tried to let her green-eyed felt-clad paramour down gently, suggesting her desire was in no way related to his prior behaviour.

While we cannot yet confirm the content of their conversation, we believe the confusion began shortly after she started to explain herself with:

“Oh, Peter, it’s not you.”

(think about it for a second)

(still not getting it?)

(oh, all right then)

“It’s me.”

smee sword

The World’s Worst Juggler (a puppet saga)

Waylon Bitterman

You may have heard me speak previously about the challenges of writing for puppets, which in their finest hour are little more than petulant little shits with diva complexes, who generally view a script as little more than a replacement for toilet paper.

In fact, the only real redeeming feature of most puppets is the ability to shove your arm up their bottoms, in some case, up to the elbow.

In any event, we managed to capture one of these little monsters on video recently, which I present below.

 

To see more of these fetid little creatures, please subscribe to the Lemon Productions Inc YouTube channel. (No, seriously, subscribe to this ruddy thing…I need the work.)

Thank you

Varied of tradition, but singular in purpose.

Varied of tradition, but singular of purpose.

I just walked to the grocery store without a second thought beyond wondering whether milk would be on sale or if I could get there and back before it started to rain.

Thank you.

Last night, friends and I filmed puppetry vignettes in which we satirized recent political events and social attitudes, laughing freely and openly.

Thank you.

On Saturday, I met a friend for bacon sandwiches and then walked home along the beach, smiling at kids playing in the sand and dogs excitedly greeting each other.

Thank you.

Today, my biggest concern is whether I will get off my backside and walk two blocks to change my cellphone carrier or if I’d rather just bitch about the one I am presently using.

Thank you.

My home hasn’t been destroyed. I’m not worried about my next meal. My family hasn’t been slaughtered. No one will kick in my door because I made a joke online. And you and I can completely disagree on local, national and world politics and social trends.

Thank you.

And even with all that, five “thank yous” is not nearly enough to express my gratitude to the men, women and families who have sacrificed everything so that all of the above is true.

I live in Canada. It is Memorial Day in the United States. And none of that matters. The international boundary does not make any of what I have written less true.

We may choose different days and express our feelings in different ways, yet we have but one purpose: gratitude.

Thank you.

From Ottawa's Parliament Hill to Washington's National Mall to France's Vimy Ridge, we must never forget and always be grateful.

From Ottawa’s Parliament Hill to Washington’s National Mall to France’s Vimy Ridge, we must never forget and always be grateful.

The Drive (a short story)

grouchy

“Are we there, yet?”

The phrase that irritated me for the thousand times a week it bore into the back of my head now haunts me.

It had taken forever for me to convince the boys to leave their seat belts alone, to keep their hands from compressing the buttons that stood between confinement and filial battle. And more than once, I found myself wishing that rather than cross their laps, the belts crossed their mouths, stilling the staccato tarantella that skipped across my brain.

Silently, I would curse my husband for wanting children so close in age; built-in playmates, he would argue as though siblings were naturally adept at civility and sharing. Never marry someone who was an only child, I would remind myself; too many delusions of a happy peaceful family to dispel.

“Are we there, yet?”

The words and whine a cattle prod to my ear drums, my head involuntarily snapping to one side, threatening to glance off the door frame, the open window insufficient to drown the drone from the back seat.

“Are we—“

“Has the car stopped moving?” I’d shout at the rear-view mirror as though it was the source of my agony rather than simply a reflection of what I’d left behind.

For a second—a glorious second—the car would go silent, but the silence was an illusion, a prelude to crises yet to come. Inquisitive urges not quelled so much as turned aside, as unsatisfied attention-seeking demanded to be slaked.

“Mo-o-om!” came the high-pitched cry.

“I’m not doing anything,” its wounded echo, pre-emptorially defending actions yet unchallenged.

“Enough,” I charged, confronting the miniature offenders with turned head.

The light was green, or at least that’s what the report said, as though the colour protected me from my guilt any better than it protected my car from the panel van approaching from the left; as though an absence of fault even approximates an absence of self-loathing anguish.

The car was a write-off, and after six months of my husband’s words telling me it wasn’t my fault while his eyes told another story, so was my marriage.

And now, sitting here in my wheelchair, all I can think of is “Are we there, yet?”

woman-in-wheelchair

Winging it

One of the hazards of taking the camera out for one reason is that it never goes back into the closet.

Taking a cue from the deliciously mild temperatures but dazzling sun yesterday, I took a wander over to see my grandparents at a nearby cemetery. On the way, I wandered through a small dose of wetlands to find some feathered friends.

Tanked at the aquarium

I recently signed up for a 3-week photography workshop at Ripley’s Aquarium of Canada in Toronto, which basically means running around gob-smacked at coral reefs, sharks, jelly fish and kilometer after kilometer of living colour.

Here are some picks from Week 2.