ONE NIGHT WITH HOMO ESCAPEONS

THIS IS WHAT HE LOOKS LIKE TO YOU...

THIS IS WHO HE IS TO ME, FOR THE PAST 27 YEARS...

Who, really, IS this Blasphemous Blogger, this Escapeons Enigma, this Outrageous Orator? He is much more than you know or than he lets on in his blog, which anyone reading this is likely to frequent (or can be accessed from my sidebar).

What will already be evident to HE fans are his sense of humor, his knowledge of just about everything, his smart-ass but light-hearted yet insightful view of the world, his range of opinion, his capacity for the most innane trivia.

But what's beyond the bluster of the blogger? I'm about to expand your HE horizons.

We have known each other since 1979 when we both took the same two-year course in creative writing (journalism, advertising, P.R.). I almost detested his loudmouth schnook sort of personality and his good looks.

He was a chick magnet and a know-it-all to boot.

He was loud, obnoxious and unbelievably funny, even if you were his target, and I have been that often. Strangely, we became the closest of friends, because I am anything but loud and obnoxious.

We seemed to be at opposite ends of the spectrum, but something clicked.

He was the best man at my wedding. But before that, we spent those two years often pie-eyed at his place, listening to music he'd always try to get me to like, at unbelievably high decibels, while I wiped him out at Blackjack or whatever other card game we'd play.

(Yes, alcohol was involved)

His place was party central. I called his dad, Dad, the most beautiful man you'd ever want to meet. His mom was like my mom. Still is. We were so close that his girlfriends were almost my girlfriends (or sometimes I might have wished they were).

Upon graduation, we each got married. I moved away and we lost touch with each other. In that time, we both had families and, as it turned out, we both saw our marriages break up, although I had moved back to my home town.

We eventually reunited. Now the both of us have lovely kids, in HE's case he has a second family as a result of a consummate union with one of the most beautiful women I have ever met, she who cannot be named (Hi Alice!), whom HE refers to only as his GoodLadyWife.

Seeing as I'm single, he says he lives vicariously through me and my on-again, off-again different relationships. We generally see each other once a week at my place, where we try to solve the world's problems, tease each other and almost certainly laugh a lot.

For example, on Thursday night, we debated the following issues and solved or joked about all of them:

1. Canada's aboriginal problem

2. Canada's crime and justice problem

3. George W. Bush and Iraq. We have solved this over and over, but Bush still hasn't got it right.

4. What we're going to do on the final night of all human existence, as prophesized by the latest pamphlet to be dumped in my mailbox entitled "Revelation of Hope, a Bible Prophecy Seminar," taking place in my city next month in these "final few days."

5. How he was going to borrow his mom's rug shampoo machine, seeing as HE twice last night spilled his rye and Pepsi. The first time, he spilled it all behind my fridge, which is grungy enough. The second time, it was on my carpet.

I sopped it up gleefully, not wanting him to feel like a complete idiot as he apologized profusely. And he wasn't even drunk.

6. We talked about blogging and bloggers, of course.

7. We talked about and checked out Brian The Mennonite's blog, which had pix from their meeting last weekend at HE's place, a social occasion I unfortunately wasn't able to get to.

8. We talked about how he said he had blogged for months initially, beginning last winter, without a comment before the lovely Cherrypie found him and, with her wit and guile, made him see there were other intelligent, engaging people out there that could be an audience.

There were other topics, obviously. But those are the main ones of interest to the Blogosphere, I figure. And now here he is, nominated for Canadian Blogger Awards in several categories in his first year, and loving it.

But from a personal standpoint, and I know him intimately, he is only just beginning. He has unique thoughts and talents, he's a man of the world, and he has always had an impact on my life and what I think, even if he won't let me take a pic of his bare butt at Carmenzta's request.

He is far more artistic than you will ever know, having adorned some of his posts with his own artwork that he doesn't take credit for. He has done a caricature of me that I have posted before, but he has also done these of my kids...

No, this is the Homo Escapeons I know...wise beyond his own knowledge despite his frivolity and partying personality, his caring for the bigger issues on a global scale, his silent and unwavering commitment as a parent and as a friend.

DEATH WISH

TODAY'S NECROMANIC THEME IS...

No, not zany Dracula spoofs pulled off by innane Canadian comedians who nonetheless make me laugh.

Today's theme -- alert Entertainment Tonight -- is the unbelievable good fortune of deceased entertainers.

Today's theme, prompted by the short Hindustan Times story below, is DEAD AND LOVING IT.

AND THIS YEAR'S WINNER IS...

KURT COBAIN

Kurt Cobain, former lead singer of Nirvana, has topped Elvis Presley as the top dead celebrity earner.

According to Contactmusic.com, the list was created by Forbes in 2000 and Presley had topped it since then.

But this time Cobain earned $50 million and Presley's income was $42 million only.

Other dead celebrities on the list include Peanuts animator Charles Schultz, John Lennon, Marilyn Monroe, Bob Marley and Ray Charles.

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Aside from the whole issue of what our apparent fascination with "dead celebrities" says about us as a society, I wonder where all this money goes?

To lawyers and promotions people who continue to market this stuff? To the descendants or spouses of these Unalive Stars?

What about if all this money was put in a kitty and sent to the relatives of the dead in Lebanon or Darfur or any one of a million other forlorn places on the planet that are torn apart by war or hunger or sectarian violence?

But let's not be party-poopers. Who are your favourite Performers who've passed on to the Pearly Gates?

UNABASHED MALE ADOLESCENT FUN

THESE GUYS ARE NOT TERRORISTS.

They're just three young teenagers out to have some innocent fun.

A couple of weekends ago, on an unbelievably frigid early October Saturday morning, my son (on the left above, his friend Alex on the right) asked if I could "drive some of the guys out to paintballing."

The father who was scheduled to drive had some car trouble. I figure all parents have to chip in, so I said sure. It was only later I found out that the paintball place was an hour outside the city I live in.

So it ended up taking my entire afternoon, but I'm glad it turned out that way. Because I was able to witness my son having the same innocent kind of fun I had as a kid, when I played guns all the time.

I realize this is politically incorrect now.

In some people's minds.

And that there a lot of PC people out there who may be shuddering in horror at the thought I would let my son participate in an activity that involved TRYING to shoot his friends.

But these are GOOD kids. They aren't out to blow up skyscrapers or shoot their schoolmates to death. They just want to have some fun. And (gasp!), you know what?

For a 14-year-old male, shooting things harmlessly is FUN.

And I want my son to have fun with his friends in activities I know about, can think about and approve of. In this case, the activity was something a bunch of visiting German exchange students begged their hosts to do.

So we did it (well, not me, I just drove and froze, but I sure wouldn't have minded).

I got a chance to get to know of my son's friends better, to be part of their lives for a couple of hours, and show my son and his friends that he meant a lot to me and the friendship he shared with them meant a lot to me.

And here's the proof that fun was had by all.

R.R.I.P.

So my teen-aged son, in a bone-headed early career step on his way to becoming the world's next mega-star lead singer, loses the one pick I found for him to allow him to practise on my guitar.

First it falls into the acoustic guitar. I instruct him to turn the instrument upside down and shake it all around until the pick falls out.

He does that, the pick falls out, but he can't find it. It's gone. Then he drops the guitar on the floor.

I'm thinking can I be like The Who's Peter Townsend and bash it over his head?

I don't.

He's leaving in an hour for a band practice/sleepover at his friend Alex's place. He's in a "pick panic." I'm in a "Don't murder him just yet" dynamic.

They haven't even played a song yet far as I know, but they already have a name for their band: Final Crisis. I'm sending him a not too subtle message that this may be HIS final crisis.

I regain my composure. I start searching for the bag with the other picks I know I have in my apartment. Sift through the drawers. Check out my "junk I can't throw out" container.

Rustle through closets, empty storage boxes, go through the cabinet thingy where I keep all my books, board games, 18 sets of cards, cribbage boards and atlases, etc.

I notice a theme here. I can't find the damn picks, but I sure am finding a lot of remotes. TV remotes, VCR remotes, CD player remotes, generic replacements for those dead remotes.

At the end of it all, I find a total of 12 remotes, all past their prime or at least long ago left on my own personal scrap heap of technology. Gasp. It's a veritable Requiem for Remotes, a Testament to TV, and more.

Back to my son for a brief moment. I did find the bag of picks in my guitar case and he was able to get away for his gig with Final Crisis, although I have urged him to reconsider that name with his band mates.

I'm sure when he returns none of the five picks I found for him will return with him. But at least he can't say I didn't supply him with everything he needed when he left here.

But these remotes...there's something eerily strange about seeing them all bunched together, passed by, discharged of their duties, made obsolete by the purchase of other TVs or CD players or because they didn't work any more.

Just lying around, forgotten...no warm hands holding them, no thumbs pressing their up and down channel buttons, their mute controls, their on-off switches. They're dead, but they're still with me.

They haven't had a proper burial.

So I've lined them up next to each other.

I'm singing Amazing Grace.

May the Remotes Rest In Peace.