Lifetime Sentences

By Jim Hagarty
1993

As I rush around at 6:30 a.m. every day, getting ready for work, I sometimes look over at my cat sitting like the Sphinx on a hot-air register under the kitchen window, warming up for her day’s activities too, and I envy her her life. Not that I wish my favourite sport was chasing down mice and chewing their heads off as she does from time to time. Nor do I wish I belonged to someone who stands seven times taller than me or weighs 20 times more. And I can’t say I’m ever struck by a desire to bust my teeth eating kibble out of a clay bowl on the floor every half hour, day after day, although it must be nice not to have to set the table or wash dishes. I also wouldn’t give much for the ability to run up and down a tree whenever I want.

No, the reason I sometimes wish I could trade places with Grumbles has nothing to do with wanting to do the things she can do. I just, now and then, envy the simplicity of her life. She has no bills to pay, no licences to renew and no eavestroughs to clean out and doesn’t have to be anywhere on time. As far as I can see, she has no regrets, no fears (except of dogs) and no enemies (except dogs) and couldn’t care less that she too, like the rest of us, is growing older day by day. Her days are carefree but structured and she is a true creature of habit that does what she needs to do and lets the rest go.

Grumbles lives by a few basic principles that guide her days and keep her more or less content. Somewhere along the line, she declared war on running shoe laces and attacks them whenever they venture into her territory. She can wrestle with a lace for half an hour every day and never lose interest.

Though no laces I’ve ever seen have gotten up and chased her through the house, she creeps up on them from behind chairs as if they were somehow possessed with the power and desire to kill cats.

My cat also believes she must lay claim to every small space that presents itself such as an open suitcase, dresser door or closet. She finds cardboard boxes especially irresistible and must hop into every one. Once inside, she assumes a meditative pose, not unlike one of those transcendental yogi guys. She sits in her box like Cleopatra on her throne and looks as if she is receiving communications from some cat god in the sky.

Also of vital importance to this 10-pound lump of fur with the pointy ears and the chainsaw-sharp claws are slippers. Leather preferred but cloth will do. If she thinks she has a purpose in life, other to maim and kill all the wildlife not of her species, I’m sure it’s to destroy slippers. At this, she is a true artist. It is breathtaking to watch her work.

So, from shoe laces to shoe boxes to shoe leather, my cat’s days are full. She has other diversions, ranging from lying on every horizontal torso she can find, knocking the whiskers off the other cat which lives at my place and shredding paper towels into a hundred pieces. She also has this love-hate thing with upholstery which I’d like to discuss if the subject wasn’t still too emotional for me.

But at the end of each day, she’s dog tired (or whatever) and falls asleep on a blanket on the couch with a look on her puss (or whatever) which is a picture of perfect peace. After all, she knows tomorrow there’ll be all the old shoe laces to pursue and with any luck, someone will drop in and there’ll be a new set. There’ll be a cardboard box or even a paper bag someone will bring home from the store. And then, those ever-present slippers will still be ever-present.

And on the really good days, a mouse with a chewable head will wander by when she’s on her rounds outside.

Except for the part about the decapitated rodent, it all sounds pretty good to me.

A college class was told they had to write a short story in as few words as possible. The instructions were: The short story had to contain the following three things. 1. Religion; 2. Sexuality; 3. Mystery.

Here is the only A+ answer in the entire class, written by a woman:

“Good God, I’m pregnant; I wonder who did it.”

An elderly couple had just learned how to send text messages on their cell phones. The wife was a romantic type and the husband was more of a no-nonsense, to-the-point kind of guy. One afternoon the wife went out to meet a friend for coffee. She decided to send her husband a romantic text message and she wrote: “If you are sleeping, send me your dreams. If you are laughing, send me your smile. If you are eating, send me a bite. If you are drinking, send me a sip. If you are crying, send me your tears. I love you.” The husband texted back to her: “I’m on the toilet. Please advise.”

By Jim Hagarty
2014

Sometimes life is hard for the human male. I won’t go through the list of ways it sucks but, you know, breadwinning, hiding emotions, early death, and all that, not to even start on baldness, bellies and bad breath. I think about these things every day and feel badly about my plight as a man.

But after learning today about the life – more specifically the sex life – of a certain kind of spider, the name of which I can’t remember, I am feeling a little better about myself. These guys are a little over-the-top sex-crazed, in other words, normal males, but lovemaking for them is a bit riskier than to remember to buy some protection. The problem is, their girlfriends, after it’s all over, literally eat their lovers (I said, literally).

So if you want to have sex with one of these hotties, and these guys really do want to, you have to have a strategy if you don’t to “die in her arms tonight” as one pop singer once ridiculously sang. The strategy that sometimes works is to get the hell out of there as soon as it’s all over. This is not easy, but can be accomplished. However, these spiders have two penises which might sound like a good thing but when you’re trying to make a run for it, could slow you down. Especially since these penises are located on the spider’s head.

“Hey, is that a tophat Fred or are you just happy to see me?” they might be heard to be asked.

“Eff off,” replies Fred.

However, and we may as well stick with Fred from now on, Fred does the nasty and then, to get away from his lover and would-be consumer, chews off his penises and runs away as fast as he can. How you can chew off your penises when they are located on your head is a mystery but I guess spiders know how to do that.

Now, if, after all that, Fred could just go home and have a shower, apply a bit of polysporin and sit down to read his favourite book, Itsy Bitsy Spider, that would be fine. But instead, after he turns around, head all bloody and suddenly penis-less, he has to viciously fight off a long line of other males who just can’t wait to get in on this action. Because Fred’s penises are still inside his lover and doing their job of impregnating her even though Fred has left the building, and if his two former members are interrupted, no baby Freddies next spring.

Out of four males spiders who go a courtin’, only one makes it out alive, if penis-less. But I have to be honest, I think Fred’s life probably just got a whole lot better now that romance is off the table.

Now, as bad as all this is, it could be worse. There is a caterpillar somewhere out there that has to contend with a wasp which stings it and eats it and this guy’s only hope is to fling his poop as far away from him as possible so that the bee won’t find him. In human terms, that would be like throwing your bowel movements 75 feet away from you while lying on your belly on the ground.

Oh, what the heck, my life as a male seems rather quiet and uneventful, you know, so no more complaints from me. It’s Fred that has the real headaches even if his head is lighter than before. But at least he won’t get called a dickhead any more. (Ya, I went there.)

By Jim Hagarty
2017

A few years ago, I bought a wonderful 36-inch HD Panasonic tube TV on the Internet for $100. I drove 40 miles to pick it up. The seller and his buddy loaded it in my van. When I got home, two family members and I tried and almost failed to get the darned thing from the van into our garage, it was that heavy and awkward.

The TV was destined for the rec room in the basement. I didn’t dare ask a friend or neighbour to help me move it there as I didn’t want any predictable injuries to these helpers to be on my conscience. Out of options, I hired a mover to do the job. That cost me another $104. Two skinny guys who would blow away in a strong wind showed up and hauled the blasted thing downstairs like they were carrying a big feather cushion.

A couple of years later, I spied a smaller version of the same TV, this one measured 32 inches, in a second-hand store. Perfect for the shed. I plunked down $25 and prepared to haul it home. The store assigned a 75-pound guy who looked like he’d skipped his Grade 4 classes that day to help me. From the store to the van, we dropped the TV once. Somehow, we got it into the vehicle.

Once home, I got a wheelbarrow and with the help of my son, we hauled the thing down our walkway and into the shed. Plugged it in. It worked great and served perfectly the next couple of years. This summer, it became redundant and my son and his buddy moved it into the garage.

“We’re not moving it again,” came the announcement. So there it sat, completely in the way, for the next few months. And I worried about it every day.

Finally, I offered it for free online. There was immediate interest from a couple of people. I warned them it was a monster to move.

A young guy, of normal size, showed up for his prize. I told him I couldn’t help him move it into his van, as I was an ancient person, and that he would have to get a friend.

“Well, let me see,” he said, before picking up this gigantic boat anchor and walking it to his car like he was carrying a baby’s empty carseat.

“Wow, it is a bit heavy,” he remarked.

And as he drove away, I thought to myself, heavy is in the eye of the beholder, I guess.

I hope someday he is available to move the deadweight still sitting in the corner of my rec room. I’d rather torch the house, I think, and hope for some insurance than pay another $104 to move it.

By Jim Hagarty
2006

One night last week I watched a terrific musical event – the induction of Anne Murray and Leonard Cohen into the Canadian Songwriters’ Hall of Fame.

The tributes to Cohen, which made up the biggest part of the CBC show (perhaps because Anne Murray is not a songwriter) were especially stirring. This was a bit of a surprise for me because somewhere in the back of my mind I still associated Leonard Cohen with a torturous book of poetry I had the distinct misfortune to have to suffer through during an English literature appreciation course in university. I did not appreciate it. This was supposed to be a “bird” course, but it ended up being tough, thanks in part to Leonard’s very difficult book, Beautiful Losers. I never thought I was particularly stupid, but I couldn’t seem to understand a thing this guy wrote down, though everybody else around me seemed to get him just fine.

Later on, Leonard Cohen took up writing popular music and while his lyrics still sounded like something someone might scratch with a stone on the wall of a Third World prison while serving a 99-year sentence for spitting on the sidewalk, I found myself warming up to the Montreal poet to whom smiling seemed like a completely foreign act. Then 10 years ago I saw him perform his song called Tower of Song on TV and I was captivated. This guy is good, I realized that night without doubt.

But the years drifted by and I didn’t pay much attention to Leonard Cohen, except for what I’d read about him periodically in the papers. Then came last week’s show and three great musicians performed three of their favourite Cohen songs. Willie Nelson did a great version of Bird on a Wire. And k d lang was simply amazing with her stunning rendition of Hallelujah, as she hit notes no one should have been able to reach. But the best song of the night was performed by a young artist named Rufus Wainwright who marched onto the stage confidently and nailed Cohen’s Everybody Knows.

“Everybody knows that the war is over/Everybody knows that the good guys lost.” Wow! Fortunately, l taped the show and so watched the whole thing again before going to bed Friday night. Saturday afternoon, I put the tape back in and watched Wainwright’s Everybody Knows four more times. Unbelievable.

All that day, I kept humming the song in my head, “Everybody knows that the war is over/Everybody knows that the good guys lost.” What a song! It was about supper time, l guess, that I realized what the effect of watching Rufus Wainwright sing Everybody Knows four times in a row can be. And for the rest of that night, this is all that ran through my head.

“Everybody knows that the war is over/Everybody knows that the good guys lost.”

From time to time, that was interrupted by the chorus: “Everybody knowwwws/Everybody knowwwws/That’s how it goessss/And everybody knowwwws.”

Leonard Cohen, Rufus Wainwright and I spent all evening together and I’m afraid to say, all went to bed together too. I tried to get away from them but they weren’t going anywhere.

Sunday morning came, and I woke up all alone. A few clear-minded hours went by and around noon, I suddenly remembered that I had been obsessed with a song the day before. What was that song, I smiled to myself. Oh yeah: “Everybody knows that the war is over/Everybody knows that the good guys lost.” Back it all came, double.

It is Tuesday night now as Leonard, Rufus and I write this story and there is no sign a separation is on the horizon. But that’s how it goessss. And everybody knowwwws!

By Jim Hagarty
2017

I wish I could remember the days when I had a memory.

People tell me, it is a handy thing to have. And I believe them.

I was building a skating rink in the backyard and needed a new water wand. So I went to the hardware store and bought a nice one for $20. The first night I used it, I left it outside and it froze to death. Hooked to the hose, it blew water in 25 directions at once, like fireworks.

So, back to the hardware store where I bought the same water wand. Another $20.

Come spring, the rink was long gone. One day I was cleaning up the garage, and there I found the broken water wand. So I put it out with the garbage.

Unfortunately, I had already discarded the broken one shortly after its demise, apparently.

So, I threw out the good one too, thinking it was the dud, that I had already junked.

And now it’s skating rink time again. I just got back from the hardware store with my third water wand. But the hardware store owner saw me coming, I guess, cause he put the price up to $27.

Yes, it’s true. My mind tends to WANDer.