People write about a lot of different things. Some people write about nature, the environment, space, the cosmos, or even the classification of different types of bird shit (”No, John, it may LOOK like an ordinary crow’s. But if you taste it, you’ll see it belonged to the Lesser Black-backed Gull.”) Still others write about war, famine, epidemics, quakes, plagues, and the imminent threat of nuclear annihilation.

My favourite topic when it comes to the mundane and the depressing, however, seems to be the stalwart public service provider who is apparently DEDICATED to giving me an unending stream of material to write about… the stalwart auto driver. (continue reading)

Though you may not guess to look at me, the Hamish persona has always been the kind of honest, law abiding citizen that people write songs about (like 'Bad bad Leroy Brown' No, wait… scratch that. It's not the theme I was looking for. Hmm… I can't think of anything right now, but I'm sure there are some songs that fit the bill.) I was probably never the ideal candidate for the Model Citizen of the Year award, but my heart's always been in the right place (in the middle of the thorax with the largest part slightly offset to the left). So it will be surprising for some to know that I was the direct accomplice of a motor-vehicle theft.

It is with a heavy heart (heavy, but still in the middle of the thorax with the largest part slightly offset to the left) that I shall now relate the incident which people have come to call GTS – (continue reading)

Entertainment has owned me for the better part of my life. Even when I was a toddler drooling on VHS tapes, my dad had to spend an unreasonable amount of time dragging me away from the TV. And if you think dragging a kicking and screaming Hamish away from a good movie is a walk in the park, you have a twisted view of what a park should be like.

Imitation is rumored to be the sincerest form of flattery, and I have often, in my own way, flattered many characters I have admired on screen. I’ve walked around looking cold and distant as a tribute to (continue reading)

Note: This write up describes some events leading to the creation of my tribute to House, M.D. You can see the flash image here...

Boys don’t cry. Nah. They may run into nasty boo boos and get mommy to kiss the wounds from time to time, but at least when they’re with his gang, boys do NOT cry. And men. They do not cry. Ever! Nope. They can’t cry. The tear glands are there for decoration only.

Imagine Lois Lane running to Superman for cover from Lex Luthor and Superman bursting into tears. He’ll be the laughing stock of the superhero community. It won’t be long before Batman asks him, “Hey, water-eyes. Does that S on your chest stand for ‘Super’ or ‘Sissy’?” and (continue reading)