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I love writing long, rambling, stream-of-consciousness pieces built around one word, like love.

By Kevin Somers
Published September 04, 2012

"I love my bike. I love cycling. I love Hamilton..." This quote was pulled from a Raise The Hammer comment, earlier this summer. I love it.

Love, of course, is an involuntary feeling that completely overwhelms; a deep, emotional, inexplicable attachment: I love my daughters.

Love is also a useful term for expressing fondness for something less: I love Beer.

Love is good for sarcasm, too: I love Gary Bettman.


I love my bike, too. It was love at first sight. I was driving by Central Cycle on King St East and saw it in the window. It's durable, has one speed and coaster brakes.

I love low-to-no maintenance machines, animals, and humans.

I love cycling. I'd love it more if it were safer. I love bike lanes and would love to see more. Riding a bike is such a simple pleasure.

I love simplicity.

I love E. B. White, who loved Henry David Thoreau, who said simplicity is the key to happiness.

I love writing simple, 50-word poems.

Thoreau Nailed It

If you desire a natural high
A springy step and twinkling eye
Stop chasing a pie that is up in the sky
Stop dreaming of things you'd like to buy
Take your devices and bid them goodbye
It might not be easy, but give it a try:
Simply, simplify, simplify

I was chagrined to hear that privileged, professional golfers with obsequious, amateur drivers, (con)descending from Ancaster, considered Hamilton to be inhabited by zombies. It's not true. We're alive and kicking our way out of the grave, in this city. I heart Hamilton.

Everybody loves music. I used to love Hamilton's Festival of Friends, but it moved to Ancaster and Ancaster scares the living-dead out of me. The generic, moribund quality of housing, buildings, neighbourhoods, vehicles, lifestyle, and mindset makes me suspect they're many zombies in Ancaster.

I love my big, beautiful, bouncy, (certainly-delicious) brain and will not risk having it eaten by Ancaster zombies; Spin Doctors be damned.

Human strainers, I love sarcasm, satire, send-up, self-deprecation, silly, slapstick, smack, spin, spoof, straight-man, sit-com, and stand-up. No humour, no love, baby.

I love writing long, rambling, stream-of-consciousness pieces built around one word, like love.

I love writing dialogue, too. I was part of the Play Writers' Unit at Theatre Aquarius, this year, and loved it. I've started a new play; it's a romantic comedy (rom-com). I hate rom-coms, but my girls love them, so what the heck. You'd think the world would have had enough of silly rom-coms, but I here I go, again.

Paul McCartney thought the world had had enough of silly loves songs, but there he went, again. I don't love Silly Love Songs. I like songs about guns, however. Fred Eaglesmith has some beauties, like Pistols and Rifles. I love that song.

Who doesn't love trains? I'd love to see LRT efficiently, quietly gliding through the Hammer.

I'd love to see Fred Eisenberger in the Mayor-Chair, again.

In a time of financial crisis, when enrollment is decreasing, and they're closing schools, I'd love to know why Hamilton's school boarders have outgrown their old digs and are getting a new, full-glitz palace far from poor, needy children, they claim to love.

I love a good meal. I love it more when someone else makes it.

I love new and used words. I love stay-cations. A perfect day is spent in the garden, with the trees, bushes, shrubs, vines, and plants I love. Once a concrete jungle, our small yard is now a Canadian one. I love it.

Canadian jungle
Canadian jungle

The earth loves it, too; I can tell. It's been liberated and is performing its intended purpose, lovingly.


I love the wisteria growing over the pergola. The vine grows like a weed and needs to be pruned, regularly. As with creating, maintenance is a labour of love.

I love starting the day on the deck, under the canopy, with the Hamilton Spectator, black coffee, and hope.

Butterfly 1
Butterfly 1

Butterfly 2
Butterfly 2

I love the butterfly bush and the butterflies, birds, and bees it attracts. I love most of the animals and insects that pass through our yard, now. I don't love hornets and wasps and they don't love me, evidently. I'm not fond of the huge raccoons, that growl at our pets and rifle the garbage, either.


I love the deck-bed. I loved sleeping outside, until the "raccoon incident." I use the bed for afternoon naps, now. Nocturnal, raccoons are not likely to trespass in the daytime and I like to rest in peace, not pieces.

I love naps.

I love old, comfortable clothes.

Whenever my friend, Florence, visits with her grandsons, we hang out in the pool, enjoy Beer, and talk about everything. She, recently, introduced the concept of "regenerative" writing. I love it.

I love projects, especially when they involve Beer and power tools.

I love the new bike shed.

Bike shed
Bike shed

I love this carving.


Jessie Kovacs gave it to me. Jessie owned an antique and collectables store on Locke St (it is now the cheese shop). Filled with crazy stuff, I loved walking around Jessie's store. I loved it more when he'd tell off rude customers. We need more of that. We were chatting and strolling, one day, when I saw the carving and said, "I love that."

Jesse pulled it off the shelf and said, "You can have it."

Last year, Jessie was murdered. God love him.

Tractor light
Tractor light

I found an old tractor light and seat rusting in a field doomed by developers. I went to Steel City Surplus, on Dundurn, for paint and found a can of "John Deere Yellow."

I love Steel City Surplus.

John Deere Yellow
John Deere Yellow

I love the colour.


I love stuff.


I love thrift.

I love Value Village.

I love local produce. The Niagara Fruit Belt is right over there, yet we recently bought a jar of pickles and discovered it was a product of India. I'd love to know how it got so off course.

Erin and Eva
Erin and Eva

I love this picture. It's my daughter in her first year of soccer. She's with her new friend, Eva, and Eva's father, "Coach" Paul. Eleven years later, the girls are still teammates and friends and Paul's their coach. You gotta love amateur sports.

Who didn't fall in love with Christine Sinclair and her teammates, this summer?


I love this piece. My friend, Jim, gave it to me. He gave me a little tree, too.


I love trees.

Everybody loves Jim, who also goes by: James, Jamie, Jimmy, Jimbo, Jimmer, The Jimmer, and, when he gets hoity-toity, Upper James. Jim's had some painful, unmentionable problems, recently, so I wrote him a 50, to cheer us both up.

James South?

He's got a problem with his butt?
Deep inside is a painful cut?

There's a slash up in his ass?
And now it hurts him to pass gas?
Was our Jimmy eating glass?

He has a slice up his hoop?
And it really hurts him to go poop?

Not positive

Jim and me loved it. Upper James didn't.

I love my daughters, who are, suddenly, teenagers. They took these pictures. I love'em. It's not a myth, teenagers love sleep. My girls love their texting things, too. I don't get it, but they're happy and I love when they're happy.

Far Side: Beware of Doug
Far Side: Beware of Doug

I loved the Far Side. Twenty-some years ago, I saw this one and vowed to name my dog Doug, one day.


All my dream came true. He was worth the wait. Everybody loves Doug, who is also known as: Dougie, Big Fella, Mr. Handsome, Big Handsome, and Chief Inspector Handsome. Everyone who comes to our door gets an enthusiastic crotch-sniff from Doug, who loves meeting new friends.

We got both our dogs at the SPCA. My sister's family just adopted a loving, lovable, lovely dog from them, too: Francine. I love the SPCA.

Our dogs love walks and lose their minds at the first hint of one. I love walking, too.

Exercise, discipline, and self-control help you love yourself.

I love the Bruce Trail, especially when it's raining or cold, because the crowd gets thinner. I used to worry if I wrote or talked about the trail too lovingly too often, more people would use it, but nope.

I love solitude.

Every August, we go to the Fred Eaglesmith Charity Picnic. It's a beautiful drive to a beautiful park with great music and polite people for 3 days of blissful camping. I love it.

The event is, essentially, organized and put together by three people. I love efficiency and the calm it creates.

As with the Bruce Trail, I used to worry word would get out and a million people would show up and spoil the Fred weekend, so I never told many people or wrote about it. I've realized, however, nobody cares what I love.

I wrote a poem about it, anyway: guess what it's called.


Love is my dog, who's happy I'm back
Love is my mother, who makes me a snack
Love is the light, that seeps through a crack

Love is behaving just as you should
Love comes from doing the best that you could
Love means you're doing the greatest of good

Love is laughing, often and loud
Love is just me, away from the crowd
Love's in the garden, with my head in a cloud

Love is the feeling, when I get something done
Love are my daughters, whom I love like a son
Love starts to flow, when I start to run

Love gets me through; it helps me to cope
Love is kindness, love is hope
Love is still there, at the end of my rope

Love helps to heal; it helps me to mend
Love is the smile I get from a friend
Love is receiving the signals they send

Love is the drug that soothes my whole soul
Love is the pride that comes from control
Love takes two halves and makes them a whole

Love's an old mitten, that fits like a glove
Love is a baby, who coos like a dove
Love is a gift, that comes from above



Kevin Somers is a Hamilton writer.


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[ - ]

By Kaufman (anonymous) | Posted September 05, 2012 at 04:52:48

Charlie: There was this time in high school. I was watching you out the library window. You were talking to Sarah Marsh.

Donald: Oh, God. I was so in love with her.

Charlie: I know. And you were flirting with her. And she was being really sweet to you.

Donald: I remember that.

Charlie: Then, when you walked away, she started making fun of you with Kim Canetti. And it was like they were laughing at *me*. You didn't know at all. You seemed so happy.

Donald: I knew. I heard them.

Charlie: How come you looked so happy?

Donald: I loved Sarah, Charles. It was mine, that love. I owned it. Even Sarah didn't have the right to take it away. I can love whoever I want.

Charlie: But she thought you were pathetic.

Donald: That was her business, not mine. You are what you love, not what loves you. That's what I decided a long time ago.

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By core-b (registered) | Posted September 05, 2012 at 14:00:27

What a wonderful journey in this Love post. Thanks Mr. Summers.

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[ - ]

By Kevin (registered) | Posted September 05, 2012 at 23:21:11

Hey Dubya: Thanks. Much love 2U2.

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[ - ]

By dMurk (anonymous) | Posted September 08, 2012 at 00:19:15

Kevin is a super awesome writer and i LOVE everything about everything above. so many beautiful nuggets in there ....thank you!

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