McToast

Some of the most hilarious moments in life are just that - moments. If one should happen to be as cynical as I am, these moments tend to occur all too frequently in the hilarity of offense inadvertently given to people innocently in my path: a function of a personality that is too verbose and too candid.
The other day, Marianne and I took to one of our frequent visits to McDonald's. Yeah, yeah, yeah, . . . I know - "that's gross", "so unhealthy", "Do you know what's in that stuff!?" Blah blah blah. I can read the sensational internet tabloids as well as the next guy but before it became a multi-national corporate target of every leftist vegan hippy on the planet, it was just another burger joint, and ultimately that shit tastes sooooooooo goooooooood when you're hungry that I have long since stopped counting that small evil amongst my sins because I assure you that my reckoning in hell will have a long list of far greater weights of concern.
I digress.
Anyways, as Marianne waited in line, I sprinted off for a much needed visit to the lavatory. After completing my bathroom transaction, unlike most of the disgusting male half of our species, I washed my hands. Just as I reached for some paper towel, someone else entered the washroom behind me. I paid little heed to him, as you might expect, and I noticed that the paper towel dispenser was empty. I reached for the other paper towel dispenser only to discover it was also empty. Frustrated, I entered one of the stalls and attempted the always less-than-satisfying effort to dry my hands with one-ply bulk-purchased toilet paper. The toilet paper roll was also empty. As I emerged from the stall wiping my hands on the front of my pants, the fellow who had entered after me verbalized his observation that there was not any paper towel. Without looking up, I offered an honest response. "Yeah, well, what do ya expect? It doesn't take an I.Q. much higher than toast to get a job at McDonald's." The pregnant silence that ensued gave me cause to look up curiously. I found myself face to face with what would have been an indignant expression on a man of any other vocation but instead was met by the confused expression of the Poster Boy of McDonald's employees. He was not wearing a uniform but I sensed that he was imminently going to be. I paused and realized my faux pas. Then I proceeded in typical fashion by further realizing that I didn't give a rat's ass if this guy was offended, or if he understood me, or if he had even heard me for that matter. My blank expression somehow both slowly and instantly turned into a half-cocked, awkward-moment frown of sorts followed by the sound of realization. "Eeeeeeeeeeuuuuuuuum. Riiiiiiiiiiight. Ya know what? Never mind." I rushed past him and back into the queue with Marianne.
Minutes later I spied the same fellow flipping burgers behind the very counter from which I was ordering. He was clearly completely oblivious to the offense I had accidentally given which was good for both of us. It was good for me because it saved me worrying that he had spit in my hamburger, and it was good for him because blissful ignorance is surely a happier place than offended indignance, especially at the beginning of a long and difficult shift at the golden arches. I told Marianne the tale and she had a good laugh when she looked at the guy - she is well known for being as sensitive as I am.
Upon visiting the lavatory one more time before leaving the establishment, I was not at all surprised to discover that there was still no paper towel nor toilet paper to be found.

See you in hell,
Shakes.

The Truth

Ultimately we all live two lives: the life we actually lead, replete with mundane realities, paying bills, earning a living, making dinner, using the toilet; and the life we dream of, filled with magic, and emotion, and adventure, and revisions - revisions of the reality, of the mundane, . . . revised with the magic of how we felt, not the mundane of what we did. Meeting a woman you love may be a boring story in reality, but in your heart it is a soaring epic tale of two hearts destined to come together after the romantic passage of oceans of time and incredible odds. It is a movie we play out in our minds with the most passionate kiss, the most unlikely romance, and the most exciting conclusion. In time, as we age, the puritanical definition of truth becomes far more subjective - and how we remember something is as important as how it really happened. Nay, it is far more important, and reality and imagination and memory all fuse into one glorious truth. Not a reality, but a truth. My children are not likely ever to know what my life was really like. But I surely hope they remember how I felt, how they made me feel, and how I lived every day in a romantic, fantastical theatre of emotion that may have been unreal, but it was surely the truth. I hope they love me enough to remember legend more than reality and make a myth out of the mundane father they actually had. For life is a work of art - a connected prose of comedy, tragedy, epic, horror, fantasy, aspiration and imagination. Mine was just a little more melodramatic than most. And in every memory there is a mountain of truth, and occasionally, a smattering of reality.

See you in hell,
Shakes.

Living VicaRORYously

The football year has been exciting! Don't get me wrong, here. I have not suddenly turned into some flag-toting, horn-honking, moronic sports fan having overnight completely lost my sense of decorum and disdain of idiocy. No, I simply have a son of whom I am VERY proud. And he likes football. And he plays football. In fact, he plays organized football for a team called the Oak Bay Vikings, atom division. And he's goooooooood! (Proud father notwithstanding)
Rory and I like to play catch and run plays on the grassy areas surrounding our home here at U-Vic Family Housing. He's actually duly impressed with his boring and intellectual old man's dexterity with the ball and I have been affording him the limited knowledge I have to supplement his training. There's never enough time and we don't get out to play or practice enough. Cat's in the Cradle, I guess.
This year during one of his games, Marianne and I had an ironic conversation by the sidelines. We were only loosely paying attention to the game as we had several other kids to attend to in the neighbouring park, but on the few occasions that Rory got some action, we paused to pay attention. In our ambivalent viewing I took a moment to scan about at the motley crew of parents that represent football sons. My normal gag reaction to such people kicked in as I listened to verbally illiterate comments spewed at the top of their lungs from the sidelines at children who couldn't hear and coaches who didn't care. I am usually a man of overwhelming disdain, but sports fans as parents is a mix with which I seem to take particular issue. I commented to Marianne that nothing irritates me more than boorish and loud sports parents who are living vicariously through their children and I idly strolled towards the field sideline. Then it happened.
The moment every proud father awaits, even if he has a disdain for sports. The ball went up in a perfect arc. The quarterback had thrown a genuinely good pass. Rory was in the clear and ahead of the crowd. Surely it was a touchdown pass. With the defense only steps behind him and running full tilt, he stretched out his arms as the ball descended perfectly towards him. It was glorious. A lifetime of athletic dreams that I never had flashed before my eyes. Visions of our practicing in the field flooded my memory. Fantasies of him thanking me on Father's Day for all my training that turned him into a football star abounded. And all in the instant before the ball reached its goal. Time slowed. Rory's fingers reached out and I felt myself let loose an earth-shattering cheer while my arms raised in ecstatic triumph . . . but only too soon. The ball bounced gently, ever so lightly off his finger tips and to the ground in a definitively incomplete pass. The noise I was emitting didn't stop but turned from cheer to wail. I dropped to my knees. My raised hands fell to my eyes to cover and shield them from the horror.
"Nooooooooooooo!"
"Ahem." Marianne got my attention and I came to my senses. It seems my negative feelings had been projected into many of the other parents there who were all staring at me in awe, and disdain, and I think a little fear. I composed and excused myself and laughed at my own ironic fatherly egocentrism and hypocrisy. Rory later told me that he heard me from the field and had to explain to his team-members that his Dad was a little weird. I vowed I would not do that again.
But our best laid plans oft gang aglay and every player has a chance to redeem themselves. The final game of the season is one I had promised Rory I would not fail to attend. It was truly an exciting and well-matched game which came down to the final seconds of play to decide its outcome. Rory's team lost, but only by an excitingly slim margin. Once again, Rory played well. And it happened again, but even better.
The opposing team had the ball. The quarterback made the last second decision to go with a passing play. The ball was up and heading straight for the player against whom Rory was defending. But wait a minute, . . . wait a minute! The quarterback has misjudged. So has the receiver. Rory swoops in. I can see it coming but desperately keep silent. Then Rory cuts quickly to one side in front of the receiver and smoothly intercepts the ball. Oh my god! Perfect catch! Picked Off! It was glorious. I contained myself no longer, and as Rory bounded down the field I leapt from my lawnchair and hollered praise at the top of my lungs. So much for discretion and decorum. That was AWESOME Rory! Good job.

See you in hell,
Shakes.

More Taffan

He leaned back farther in the sun warmed grass and let the rays cover his body. It was a perfect balance of warm sun and cool breeze. It seemed nothing in the world could interrupt Taffan's refuge of serenity. He summarily decided that his idle state would be the perfect way to fill the entire afternoon and he lazily daydreamed about books and heroes and stories. Before long he could almost hear himself gently snoring away in the warm grass before he was truly fast asleep..
Abruptly he was startled awake. Had he dreamed it? The bright sunny sky visible over the clearing that was making the water sparkle, and the grass warm, and the trees bake had suddenly vanished. With eyes closed, Taffan was visibly only aware of a sudden darkness. In the instant that the darkness ascended, Taffan's big eyes had flashed open and the sunlight was as present as ever. A shadow had cast itself over Taffan's little piece of sunshine and disappeared as quickly as it had occurred. No cloud could have come and gone so abruptly. Was it something that had flown over? It must have been absolutely emormous to cast such a large and sudden shadow. Half asleep, startled, and confused, Taffan was surely ill at ease and it took him some moments to regain composure and catch his breath. He relaxed back in the grass again and relegated the incident in his mind to naught but sun exposed imagination, a silly dream, nothing more, and he found his little paradise intact once again.
His regained serenity would not last. No sooner had he become comfortable than three surly and burly soldiers of the King's private guard awkwardly thrust themselves through the brush and into the clearing. The largest of the three barked at him.
"Taffan!? Taffan Tingle!?"
Taffan bolted upright, rubbed his eyes, and resigned himself to the fact that this interruption would probably not be as brief as the shadow had been. His plans for the rest of the afternoon had decidedly absconded with the guards' intrusion. His frustration, however, was not outweighed by his timidity and fear in the face of the unfriendly looking guards who, bewilderingly, were looking for him!
"Y-y-yes. I-I-I'm Taffan Tingle."
"All elves are expected at the town counsel on this day. Why are you absent?"
"I-I-I-I don't know. I-I-I hadn't thought I was welcome, . . . or-or-or really missed."
"The king has business with you. Come along now."
"The King!?" Taffan was incredulous which momentarily endowed him with more confidence while confronting the three brutes. "Surely, you are mistaken. What business could the King possibly have for someone so ill-considered, and regularly ignored as myself. Why I'm sure the idea is perfectly ridiculous and I've been quite bullied and teased enough in my life. I'll thank you to take your cruel jest with you when you turn right about and leave me in peace. You might find its foolishness droll, but I assure you that I do not. Now, be gone!" Taffan's last meek attempt at sounding courageous and authoritative utterly failed him in its intended result. The guards' dangerous looking spears simultaneously descended from their erect vertical posture to a horizontal position, with three pointed ends aimed squarely at him. He sighed and took silent note in his mind that attempts at verbal bravery from the meek rarely carry the desired psychological effect on those not intelligent enough to be tricked by reverse psychology. The lead guard barked again.
"No jest, Taffan. The King wishes to see you, yes YOU. NOW! MOVE!"
Taffan was still absolutely certain that there had been some ridiculous mistake made but realized fully that it would not be resolved by arguing with the guards. He scurried about on his knees to collect the few books he had scattered about into his arms, brought himself to his feet, and attempted to stand as tall as he could next to the three large guards.
"Fine then. Let's get this mockery done with quickly. Lead on."
The three guards stumbled and fumbled and bumped into one another and succeeded in doing nothing more than proving that none of them had any idea which way to return. Taffan sighed again.
"Nevermind, then. Follow me," and all four of them traipsed heartily into the thick wood in the direction of the King's castle, a direction that obviously only Taffan knew. And unbeknownst to himself, Taffan left behind his little forest solace for much longer than he would ever have imagined.

See you in hell,
Shakes.

Dad would be proud . . .

Scene Shop – Reflective Summary

Any attempt to reflect back on my ‘year’ of work in the scene shop is already marred by the fact that the work I have done has spanned over two years and subject to my lacking memory. Furthermore, the work I have done was mainly in the areas of set striking and shop maintenance, which is distinctly different than the work involved in building sets. Nevertheless, I was afforded the opportunity to do some building, and the tasks of striking and cleaning proved surprisingly educational.
I spent long hours simply sorting screws. This task would be considered menial by many, but represents a necessary part of the team work. Somebody must do the cleaning and, moreover, it is tasks such as these that afford an intimate knowledge of the scene shop that is often overlooked by many. I am now perhaps one of the few that is closely familiar with screw sizes, and where to put them away. It is minutiae of this sort that I found myself having to ask about in my first term, but now I am in the know. Similarly, I have learned how to use the paint rack, and other less glamorous details of the shop.
Even though I missed out on some of the more exciting set building, Charles did afford me the opportunity to help him install the extension of the stage in the Bishop for the fashion show, and to build a dolly for scrap wood disposal. Both of these tasks showed me the simple details of construction that are inherent to any building task. Charles directed me and then left me largely to my own auspices in building the dolly, including the installation of caster, which was both fun and rewarding. Furthermore, the laborious task of rolling wood to the dumpster takes on a surprisingly more fulfilling pride when one is using a dolly that one has built themselves, especially when it works effectively.
Another benign task that proved to be a lot of fun was striking the set for Medea. Ultimately, I spent all of my time unscrewing screws with an electric drill. While the other younger students seemed to revel in the destructive use of sledgehammers for smashing set pieces to bits, I found that I quite enjoyed the task of locating and unscrewing screws. There are small intuitions that one learns in so doing, such as the logistics of where to begin so that unscrewed set pieces do not collapse in a dangerous way, and simply how to remove a screw that has the spindle portion out of the wood already. I actually demonstrated to another student, who had more experience in the shop than I, how to put wood pressure behind it to gain the necessary leverage, and then the screw comes out quite easily. In fact, that and the task of building the frame for the bug screen on the Medea set, I found that many of the younger students looked to me as a senior and surprisingly, my modest skills often proved to be intuitively correct, and occasionally superior to those with whom I was working. As such, I learned to have faith in my own abilities a little more, while still recognizing the need to defer to Charles’ wisdom for some things that should have been intuitive and left me feeling foolish. For example, I learned the hard way that the proper way to hold a ladder for someone is not to place your hand on the foot-step!
Reflecting on the course theory is a wide task. Certainly, I learned more about the details of carpentry than I would have expected, and I did so from the highly interesting perspective of building sets for theatre. I imagine that learning carpentry from the perspective of building houses, or curing wood, would be far less interesting and highly repetitive. Of the many things I learned, some of the most salient, or at least the ones that stick out in my mind include, castering, set movement, types of flat construction, grades of wood, wood strength and the relevance of grain direction, and most importantly, cutting lists. I suspect that all of these, especially the last of them, will prove useful in my everyday workings as a father of a large family, and in my newly improved ability to perhaps build things that previously I would have had to have bought. Most importantly, however, was the opportunity to learn about and use the larger machinery in the shop. It is intimidating and represented a point of fear for me, but knowing the proper usage and safety has certainly bolstered my confidence. Perhaps I will be able to build a set one day, now that I am not so fearful and much more knowledgeable.

See you in hell,
Shakes.