And in the end . . .

Well, there you have it. That's it. That's all. That concludes our entertainment programming. Almost every aspect of my life carefully contrived, meticulously manufactured, sliced into edible pieces and laid upon the table for your kind consumption. I hope you enjoyed some of the content. I hope you found a tear, a sympathy, a revelation, an honesty, but most importantly, I hope you found a laugh, a chuckle, a chortle, or a grin. For that is what life is truly worth. And in the end, it is the only thing truly worth living 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" - David Christopher.

"If Christopher never writes another book in his life, it'll be too soon. His egomaniacal and egocentric first person tripe is enough to make you choke on "Canadian" authorship." - review by a colleague to a publisher I approached who quoted it to me before definitively rejecting my book idea - I think I quoted him correctly

"A [work of art] is never completed, it is only abandoned" - George Lukas.

See you in hell,
Shakes.

Cinquo de Mexico

An e-mail I sent to Marianne on my first day in Mexico on my fifth trip to that country:

"Day 1: Whilst sitting alone in the booth at the edu-fair, I was approached by a blonde man in his fifties whom I had observed speaking fluent Spanish in the adjacent cafe earlier. He promptly introduced himself in fluent American English, sat himself down and engaged me in conversation. Our interaction revealed that he was from Kansas, and I slowly recognized the subtle idiosyncratic behaviour that is occasionally characteristic of a gay man who is accustomed to keeping it secret. I also slowly began to realize that he was coming on to me. Part of our conversation somehow landed on his childhood in a Catholic family.
"No, I´m not Catholic anymore. Can you guess why?"
"Yes, Chris, I think I have an idea."
His disappointment at discovering I was not gay was apparent and he stormed off in what I could only describe as a ´huff´.
Later, on the way back to the hotel, Rudy and I stopped at a little roadside food joint called ´Beef´. I was in some urgent need for a bathroom which, of course, they didn´t have. A little negotiating by Rudy and the ´guy´ (who could not be described with such a lofty title as maitre´d) told Rudolfo to have me follow his waiter. Curiously, I did so, and we went out through the back to the dumpster beside the car dealership next door and he clandestinely directed me to the back corner to pee, where the stench made it fairly obvious that their staff made regular use of this locale. "Whatever doesn´t kill you, only makes you . . . stranger." Bienvenido a Mexico - el tiempo cinquo.

She is BEAUTIFUL! Thank you for the pictures. As "insensitive" as I am, there is no man on earth who experiences the anguish I do in every tiny moment that I am not with my daughter and her beautiful mother."

Sadly, and with some regret, changes in my life, and decisions I find myself in the process of making, makes it highly probable that this will be my last trip to Mexico, at least in my capacity in my career as a TESL educator. What I have come to learn, however, is that every change in life is followed by the unexpected, not the expected; every intention manifests its consequences differently than we imagine; and every ending, no matter how melancholy or invasive, is followed by a new beginning. On this day that I offer my mother very deep sympathies for her loss, I encourage her to believe with me that, although never as expected, the adventure is not over yet.

I will be home soon, my dear. And as is true every day that you wake up next to me, I will be a little different than the last time you saw me.

See you in . . . well, just see you.
Shakes.

Poochy

When I was 18 years old I met my best friend.
I had just moved in with my new-found genetic mother and was on a reflective melancholy drive when I happened by the Ottawa Humane Society - the equivalent to the SPCA here in the west. I decided that I might go in and inquire after walking a dog. When I went inside, I was informed that dog-walking was only done at certain times and that I would have to go through a lengthy registration process to get on the list. I forewent that, but asked if I could just go in and visit the condemned. The room was a caged cacophony: a wall-to-wall prison for unwanted puppies who all were making a desperate plea for freedom and life. My heart sunk into its normal misanthropy and I steeled against the sadness and injustice before me. I turned towards the door and vowed never to come back when something unexpected caught my eye. A single cage, at eye level, which seemed empty, had a noticeable cardboard label on the front. "My name is 'Star' because of the white star on my chest. I am the runt of a litter of eleven and I have been very sick. I have already been in a foster home but I was too sick to stay. I probably won't live very long so I am not up for adoption." I peered inside and this tiny, cowering little black lab shelty mix was shivering alone at the back of the cage. Unlike the other puppies, this little dog was silent and serene - as though it knew the end was nigh, waiting for the inevitable. I unlocked the cage to reach in and pet him but didn't need to. No sooner was it open, but the little dog shakily wobbled towards me, crawled right up my arms and fell fast asleep nuzzled into my neck. I walked out to the front desk and told them I was taking this dog.
"I'm sorry sir, but that dog is not available. You see, the cost is still $125.00 no matter what dog you take. This dog won't live for more than a couple of weeks. I can't sell it to you in good conscience."
I laughed at the inhumanity (ironic word) of a person hired to care for animals but realized that his heart had probably steeled long ago to the tragedy he faces every day and that he was just being pragmatic. I threw $125 cash on to the counter - a sum I really couldn't afford which my mother graciously paid me back as an Easter present - and said, "Here's for your good conscience. If he lives two weeks, that's about $62 bucks a week. Money well spent for his life," and I walked out.

Eleven years later, Poochy died in my arms on New Year's Eve millennium having lived a healthy and happy life. Advanced liver cancer took hold and brought him down in only five short months. There was nothing I could have done. I know this because my beloved sister worked as a veterinarian's assistant at the time and she graciously paid for a full autopsy and cremation. His urn still resides on my mantle.
Actually, he died on December 30, 1999 in the morning, but when I tell it I always say New Year's Eve millennium. Although off by a day, it adds a certain necessary romance to the story. I held him close to his last breath.
If there is any sort of heaven in the afterlife, both of which I doubt, I will likely be unwelcome - and want no part of it anyway. The christians can have it. But Poochy will surely be there, and I have my conversation with St. Peter well planned.
"Just give me the dog and I'll leave in peace. You'll know him because he'll be kept close company by an angry looking cat a'goes by the name of Vernon."
And since my life on earth has seen enough to leave no threat of suffering to be afeard in hell, my dog and our cat will quite happily spend the hereafter exploring the Elysium fields of a purgatory that is all the heaven I desire.
"Keep your eternal wings - whether fiery leather or heavenly feather, I want for neither. Just give me the dog."

See you in hell,
Shakes.