Don't Touch My Moustache

New experiences are the spice of life they say. I never really knew who 'they' is. Nevertheless, in August of 2007, I was fortunate enough to recieve tickets to visit Japan for two weeks. The work I would be required to do was minimal so I would have most of the time in two weeks to simply explore and experience the culture. Let me assure you, that was quite an adventure. Language barriers go far beyond mere lingustics.
I visited Kyushu: the southern-most island of the three primary islands that make up the country. I would be working and residing mostly in the city of Kita-kyushu which is a suburb of the more internationally well-known city of Fukuoka. Its latitude is close to that of Florida and the average temperature while I was there was a stifling 37 degrees celsius. It actually got up to 40 degrees celsius one day which prompted me to say to my agent-host (Masahiro), "40 degrees is not an external temperature, man, it's a fucking oven setting. I could bake muffins out here!" He laughed and said that you get used to it. I think I single-handedly burned a hole in the ozone right over the house in which I was staying from the amount of high-powered air conditioning that I ran day and night.
While there, I visited an amusement park constructed by Nippon Steel Corp. called Space World. It had some pretty amazing roller coasters and a really cool Star Wars merchandise store. I bought a puzzle for Rory and I to do together. I enjoyed an afternoon on the beach, went spelunking in some of the most scenic and amazing caves the planet has to offer - granted, they were slightly modified for tourist enjoyment. I went shopping in malls that were built dozens of stories high, but not very wide. In fact, much of the commercial architecture is made in that fashion. As space is limited, everything goes up, instead of out as it does in Canada. I went to one of many amusement centres, that had diffferent activities on each floor: 1st was karaoke, 2nd was video games, 3rd was bowling, and so on upwards to the top floor, which was tennis. My greatest enjoyment was the cuisine which I explored both in restaurants and at Masa's home.
In fact, one of the first intersting incidents occurred at his home while I was learning some of the basic phrases that are used in Japan. I learned that there are various and very intricate levels of politeness to almost every utterance, especially 'thank you'. This, however, did not deter Masa from having a sense of humour. After trying out a version of 'thank you' following a delicious meal of ??? made by his wife, he responded with, "don't touch my moustache", and a huge smile. Of course, I did not understand but the phrase struck me as familiar. He explained that in Japanese, "you're welcome" is "doitashimashite". The phonetic similarity to the phrase "don't touch my moustache" is a joke that was played upon in the movie 'Toy Story 2' when the toy dealer was selling to a purchaser in Japan on the telephone.
We went bowling at the amusement centre several times. During any given round of bowling, occasionally the lights all go out and a very ridiculous attempt at an Americanized accent announcer comes on and shouts, "LET'S PLAY A FUN GAME!". Whomever is at their turn gets a chance to win a prize if they get a strike - one shot only. As it happens, the first time it occurred, it was my turn. Wouldn't you know it, I got a strike and won a set of bowling ball shaped speakers for my computer. The rest of the night was as much fun and we all left smiling. Several nights later, we went back for another round of bowling. Again the "FUN GAME" announcement occurred during my turn and I was lucky enough to get another strike! At this point, Masa looks at me and says, "Your butt is big!" Now this is the second international trip where my butt has unexpectedly come into the conversation so I was, of course, inquisitive.
"What!?!"
"Your butt", he says, "it has something that needs it big inside!"
"You're scaring me Masa. What the hell are you talking about?!"
"You know, . . . how you say? . . . your butt is all full of metal piece on bottom of horse leg. The shoe that horse wears."
"Ooooooooh!", I finally understood. "You mean "I have a horse-shoe up my ass, as in, I'm very lucky."
Yes, yes, that it!" He continued to grin a cheshire-cat-like/Japanese smile. I chuckled and said, "be careful with those English idioms or someone might get the very wrong idea."
He said, "Sank you, sank you for helpimg me wiss Engrish".
I politely said, "Don't touch my moustache."

See you in hell,
Shakes.

Just an Idea

God is an idea - an idea that encourages peace and love. God is an attempt to foster harmony with your fellow man for mutual gains and fulfilled living. God is NOT a tangible entity to whom one can pray or achieve heaven. God is what you make of him, primarily because you made him. Your book is not literal and ALL life is finite. God cannot save you. Only you can save you. God is merely a philosophy and mind-set that goes by many names and excludes none: Tao, God, Yaweh, Buddha, Alla, Gitchi Manitou, the Greek Pantheon, etc. The myths written about God to express philosophy have been misappropriated by religion and misinterpreted as gospel. They are not literal but rather metaphoric, and highly so: demons, saviour, hell, heaven, prophet, sin, redemption. They are all metaphors; they are all here (not after death); and they cannot be fully realized, but only experienced in the balance of life. They certainly cannot be attained as a goal or the end of a journey by following some set of proscribed and punitive rules. So the next time some christian complains that I don't know god because I won't blindly obey their misguided interpretations, I will have to say, "On the contrary. I know god very well and many of him, but you only know one. I know god better than you!"
Knowledge is the new God.
Religion is the new zealot.
The 'christian' is the new heretic. Thank GOD!
When I give a thumbs up to Bill Maher and a thumbs down to Sarah Palin, I'm not pointing at anything in particular.
See you in hell,
Shakes.

Who Said So?

You know, some people should be fathers, . . . and some people shouldn't. Like most fathers, I am totally inadequate and inept. I will never be as good as my children deserve. Nevertheless, I give myself some credit. Unlike most fathers, I try my best and would sacrifice any part of myself for their betterment. Alas, life is not so simple. I find myself still self-interested and using family budget money for my own pursuits. But where does selfishness begin and self-preservation leave off? Is this not a complex question? Indeed. Let me tell you about my kids.

Rory is 11 now. He is independent, full of leadership, and a genuinely good person; rare in an 11-year-old. He is wise beyond his years, extraordinarily mature and generous to a fault. He is interested in longboard skateboards, web-surfing, and (much to my chagrin) girls of late. He is a natural leader, and a very sensitive soul when it comes to caring for his younger brothers. He is my first son, my adopted son, and I couldn't be more proud. Here's hoping current trends hold.

Blair is 7 right now, and one of the gentlest souls the world has ever known. He is interested in movies, family, and the sunlight, of which he is a shining example. He is gentle, and sensitive, . . . and something more. There is something about him that captivates all; a serenity upon which I cannot put my finger. Nevertheless, it is there, and very powerful. He will steal your heart and like me you won't know why. He has an unidentifiable beauty which is more beautiful for its elusiveness.

Milo is a buoyant 5 years of age and has just begun kindergarten. He is a living and ever-replenishing source of energy. He is overwhelmingly inquisitive, highly independent and impossible to keep up with. Simply watching him will make you breathless. He can destroy a room in seconds and he can make more noise than a broken jackhammer. Milo can make four pounds of mess on a shirt from a meal that was only a half-pound to begin with. Milo can draw a perfect circle and understand complex emotions. Milo is heavily addicted to video games and very confident in expressing himself. Milo has a smile that will light up your heart with joy and make you remember the beauty of being a child. His energy will captivate you and draw you to him like a magnet.

If I am a good father for no other reason, then it must only be because I am smart enough to pay attention to the beauties that exist in these boys. Always remember to pay attention, lest you miss a smile or a tear. Every one is worth its weight in gold.

See you in heaven,

Shakes.

Why Was I Even In Mexico . . . again?

Eighteen months has passed since my last journey to Mexico. The interim has not been uneventful; eight months in University, a new homestead, and the loss of Alex to the Emerald Isle are amongst the activities that have passed. My good fortune as a college instructor has afforded me flight tickets south for a second time. So, with a healthy sense of self-deserving, off I went. On this occasion, I also had the good fortune to be accompanied by the ever-beautiful Amelia for the first five days. In Acapulco we enjoyed para-gliding, horse-back riding, jet-skiing, pina coladas on the beach, and the world famous cliff divers . . . and all in one day. Back near Mexico city, we visited the pyramids and a mercado and achieved some healthy sunburns. After Amelia returned to Canada, I was faced with two more weeks of work in a small town called Ojo de Agua. It has a very rural feel with a typically Mexican mix of wealth and poverty and an enormous number of stray dogs that bark and howl late into the evening. Their cacophony against the warm, bleak landscape creates a haunting ambience of skulking werewolves on a hot Mexican night in a small town. In order to break the monotony, I arranged a class party one Saturday evening with the students in my group. We decided it would be held at the house of a young woman who was married to a doctor. As such, she had ample space, an ample bar, and a karaoke machine. About half of the students in the class came, as did my hosts at the college. It was a delightful evening and we enjoyed a favourite Mexican dish called posoli. Smooth tequila lubricated the karaoke wheels and we all sang until late in the evening. At close to 4am, most of the guests had departed and I was left with my two hosts, the student and her doctor husband. As it turns out, he was a plastic surgeon. I don't know if it was a sociolinguistic barrier that lead to the somewhat awkward comment, or merely a culturally acceptable offer, but at the end of the night, just as we were finally leaving, the doc looked at me with a perfectly straight face and said, (insert strong Mexican accent here) "Ju know. Eef ju retourn to Mehico, I weel feex jour nose for only 10000 pesos. That ees only, like, 1000 canadian dollarss. And ju know what?" (He started to whisper) " For no extra charche, I'll give you a nice beeg fat ass too. Buenos noches. " He demonstrated by waving his hands in a wide berth around his rear. I went back to the college dorm laughing, drunk, . . . and a little disturbed. There's nothing wrong with my ass! I guess I could use a nose job though. Damn, those Mexicans love their 'badonkadonk'.
See you in hell,
Shakes.

Back to the drawing board

I am academically winded and educationally humbled. Apparently I am not as good at writing as I had formerly believed. I feel like I've had a scholastic enema. With marks across the board in first term that are less than satisfying to me, I am agressively poised to take on second term with teeth and vigilance. Good things come to those who wait, . . . and work their sorry asses off! I shall not retreat and I shall not fail. Bring it on!
See you in hell,
Shakes.

Almost lost until Alex's bum . . .

Well, well, well. What have we here? It would appear that my return to the academic environment in the capacity of student has taken its toll on my writing. After producing nearly 10,000 words worth of essays in only four months, I have reached a full-fledged writer's block. Inspiration is fleeting of late, if not altogether absent. I am surrounded with sameness and I see my children far too infrequently. So where do we go from here? Reaching deep into the recesses of my mind and the archives of my memory, so shall I find a gem, and in it I will revel at the writer's desk once again. Where is Alex when I need him?
Aaaaaah, Alex. Yes, of course. How could I have been so blind. His endless tomfoolery is a plethora of tales to tell. Here's one I'd nearly forgotten.
My friendship with Alex had really only just begun. I barely knew him but he struck me as a semi-boring, hyper-intellectual, brooding, Italian egomaniac. I quite liked him and, unlike most people, was not at all intimidated by him. I think that's why he liked me too. One evening, in one of his many vain attempts to entertain female cast members, we were sitting about his apartment revelling in the agricultural achievements of Columbia and Jamaica. Alex's hospitality was refreshingly entertaining and eloquent. Verbal humour peppered with intermissions of his light musical stylings carried us through several bouyant hours of revelry. However, as delightful as he was as a host, and as excellent as he was at practicing verbal wit, my opinion of him had not substantially changed. Then something unexpected happened.
His television had been idly observing our group all the while. In a moment of quiet, my attention turned towards it and I noticed that it had been tuned to the black-and-white security camera feed of the front door of his apartment building.
"Alex, why do you leave your TV on the security feed?"
"I know. It's weird, but my room-mate likes to watch it. He taped 8 hours of it last night while he was at work and then stayed up all night when he got home watching it! Don't ask me."
Alex's very reclusive and eccentric roommate is another story to be told altogether. He's an 'artist' and one of the most interesting people you will never meet.
But our story is about Alex. I must give him credit. In the much-needed humour department, he raised the stakes. He said, "Hey, you wanna see something funny?", and surely, I did. He then promptly retrieved a pillow-case from his bedroom and exited his own apartment leaving me alone with several of his unacquainted female guests. As I barely knew Alex himself, the situation was a bit odd. After a few minutes of awkward conversation, I was beginning to truly wish for his return. For all I knew, however, he wasn't coming back at all. I knew him well enough to recognize that he might be a touch idiosyncratic in his social dealings.
Just then, the black-and-white security feed caught my eye. Wouldn't you know it, there was old Alex with a pillow-case over his head at the front door of his building, with his britches at his knees and his full moon raised in pride at the camera. I did a spit-take of rye across the room and burst into uproarious laughter. But the show was far from over. While bent over, pillow-case over his head, and ass to the gods, he did a little spanky-spanky and then continued with some Jim-Carrey-like bum cheek dialogue. It was a silent feed but the image was side-splitting. It dawned on me that the security feed goes into every apartment in the building and I laughed even harder. After a few minutes, the show was over, but it was almost as funny to see him fumbling with his front door keys while peeking out from under the pillow-case in an attempt to re-enter and maintain his now much needed anonymity.
I was still wiping tears away and waiting for his inevitable return from downstairs when the show was reprised with an unexpected encore. He burst onto camera and dropped his drawers again to reveal a second hilarious viewing of his hairy nether-regions. He raised the stakes even further when he turned around and gave his eager viewers a full frontal (sans head - under pillow-case). My belly ached. It was glorious.
The climactic finale was achieved when, in the camera, we saw an otherwise unsuspecting fellow apartment-dweller arrive at the front door while he was blindly waggling his wiles. She was a conservative-looking elderly woman - perfect, hilarious. I have no idea the conversation that ensued but it looked awkward. The woman was clearly a little shocked at talking to a man with his pants at his ankles and a pillow-case for a head. My laughter continued. Then the good samaritan assisted Alex as he fumbled with his keys again. Congratulations Alex: I have never questioned your rapier wit from that brave moment of hilarious bravery/stupidity. You are still, and are likely to remain for some time, the man!
See you in hell,
Shakes.

An Intellectual Attempt to Capture the Form and Function of Romantic Poetry In a Modern Collection: Romantic Ideologies Mixed with the Freedom of . .

Modern Structures and Images

#1
The night air is black and clear and crisp
Spotted with the electric lights of the night.
I drink it in and fill myself with
The life of the city.

Intoxicating and swift the fresh outdoors
Enraptures my senses
And I succumb to the sinful lure.
Lights dazzle upon my eyes,
There reflected the twinkle of a thrill
Given upon the feelings of anticipation.

#2
Towering trees over a red sprinkled floor
Begin their plaintiff moan in the rush
of the night wind.
The whisk of air
As it rushes upon the needles of pine,
Trembling branches their only refuge,
Catches upon my quick excited breaths
And so upon the same needles.

From misty depths of my imagination
Comes hence the west wind
And breathes life into my inspiration.
Wondering whence its vasty journey began
And wishing to fly with it
Through the twilight of night
To see what it has seen and
Sail through mountain trees
To sing our herald of majesty

And carries me to mountain tops.

#2a
But the sublime transcendence
Grows vasty still,
In the murky heavens
Amongst twinkling stars . . .
Since the dawn of all things.

Always check behind you.

It's too cliche to be believed and yet I assure you, of all the fiction in the posts of this blog, this story is the gospel truth (not that I consider the actual Gospel a paradigm of verity). I was driving up Cook St. in the semi-suburbs of Victoria late one afternoon with Amelia in the passenger seat. As usual, I was blathering about some self-gratifying topic of interest and paying little attention to the sides of the road. Normally, she is politely attentive to my intellectual verbal tangents. In this instance, however, she abruptly interrupted me as she leaned forward, spit her mouthful of coffee all across the dashboard and onto the inside of the windshield and burst into laughter screeching, "NO WAY!" Of course, I snapped my eyes in the direction she was pointing to discover her shock. It was a simple sight that you would be sure to see only in a situation comedy, and yet I was staring it right in the face. Well, not exactly the 'face'. Walking up the hill on the far sidewalk was a conservatively dressed woman, circa 30 years of age, wearing the blouse of a true bargain-huntress and an ankle-length brown skirt. A shorter skirt would have been less comical but this was an ankle-length brown skirt, indicative of an obviously conservative individual. Now, let me be clear that it was not the woman's fashion choices that had caused Amelia such an abruption, but the fact that her skirt was tucked into her pantyhose in the back revealing her backside undergarments fully and completely. You go your whole life expecting that you will never see something so cliche, but there it was. Now my choice was such: do I pull over and inform her so that she can put an end to her humiliation, but become the evil messenger revelling in her misfortune, or do I just keep going and let her discover it on her own, which was clearly not imminent. I bit the bullet and pulled over. When I told her that she really needed to look behind herself, I was sure to be as polite and sympathetic as I could be, poor woman. The unfortunate young woman was left only with stifled silence from the front seat of our car as we drove away.
See you in hell,
Shakes.

Rory and the Rooster Man

Downtown Victoria surely suffers from an array of different walks of life. Of course, it is not a particularly large city, but it has the most temperate climate of any city in Canada and, therefore, welcomes the homeless seeking warmth to the wealthy seeking refuge and everything in between. One sunny afternoon, as I was driving through downtown Victoria with Rory and Jennifer, as a matter of course, we pulled up to a busy intersection crowded with pedestrians. On an adjacent building, leaning up against the wall with his posse of ruffians was a young man clearly in need of attention. This particular young gentleman had a mohawk with four or five very obvious spikes dyed cherry red. I turned to Jennifer with a coy grin and quietly chuckled, "Check out Rooster-head over there." She glanced over and achieved the same little smirk that I had. This young man's attempt to look angry, intimidating and tough only added to the hilarity of the image. Obviously our smirk did little to impress him as he offered an angry sneer, clearly aimed in our direction. I diverted my attention as I frequently make it a habit to avoid engaging stupidity, but Rory had other plans. Little did we know that, in the backseat, Rory had overheard every word of our conversation and just as we were about to pull away, through his open passenger side window, Rory hollered, (insert intonation of a crowing rooster) "Rr - rr-rr - rr-rrrrrr." The unfortunate young man, was left only with the sound of uproarious laughter from the front seat of our car as we drove away.
See you in hell,
Shakes.

Checklist

Everyone has a checklist. It is the list of things in our life that we have decided we want to accomplish. It is in the failing to achieve one of these items that we feel disappointed. It is an objective mechanism by which we become aware of our own mortality as time marches forward in our lives and we age. If the checklist is not completed as scheduled, we become worried and more fearful of death.
Re-evaluation of the checklist is ongoing as we learn and become aware of ourselves, our interests and our abilities. As such, many things on the checklist are deleted, many are added, but many remain there for life.
It is in the content and pursuit of the items on the checklist that we are fulfilled and experience life.
My checklist has been vast. Many things have been achieved. Many have not. Many things have been on schedule. Many have not. I have experienced much. Some of the most important items are in progress now. My checklist nears completion.
See you in hell,
Shakes.

The Shining

We are all familiar with the terrifying book by Stephen King and its hyper-popular counterpart movie starring Jack Nicholson, which probably brought more fame to the phrase "Heeeere's Johnny" than old Ed McMahon ever did, but I have an even better memory.
If you've been keeping up, you will have noticed that Blair's vocabulary has been a mainstay of levity and delight in my life. As a derivative of the word sunshine, Blair used to refer to the daytime as "shining outside". This part of his lexicon was, in turn, passed on to Milo.
Some of the sweetest and cutest moments in my life have occurred early in the morning with Blair, or late at night with Milo when I have had to move him from the van to the house. They would just barely wake up, look into my eyes, and in very infantile, soft voices, the likes of which can only be produced by a young child as he is just waking up, they would whisper, "Is it shining outside now?"
Often Milo, in his natural exuberance, would wake up before I did. In order to wake me up, he would excitedly announce his belief that it was time to be out of bed.
"Look, Daddy! It's shining outside! It's shining outside!" That is an alarm clock to die for, which no man with a heart could resist.
See you in heaven,
Shakes.

The Magic Hotdog Man

Many people have commented on my almost supernatural addiction to hotdogs. Superficially, my relationship with the hotdog may seem like any other simple characteristic of a person with an obsessive-compulsive personality, but I assure you, the story goes much deeper.
I'm sure the gentleman who served me this pivotal hotdog was an unwashed, middle-aged, career carny who simply asked me if I wanted an available condiment, but my memory of the moment is much different. It is mystical and elusive and goes something like this.
It was a balmy summer evening in August back in 1983 when I was enjoying an evening at the Super-Ex in Ottawa; an annual exhibition that comes to Lansdowne Park and includes the requisite cattle and livestock exhibits and such. I, of course, was there for the midway: a cacophony of rides and games and lights and foods and smells and colours to delight all the senses. Everything was ridiculously priced but the excitement of such a summer night was too much to resist. After an evening of racing to the next ride, waiting in queu after queu to be hurtled through the air by life-threatening machines built by the lowest bidder and with the least of care, and losing in a litany of over-priced games which all seemed like sure-wins by the demo, I was exhausted . . . and very hungry.
Now I enjoyed a simple hot dog as much as the next average teenage boy, but I was by no means exclusive to them in my junk-food loyalties. They had no particularly special appeal to me at all. But that all changed.
As I scanned about my surroundings in search of any convenient fast food vendor, a hotdog stand caught my eye. It was abandoned by customers with no line-up and I could smell the sizzling onions on the grill from thirty feet away. More interesting was the fact that the vendor was looking right at me. He summoned me with a smile and a hand gesture and in my hunger, I happily complied. He wasn't pushy or ignorant. He had a friendly smile, and a soft, confident voice.
"Are you hungry son?"
"Yeah, actually I am."
"Would you like a hotdog? They're foot-long, you know."
"Uh, I don't think so. I'm thinkin' about pizza."
"Ohhhh, but this is no ordinary hotdog. It'll change your life. Try it out - half-price."
"Sold, mister. Give me a foot-long."
I watched the lengthy sausage sizzle on the greasy grill, sided by a mound of cooking, diced onions and tomatoes. Then with his tongs he gently, . . . ever so gently, tucked the meat into the lightly toasted bun and with another gentle smile and a twinkle in his eye, he whispered, "Do you want some onions and tomatoes with that?"
"To be sure, mister," I said. "I'm starving."
Using his long, flat spatula, he scooped a generous portion of the fried condiments from the grill and into the awaiting bun. By this time my hunger had reached leviathan proportions and as I sunk my teeth into the juicy meat and the onion-filled bun, I reached a state of satisfaction unparalleled even by those addicted to chocolate. It was a turning point in my life from which there would be no return, . . . and the hotdog had established itself in my heart for the rest of my days.
I devoured the entire thing in only moments to my utter delight. As I reeled around to thank the man for his generous offering, I was taken aback in fear and mystical amazement. The booth was gone, with the man and all his accoutrements having simply vanished into a whisp of mist. I asked my friends, "Did you see that?" Of course, they hadn't and I was left alone in my bewilderment and revelry. My life was changed forever.
I wonder who invented the hotdog. There's one for the internet.
See you in hell,
Shakes.

In My Opinion

I scrawled these across a receipt one night working the overnight shift at an Esso station in 1993. That would have made me an arrogant 23-years-old. This post is sure to prompt some people to post a comment.

Hell's Angels and Alpha Beta Pi:
I have never had much respect for any fraternal group, whether it is Ivay League or dressed up white trash. Think for yourself, people! Mob-style violence and monetary sanctions to enforce coercive power can never be a substitute for true power. Greed motivates everything.

Baby-boomers:
The votes are in, and they screwed us (or at least their elected government did). My parents still believe that their achievement of equity and security is because they worked harder than I did. Supply-side economics plummeted us into unmaintanable government fiscal planning, but bought a lot of votes in the 60's and 70's. I will work twice as hard with no job security to achieve an emptied retirement fund.

Gay Rights:
Homophobia is out of fashion and should be. What is the problem here? Lighten up, Alberta. Do you really care? Give them what they want. Their demands are platitudes because gay marriages are no more proned to success than are heterosexual ones. Please, keep penises out of politics, no matter what your sexual orientation.

Bible-Thumpers:
You're kidding, right? Think for yourselves, people. It is a great set of incongruent, conflicting and temporally irrelevant parables. I've yet to meet a 'good' Christian that has taken a vow of poverty (quite the contrary). I've yet to meet a person that has taken a vow of poverty that isn't crazy. No one person could possibly tell any other person what the bible "really" means. Jesus was very cool, but I'll bet he DID inhale!

Lenny Kravitz:
Now that he is sporting his new retro-stylin', Jimmi Hendrix wannabe hairstyle, can we finally agree that he is a ROCK star? LSD drenched headband coming soon.

Religion:
It was the opiate of the masses . . . 1000 years ago! Now, we have television which is far more insulting. Any religion today becomes the mythology of tomorrow. Any attempt to identify or categorize a higher power is arrogant and impossible. Those too weak or frightened to face the horrors of reality turn to religion for comfort and answers to unanswerable questions which is tantamount to sticking your head in the sand. Otherwise, religion is nothing more than a systemic set of ethical rules as to which of our natural and heathenistic tendencies we accept and which we reject. Heaven and hell are myths that originated on earth because they are both here.

Sex:
More, please.

Guns:
Anyone stupid enough to argue in favour of guns deserves to be American. It is the only tool on the planet that has one use and one use only: killing. As Dennis Miller once said, "If we got all the mothers of the world together to vote, guns would be nothing but a sad, sad memory." And yes, I do realize the irony in that I just quoted an American.

Drugs:
They have the power to save your life, or to ruin it. Be careful! Yes, I mean you. And I mean be more careful than that.

Of course, that's just my opinion. I could be wrong. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. Aaaaaaa-ha-ha-ha.......

See you in hell,
Shakes.

Good Vibrations

I warn you now that the next story is not for the easily offended, nor the meek of heart, but it is so outrageously funny, that it had to be told. If you are not one to appreciate good ol' raunchy hilarity, then DO NOT read on.
It was in the fledgling stages of my relationship with my ex-wife, shortly after she had moved in with me, that we had invited two of my friends over for a dinner party. Well, actually, only one of them was my friend. His name was Todd. The other was a girl with whom he had also just begun a relationship and whom he was desperately trying to impress. He had done well so far and the time had come to introduce her to some of his friends. With friends like me, he was feeling uneasy to say the least. He should have followed the instincts of his better judgement.
Dinner had been polite and uneventful and Todd was beginning to relax a little as we retired to the living room for wine and conversation. Rory was only two at the time and had been wonderfully well behaved all evening. He disappeared downstairs (where the bedrooms were in this particular condo) to play in his bedroom for a while. We thought nothing of it.
Several minutes of banal conversation ensued and we were all relaxed and comfortable. It seemed as though Todd would escape an evening with Dave in the presence of his new girlfriend unscathed. Not so.
Now I believe that I am a satisfactory lover and I enjoy recreational intimacy as much as the next person, so Jennifer's "endtable hardware" was considered as much fun to me as it was her and we were both sure that 'it' was safely stowed in its bedside home. Not so.
When everything seemed safe, wouldn't you know it, but Rory comes bobbing up the stairs into the middle of our conversation with a blue sparkling 'cylinder', in full vibration, hands it to Jennifer and says, "Look Mommy. I brought you your blue sparkle toy!" - bzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Todd did a spit-take of wine across the living room, Jennifer released a shocked gasp of humiliation and disbelief, Todd's guest's jaw dropped open...and I burst into side-splitting laughter. In only a moment, the humour of the situation was apparent to all, and the room echoed with the laughter of four adults, and the confused giggle of a two-year-old.
Although it wasn't even remotely my fault, for some reason Jennifer never really forgave me. Later when I told that story during my speech at Todd's wedding, she never forgave me again. I think I'm beginning to realize why I'm divorced. Ah well; live and learn.
See you in hell,
Shakes.

Taffan the Elf

There once was a village of great giant oak trees with trunks as wide as horses, or bigger, covered in tremendous masses and bunches of green foliage so that they looked like gigantic, fat, squatting lumps. Each tree was marked at the base with a small round door, not more than 5-feet in height that opened into the great hollow interiors of the squatting oaks and in each were all the tidy domestic amenities of the daily living of an elf: a comfortable, if not tiny, sitting room with a small stone fireplace adjacent to a cozy little kitchen; small steps curling up the inside of one tiny wall that lead to two hollows above, each with its own tiny little bed, and a third hollow that was an unevenly measured little washroom high atop the end of the stairwell.
This odd bunch of trees was hidden deep in the dark forests of an undiscovered land. To the Elves it seemed quite a bright and spritely place, for there were no great cities of technology against which to compare. There were only villages amongst the trees of the forests, and farms in the clearings, and an occasional castle or stable built by some great wizard, or long-lost dragon, or perhaps by one of the ancient gnomes. And in the less inhabited parts of the forests were fairies and trolls and strange creatures of the dark. Some even said that there were still dragons lurking in the unknown parts of the forest but most Elves were not afraid of such silly superstitions.
This particular village was in one of the most remote corners of a great forest and would seem more distant and boding to most than the darkest jungles of earth. Nestled conclusively in the 'centre' of this village was the Elf King's castle where lived King Rorin with all of his Elven advisors and courtiers and servants and, of course, the old and powerful Elven wizard, Zarn. It was a truly great castle (by Elven standards) made of interlocking rock wound amongst several of the oaks and stuck together by some kind of mortar provided by one of the King's alchemists. To the little Elves, it seemed to tower in the sky and was just as frightening as it was regal. But its friendly, light colour was just the right mood for King Rorin and so it seemed, also, to fit right into the village.
But of more interest than the castle was the litttlest of the oaks that was surely the farthest from the castle, tucked away in the most discreet corner of the village. Here lived little Taffan. His home wasn't much different than most of the other elf-trees but it was his so he loved it just the same.
Taffan was modestly sized, even for an Elf, with a frame that was well-proportioned, if not somewhat meek. He looked young (much younger than his true years) and considerate in the face with a smile that could only be genuine. Other Elves seemed honestly charmed by him most of the time, despite his habit of being a little talkative when he was socially nervous. If you met him, you would probably quite like him unless you were intimidated by his intellect (as it is well known that Elves are far more intelligent than humans).
Taffan had read many times in many books of great heroes and often let his happy little mind venture off on great imaginary quests with himself squarely centred as the noble hero, but he knew, at heart, he was somewhat a coward and would likely be more scared than heroic in any real trouble. That is to say, the kind of trouble that makes men true heroes. And so, he busied himself mostly with academic pursuits that were more fitting to his true heart: a homey, friendly Elf tending to his books and reading and household if not his friends and family. In the end, he knew he was really quite happy being just who he was, even though he was not of the mettle of a true and dashing hero.
It is for that very reason that he was truly shocked at the course of events that would present itself before him and on one warm Elven evening . . . . . . .

Three Wise Men

There are three things that my older brother Peter told me that I will never forget. At a time when I was not behaving like someone you would look up to, he said to me in anger that I represented all of the things about humanity that he hated. These were harsh words, to be sure, but intended to get me to examine myself and decide whom I really wanted to be. It was, at the very least, effective in getting me to take a hard, honest look at my own hypocrisy, if not crippling to my self-esteem. Later that same year, he would add a comment. As he watched me systemically destroy my own life, he came to me in tears. It is highly relevant that he was in tears because he is normally substantially more stoic than your average Vulcan. Apparently I was not so hated as professed. He looked at me and said, "Please stop this behaviour. I love you and I can't stand to see you destroy your life." I will NEVER forget these words. Lastly, on one occasion when I was watching him exercise his natural mechanical brilliance in the rebuilding of a mustang, and in the context of him being frustrated with a lack of career objectives, I asked him why he didn't become a mechanic. He was clearly skilled and the money was good. He responded with a beautiful simplicity. "Dave, the greatest way to ruin a hobby is to make it a career."
There are two things that my younger brother Matthew told me that I will never forget. I had lived in Ottawa for all of my life and at 28, post-marriage, I left for Daytona Beach for a year. I came back to Ottawa for only a month before I decidedly moved to BC. It was during the first absence that my little brother had become aware of his fondness for me and my second departure, after only a month in Ottawa, was emotional for him. He was visibly upset as I prepared to leave for a second time. I comforted him by telling him, "Don't worry little brother. I'll come back. I promise." His response will be a memory buried deep in my heart for the rest of my days. Through teary eyes and an unconditional loyalty, he anguished, "But you NEVER come back...and you NEVER keep your promises." I truly hope I have become a better man. I'm sorry I never came back.
There is one thing that my father told me that I will never forget. Actually there are thousands, but here I list the one that, for some reason, I remember most, and that has been the most useful to me. I have never been great at decision-making and often I am unable to see the difference between my self-interests and my self-indulgences. My Dad was trying to help with what seemed like a difficult decision to me. It would require sacrifice, surely, but its advantages far outweighed those sacrifices. Dad gave me another brilliantly simple and obvious piece of advice. "You can wake up tomorrow and change your life forever." Thank you, Dad. I wonder what I'll do tomorrow morning...
See you in hell,
Shakes.

Is there anybody out there?

So it's come to my attention that the blog has developed a readership. I am proud and flattered. My request is simple. PLEASE post comments. Moreover, if an episode or unexplained detail catches your interest and you want to know more about it, or if you just want me to write a story about YOU, feel free to ask me to publish on whatever topic you would like. Some outside input to generate ideas would be much appreciated......and please stay tuned. From exotic dance clubs to marijuana induced skydiving, there are SO many more stories to tell and all of you are important to me.
See you in hell,
Shakes.

Krumholtz and Tuckamore

Recently I was on a great little camping trip with my father visiting from Ottawa. We were on the beach enjoying an evening sunset with a particularly blustery wind pressing in from the ocean expanse of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. He directed my attention to the pattern of the foliage along the open coastline. All the branches were pointing away from the ocean and the foliage in general was leaning away from the ocean due to an erosion-like effect from the relentless ocean winds. He informed me that this pattern actually had a name but that it was different on each coastline. In eastern Canada, it was referred to as tuckamore, whereas on the west coast, it was called krumholtz. This knowledge reminded me of a little piece of writing I had composed several years back when I was enjoying a late night outside listening to the ocean winds sweep through the treetops in my backyard.

"All the clouds had been blown from the sky by the torrent of wind sweeping through the treetops far above. One could hear the distant hissing of vast winds whistling through an endless sea of trees and foliage which grew stronger, and louder, and closer; a whisper first, and then a full crescendo of white noise sweeping through the trees with fierce heart and strength. Suddenly the great wind would come upon and whip through trees and branches in the dark abyss above with almost deafening force. The trunks of the great trees released plaintiff creaks and groans and the weaker branches high in the treetops gave with an occasional snap and crackle as they were torn asunder by the force of the great gust. Then, only a moment's calm and it would begin all over, again and again through the night. One of the great ocean's coasts was not far off; at least not far by the travel of wind. One could envision the gusts sweeping across the ocean from some distant land, dragging up great waves as it danced and clashed with other mighty forces in a fierce battle of thunder and wind over a relentless sea. Having gained size and speed from its turbulent voyage across open waters, it would rush upon the awaiting forest, smashing in through the wall of bristled treetops to calm and cool its rage."

"The great clouds of turbulent mists swept across the dusky sky in haste, as though escaping the imminent cacophony of rain."

Ol' Lot 67

Some adventures are in the untamed rural wilds and the next little tale is just one such example.
It was some years back, in 1992 if my now fading memory serves, when one of my angsty friendships with a young fellow named Hawkins was at its peak. He and I had been in high school together but as I was in a senior year; we had never really met. Working together in our post high school employment as gas-jockeys at an Esso service station with a plethora of fellow hopeless career cases would be where our friendship was fastened.
One long weekend, he and I decided to take to the Ontario outback on a camping excursion. Hawk was quite insistent that we venture to a new campsite of which he had heard and which came with high recommendations from his friends. We packed up my beat up ol’ Sunbird with all our camping gear and headed out onto the highway for our three-hour journey to this legendary campground.
Our arrival came fairly late in the evening and well after dark. Much to our chagrin, we quickly learned that it was a "hike-to" interior campsite and that it was about a 45-minute to 1 hour hike away. Of course, in the dark and with my somewhat heavy-duty camping gear and, furthermore, with no backpack to speak of, there was clearly no hope of us making such a trek. However, it was very late and we were all exhausted, so I suggested that we just hike into the forest right next to the parking lot and pitch our tent for the night, then go and find a more suitable campsite in the morning.
Hawk and I went a few minutes into the bush with our flashlights and scoped out what seemed to be a fairly suitable location at the base of a rocky ridge. With more than a little difficulty, we pitched the tent in the dark and retrieved our sleeping bags from the car. As I crept into the tent, I noticed that the floor was a little damp and I said that there must have been a lot of moisture and dew on the foliage. Hawk said, "Who cares? My sleeping bag is water-proof."
"Yeeeaaah, I don't think so. My sleeping bag isn't. Fuck this, Hawk, I'm sleeping in the car," I said.
"Suit yourself, but I'm staying here where I'm not cramped."
"I don't know, Hawk. Maybe you should come back to the car."
"Hell no! Piss off! Goodnight, sissy boy. A little water never hurt anyone."
"Fine, then! Sweet dreams."
I returned to the car where I enjoyed a reasonably comfortable night stretched out in the back seat as best I could. Just as I was falling asleep, I was graced with a semi-conscious sense of ironic justice as I heard the faint beginnings of rain tapping on the roof of the car.
Come the morning, it was clear that it had rained quite heavily all night long and was still coming down fairly. I tumbled out of the car, and wasn't quite sure which direction to go and seek Hawk in my sleepy, morning disorientation. After a few moments, I regained my bearings and headed into the bush to wake my tent-insistent friend.
The scene before me was pure slapstick. As it turned out, the moisture I had felt on the floor of the tent had actually been a small stream. With an overnight torrent of rain, and residing at the base of a rocky incline, it had transformed into a full-fledged river which perfectly entered the rear of the tent and then poured out the front. I dashed to the tent opening to see what had become of my friend. He was still snuggled up in his 'water-proof' sleeping bag. With it wrapped tightly around his head only his face was visible. He was literally sleeping in a river. The water was spouting upwards over each of his shoulders in the same pattern taken by water travelling over protruding rocks in a fast-moving river. His eyes were pursed closed and he was wearing a stubborn, self-satisfied and very forced grin that suggested thoughts of, "I'm not frustrated or angry. I'm not uncomfortable. I'm happy and I slept well. I was right to stay in the tent." He remained defensively silent through the tedious process of dismantling and packing the drenched tent. Eventually he broke the silence and begrudgingly admitted that he hadn’t slept particularly well.
Later that day, we drove up the highway in search of a more suitable campground that might be nearby so we could get set up while there was still sunlight. The only thing we found was a little KOA-style campground that was obviously privately owned as it was fronted by a large house. It was really not much more than an open field with a gravel road down the middle and numbers evenly spaced along each side. Even worse was the fact that it was quite crowded and would not offer us the privacy we had hoped for with a beer cooler full of Rye whiskey. We noticed a hand-written sign over the front door that read "Ofice". That is how it was spelled. I chuckled to myself and knocked on the door. The gentleman that answered the door, was an older fellow with a very red, ruddy complexion, and for some reason, a very maritime-sounding, rural accent. He was wearing hip-wader overalls, but for the life of me, the only body of water that I could surmise was within a twenty kilometer radius was the stream Hawk had slept in the night before.
Unphased, I said, "Hi. We'd like a site for the night, but we were wondering if you had anything with a little more privacy." His response was a little unexpected.
"Aaaah. Ya's wants ol' lot 67, does ya? Well, shure'nuff. Jes' head on up the highway here and turn on the gravel road at the top o' ther hill. Park there and ya's kin camp up in the space on the top this here hill. Nice'n private. Twenny bucks."
I paid the old character and we ventured on up the hill. Sure enough, there was a beautiful clearing at the top of the hill at the edge of a cliff base and well in from the noise of the highway. There was a small firepit, a geriatric picnic table in the twilight of its useful days and a wonderful warm breeze caressing over the top of the cliff. We had an only mildly obscured view overlooking the dots of campfire light emanating from the field of campsites below. I couldn't believe our luck that nobody else had inquired after this spot. It was the type of campsite that would be considered paradise by any mildly urbanized outdoors-lover for which you'd pay a hundred bucks.
We set up our tent, cracked one of our bottles and decided it was time for supper. It was only then that we realized that we had failed to stop at a gas station to purchase any firewood.
"No problem," said Hawk and he laid all of his weight upon one of the top 2x4 strands of the ailing picnic table. With the crunch and crack of the aged wood, he managed to break off a fair sized piece of timber with which we started a great little fire. Only a few minutes later, I was again surprised to see the ruddy, old character appear in the clearing proudly straddling a riding mower sized little tractor that sounded like a '57 Chevy and pulling a little trailer full of firewood.
"Well I's jes' down ther bottom this hill here and done hear my poor picnic table takin' a beatin' so I done figger I best bring on up some firewood 'afore ya's all does away w' me ol' table. Twenny bucks." For a second, time I paid the man and away he went. We made short work of the firewood and it was well into the wee hours of the morning when we decided that we were in dire need of more wood.
We burned every last splinter of that poor picnic table before dawn. We readily placated our eccentric host with our last “twenny bucks.”
See you in hell,
Shakes.

Some Small Pinatas

At Rory's fifth birthday party, we took him and his guests to a party at the bowling alley. The afternoon started with bowling and then we would retire to the party-room for other games, hot dogs and cake. It was sure to be a festive occasion and, as such, of course my good friend James would make his requisite appearance. One of the activities planned was a pinata that I had spent much time manually filling the night before. Unfortunately, the ceiling in this room was far too high to fasten the pinata within "whacking" access of the children. James provided the solution. He tied the pinata to the end of a broom handle and stood up on a chair suspending the pinata outwards in front of him. We gave the kids a second broom handle to take turns at the pinata. Now pause for a moment and picture this. The pinata itself must have been made from reinforced steel because these kids were beating the hell out of this thing without even denting it. As fate would have it, when Rory's turn came and we blindfolded him, he had become aware that he would have to swing the broom handle with all his might. Of course, on his second swing he connected perfectly with James' testicles and enough force to have sent a baseball out of the park. Down came James, the broom handle and the pinata as he clutched his loins in comic agony. While choking back tears of laughter (having predicted such an eventuality) I tried to help James to his feet and ask him if he was okay. He responded with something like, "NNNgghhmnnnmmngghhyh".
Trooper that he is, however, James would not disappoint the kids and he mounted on high again to complete the activity...which we did. In the end, James had to tear the pinata open with a hammer. What are those things made of, man? ...... Pinatas, I mean.
See you in hell,
Shakes.