Monday, November 17, 2008
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Why was I Even in Mexico? - Tercero
In the summer of 2008, I was once again sent into the urban wilds of Mexico for a TESL teaching incursion: same place, same course, same shit. It was a tight schedule with very little time for sightseeing or amusement. Nothing of any consequence happened and I came back to Canada. I got drunk on the plane.
See you in hell,
Shakes.
See you in hell,
Shakes.
Evolution or Degradation?
I can't help but chuckle at the irony whenever somebody mispronounces the word pronunciation as pronOUnciation or when the word grammar is misspelled as grammer. As a joke, which my son's teacher didn't find as funny as I did, my parent comment on one of Blair's report cards was, "I am very umpressed with Blare's spilling".
See you in hell,
Shakes.
See you in hell,
Shakes.
I Chute My Pants
In the summer of 1991 I was fully entrenched in my job as a gas-jockey at an Esso service centre in a commercial sub-sector of Nepean called Bells Corners. I had lucked into my job there after being laid off from my busboy job at a local 'roadhouse' (in the same commercial area) called Hurley's because I was showing up to work while 'coming down' too often. Also because I regularly butted heads with this ridiculously face-painted manager named Kathy who was far too overweight for the debutante image she tried to present. I was attending classes full-time at Carleton University, and working a full-time overnight shift at the gas station, and traveling every weekend to Toronto to study broadcasting at a private institution. My life at this time was both exciting and self-destructive, and in my semi-unconscious efforts to kill myself, I took up skydiving as a hobby. My jump partner was one of my fellow Esso employees named Jeff Hawkins - a somewhat blue-collar accident of the white-collar high school we had both attended with a great sense of humour and timing, and a penchant for marijuana and music, like myself.
One summer afternoon, we drove out past the east end of Ottawa to a small private airport in the township of Embrun. It was where we had taken our skydiving training. We were told upon our arrival that there was a waiting list for jumpers and that we would be up in about three hours. With that much time to kill, we made the brilliant decision to drive the full hour all the way back to my west end home in a community called Briargreen to smoke a 'fattie' - and was it potent! When we arrived back at the airport, bleary-eyed and giddy two hours later, it was almost our turn. As we were about to board the small cessna that would carry us to some 8000 ft., Jeff decided it would be hilarious to make some joke about panicking and pulled his rip-chord while we were still on the ground. Our jump was delayed by another 20 minutes while his chute was repacked. I wish the same had occurred for me.
8000 feet later, I swallowed my fear of heights and my heightened paranoia and readied myself for flight. The jump-master examined me suspiciously and questioned whether I was okay to jump. "Suuuuuuuure", I said through penny-slit eyes and a cheshire grin. Moments later, I was free of the encumbrance of the plane and enjoying weightless bliss. As I approached the 3000 ft. critical rip-chord pull altitude, I gave a confident tug. My pilot chute (an about one metre square mini-chute that provides the pressure necessary to pull out the main chute) violently exploded from my back and fluttered helplessly against the unseen entanglement still packed snugly in its home on my back.
Uh-oh.
More inexperienced jumpers (like myself) are equipped with a two-way radio on their chests so that observing jump-masters on the ground can assist in the process.
Cccchhh (radio static) "Uh, jumper number three? It looks like you've got a serious chute release problem there. You're gonna wanna go ahead and release your primary chute and deploy your emergency chute immediately."
Cccchhh "No-no. I've got a good looking pilot chute here. I'm gonna see if I can land this."
Silence.
Cccchhh "Uuuuuuuh, . . . jumper number three!?"
Of course I was kidding. It is typical of me to make an off-coloured joke in the face of adversity. Plummetting earthward at nearly 200 km/h and well past the minimum critical rip-chord pull altitude I swallowed again and tugged on my chute release chord. Time seemed to slow as I watched my first 60% chance of survival carelessly flutter away above me. I tugged on the chord for my remaining 40% chance to live and my circular emergency chute blustered to life above me and slowed my descent to a survivable velocity, although it didn't feel like it to me. My experience with landing the smaller emergency chutes had only been in training, which was definitively in the past. I sprained both my ankles upon impact, but I had broken nothing . . . and I was alive, ALIVE! It was like a religious epifany. It was only later that my mortality was clearly confirmed by the side-effect of fear that I found in my pants.
See you in hell,
Shakes.
One summer afternoon, we drove out past the east end of Ottawa to a small private airport in the township of Embrun. It was where we had taken our skydiving training. We were told upon our arrival that there was a waiting list for jumpers and that we would be up in about three hours. With that much time to kill, we made the brilliant decision to drive the full hour all the way back to my west end home in a community called Briargreen to smoke a 'fattie' - and was it potent! When we arrived back at the airport, bleary-eyed and giddy two hours later, it was almost our turn. As we were about to board the small cessna that would carry us to some 8000 ft., Jeff decided it would be hilarious to make some joke about panicking and pulled his rip-chord while we were still on the ground. Our jump was delayed by another 20 minutes while his chute was repacked. I wish the same had occurred for me.
8000 feet later, I swallowed my fear of heights and my heightened paranoia and readied myself for flight. The jump-master examined me suspiciously and questioned whether I was okay to jump. "Suuuuuuuure", I said through penny-slit eyes and a cheshire grin. Moments later, I was free of the encumbrance of the plane and enjoying weightless bliss. As I approached the 3000 ft. critical rip-chord pull altitude, I gave a confident tug. My pilot chute (an about one metre square mini-chute that provides the pressure necessary to pull out the main chute) violently exploded from my back and fluttered helplessly against the unseen entanglement still packed snugly in its home on my back.
Uh-oh.
More inexperienced jumpers (like myself) are equipped with a two-way radio on their chests so that observing jump-masters on the ground can assist in the process.
Cccchhh (radio static) "Uh, jumper number three? It looks like you've got a serious chute release problem there. You're gonna wanna go ahead and release your primary chute and deploy your emergency chute immediately."
Cccchhh "No-no. I've got a good looking pilot chute here. I'm gonna see if I can land this."
Silence.
Cccchhh "Uuuuuuuh, . . . jumper number three!?"
Of course I was kidding. It is typical of me to make an off-coloured joke in the face of adversity. Plummetting earthward at nearly 200 km/h and well past the minimum critical rip-chord pull altitude I swallowed again and tugged on my chute release chord. Time seemed to slow as I watched my first 60% chance of survival carelessly flutter away above me. I tugged on the chord for my remaining 40% chance to live and my circular emergency chute blustered to life above me and slowed my descent to a survivable velocity, although it didn't feel like it to me. My experience with landing the smaller emergency chutes had only been in training, which was definitively in the past. I sprained both my ankles upon impact, but I had broken nothing . . . and I was alive, ALIVE! It was like a religious epifany. It was only later that my mortality was clearly confirmed by the side-effect of fear that I found in my pants.
See you in hell,
Shakes.
Meditation on a Christmas Card
‘Tis the season of guilt, the season of laziness, the season of pagan ritual, the season of waste: Merry Christmas. The words jump off the card in my hand and bounce off the recesses of my inner psyche causing me to take pause before my scissors cut across the midsection of the card. I need cardboard pieces for my son's school project. The card was already partially mutilated. Earlier this month a wedge had been sliced off the bottom to make a filter for my friend's homemade cigarette. The signature within has become irrelevant...and yet I choose not to look. I don't want to know lest my own guilt (for spiting this pittance of a gesture) finds a face and a name upon which to manifest. No, anonymity is better.
As I make very practical use of the cardboard composing the card, I wonder at my own guilt. Why do I care? Why do people exchange cards at all? What becomes of them? What began this tradition? The answers are seated in the guilt and commercialism of a religious festival that has long lost its meaning. Like so many Christmas traditions this small piece of cardboard has virtually nothing to do with the birth of Christ. And like the Christmas tree, it is a pagan-like ritual entailing the slaughter of millions of trees to produce the pulp and paper upon which Christmas gestures are printed.
The pagan association is easy to make. Circa 324 A.D. Emperor Constantine declared Christianity across the Roman Empire. In order to institute the change to a deeply entrenched pagan populace, he appropriated dates and locations of previously pagan ritual celebrations to supplant them with new Christianity. Surely the date of December 25 is pagan in origin. The pagan celebration of the winter solstice closely coincided with this date. "But the real Christmas story is found in the Christian Bible. It is told in two different books: Matthew and Luke chapters 1 and 2" (Christmas). In these biblical books there is no mention of date but the fact that shepherds were at work in their fields is definitively not a December activity. Furthermore, polytheistic pagan belief assigned gods to various natural phenomena. Ironically, pagan rituals frequently sacrificed plants and animals from the natural world to appease these gods.
Admittedly, the newer ritual of card exchange emerged much later. In 1843, in London a man named Sir Henry Cole commissioned John Collcott Horsley, a fashionable artist of the time, to design his first card for primarily commercial reasons. But why do we bother? What value is there in a small square of cardboard with a formulaic Christmas greeting scrawled across it? When I asked my wife, she was candid in her answer. "Well, Christmas is about sharing love with family, but the time it takes to write a letter or make a phone call is really just a pain in the ass. Especially for those peripheral family members I never really talk to anyway. But I feel guilty about ignoring them at Christmas, especially if they sent me a card."
"What do you do with them afterwards?"
"Uuuuhhh, I throw them out - I try to remember to recycle them."
"Do you even read them?"
"Yeah, they're sweet. But they don't really mean much. I suspect everyone knows as much, but it's still important that we acknowledge each other."
My close friend, John, reiterates the notion. "I'm not great at sending presents, but I don't want to feel guilty that I have done nothing for family and friends at Christmas. I keep the hand-made ones I get from my mother."
"Where?"
"In a filing cabinet."
"Do you ever look at them again?"
"Oh, sure. You know, as long as I'm going into my filing cabinet anyway."
"And the rest of them?"
"I recycle them...or, make filters for my homemade cigarettes."
The card then is a surrogate for actual communication: a semiotic representation of sentiment diminished by the fact that we are too lazy to actually engage the emotion - a replacement for a phone call, a letter, or god forbid, an actual visit. What is the cost of this laziness and guilt? "Today, Christmas Cards are a multi million dollar industry in most English-speaking countries. Hallmark Cards, the largest American greeting card company, boasts annual sales of $400 million. In 1954, Americans sent about 2 billion Christmas cards; now, the yearly figure stands at close to 4 billion, for an average of twenty cards per person" (History). Globally, millions of trees are sacrificed to the pulp and paper industry to provide the raw materials to manufacture the commercial profit generated from the sale of Christmas cards. The silver lining is oxygen. Logging, as a commercial industry, has spawned the subsidiary industry of tree planting. Of course the cash crop must be replenished. "The provincial governments and various pulp & paper and lumber companies oversee the planting of over 700 million trees in Canada every year" (Minnes). The young trees replacing those older ones cut in the process of logging are ecologically believed to produce more oxygen. Wildlife members of the ravaged eco-system probably don't appreciate this benefit.
But the sentiment is genuine. In a modern world of fast-paced, rat-race lifestyles, at least we retain enough guilt to pause and express our need for family or friendship connections, even if only through a formulaic ritual. And the cards needn't be wasted. There are uncountable practical and aesthetic household uses for a small square of cardboard printed with a pretty picture...as long as we can overcome our guilt enough to slice through them. Alas, the pagans have the last laugh. The trees cry out in silent slaughter. The commercial baron reaps his multi-national wealth. And the rest of us overlook the pittance of pennies and time and trees it costs to escape a little guilt and be a little lazy. What will you do with your Christmas cards this year? Merry Christmas.
Annotated Bibliography
Christmas - Where Did It Come From? Where Is It Going? 22 Oct 2008. Accessed 30 Oct 2008..
For an article claiming to be copyrighted to SOON Ministries, the text outlines an unbiased description of every readily identifiable modern Christmas tradition, probable origins (religious or not), and religious significance (if there is any). The article includes a specific section dedicated to the origin of the Christmas card and another which points to the specific chapters of the bible that outline what is considered the true Christmas story.
Doe, John. Personal interview. 27 Oct 2008.
An honest discussion allowed to meander into peripheral reflection by both interviewer and interviewee but comprised mainly of five fundamental questions: To whom do you send Christmas Cards?, Why do you send Christmas cards?, Do you keep any you have received, where, and which ones?, What do you do with them after Christmas? Do you ever look at them again?
Ferguson, Corrie and Amy N. Grupp. "Constantine Converts to Christianity 312". Webchron - the Web Chronology Project. 15 Dec 1998. Accessed 30 Oct 2008..
This highly concise article outlines Emperor Constantine's political career from the time he became Emperor in 306AD until about 340AD. The major points upon which the article reflects include his controversial ‘vision’ that he attributes to the success of his military campaign, and his subsequent conversion to Christianity. The article further outlines Constantine's 'tolerance' of paganism after the conversion and the highly political way in which he superimposed Christian celebrations on pagan festivals and rituals.
"History of Christmas Cards". Big Site of Amazing Facts. 20 Aug 2007. Accessed 30 Oct 2008..
In a detailed article that extends far beyond the history of the Christmas card itself, the text begins by questioning the date ascribed to the birth of Christ and follows the pagan origins of many Christmas traditions including the celebration of the winter solstice and the Roman exchange of gifts. The article then quickly moves to the modern celebration of Christmas and specifically details the creator of the first card and its artist, including a detailed description of both its picture and inscription and follows its commercial success, expansion, and acceptance into the twentieth century.
Johnston, Marianne. Personal interview. 27 Oct 2008.
An honest discussion allowed to meander into peripheral reflection by both interviewer and interviewee but comprised mainly of five fundamental questions: To whom do you send Christmas Cards?, Why do you send Christmas cards?, Do you keep any you have received, where, and which ones?, What do you do with them after Christmas? Do you ever look at them again?
Mann, Theodore H. Did Constantine Invent Christmas? 2006. Accessed 30 Oct 2008..
The article provides a detailed outline of Emperor Constantine's appropriation of a late December date as the celebration for the birth of Christ and represents a collection of smaller sections which detail historical events which may be the reasons that the modern Christmas date is established as December 25. The articles pay particular attention to the earliest possible celebration of the birth of Christ, through its historical rejection and acceptance by religious groups and up to its modern proliferation.
Minnes, Gordon. "Pulp and Paper Industry". The Canadian Encyclopedia. Accessed 30 Oct 2008..
The article outlines the chemical process of pulp and paper production, followed by a history of the industry in Canada, and ends with a global comparison of the industry. The article is dense with statistics on the dollar value of commercial revenues and the percentages of product distribution worldwide.
"Planting". Outland. 20 Oct 2008. Accessed 30 Oct 2008..
The page is an informational document as part of the tree-planting employee recruiting for the Outland Company. The page responds to "frequently asked questions" by potential employees as to where, when, and how they might become part of the tree-planting force in Canada. Although it is a commercial recruitment, the page opens with an interesting statistic on the amount of annual tree planting sponsored by provincial governments in Canada.
As I make very practical use of the cardboard composing the card, I wonder at my own guilt. Why do I care? Why do people exchange cards at all? What becomes of them? What began this tradition? The answers are seated in the guilt and commercialism of a religious festival that has long lost its meaning. Like so many Christmas traditions this small piece of cardboard has virtually nothing to do with the birth of Christ. And like the Christmas tree, it is a pagan-like ritual entailing the slaughter of millions of trees to produce the pulp and paper upon which Christmas gestures are printed.
The pagan association is easy to make. Circa 324 A.D. Emperor Constantine declared Christianity across the Roman Empire. In order to institute the change to a deeply entrenched pagan populace, he appropriated dates and locations of previously pagan ritual celebrations to supplant them with new Christianity. Surely the date of December 25 is pagan in origin. The pagan celebration of the winter solstice closely coincided with this date. "But the real Christmas story is found in the Christian Bible. It is told in two different books: Matthew and Luke chapters 1 and 2" (Christmas). In these biblical books there is no mention of date but the fact that shepherds were at work in their fields is definitively not a December activity. Furthermore, polytheistic pagan belief assigned gods to various natural phenomena. Ironically, pagan rituals frequently sacrificed plants and animals from the natural world to appease these gods.
Admittedly, the newer ritual of card exchange emerged much later. In 1843, in London a man named Sir Henry Cole commissioned John Collcott Horsley, a fashionable artist of the time, to design his first card for primarily commercial reasons. But why do we bother? What value is there in a small square of cardboard with a formulaic Christmas greeting scrawled across it? When I asked my wife, she was candid in her answer. "Well, Christmas is about sharing love with family, but the time it takes to write a letter or make a phone call is really just a pain in the ass. Especially for those peripheral family members I never really talk to anyway. But I feel guilty about ignoring them at Christmas, especially if they sent me a card."
"What do you do with them afterwards?"
"Uuuuhhh, I throw them out - I try to remember to recycle them."
"Do you even read them?"
"Yeah, they're sweet. But they don't really mean much. I suspect everyone knows as much, but it's still important that we acknowledge each other."
My close friend, John, reiterates the notion. "I'm not great at sending presents, but I don't want to feel guilty that I have done nothing for family and friends at Christmas. I keep the hand-made ones I get from my mother."
"Where?"
"In a filing cabinet."
"Do you ever look at them again?"
"Oh, sure. You know, as long as I'm going into my filing cabinet anyway."
"And the rest of them?"
"I recycle them...or, make filters for my homemade cigarettes."
The card then is a surrogate for actual communication: a semiotic representation of sentiment diminished by the fact that we are too lazy to actually engage the emotion - a replacement for a phone call, a letter, or god forbid, an actual visit. What is the cost of this laziness and guilt? "Today, Christmas Cards are a multi million dollar industry in most English-speaking countries. Hallmark Cards, the largest American greeting card company, boasts annual sales of $400 million. In 1954, Americans sent about 2 billion Christmas cards; now, the yearly figure stands at close to 4 billion, for an average of twenty cards per person" (History). Globally, millions of trees are sacrificed to the pulp and paper industry to provide the raw materials to manufacture the commercial profit generated from the sale of Christmas cards. The silver lining is oxygen. Logging, as a commercial industry, has spawned the subsidiary industry of tree planting. Of course the cash crop must be replenished. "The provincial governments and various pulp & paper and lumber companies oversee the planting of over 700 million trees in Canada every year" (Minnes). The young trees replacing those older ones cut in the process of logging are ecologically believed to produce more oxygen. Wildlife members of the ravaged eco-system probably don't appreciate this benefit.
But the sentiment is genuine. In a modern world of fast-paced, rat-race lifestyles, at least we retain enough guilt to pause and express our need for family or friendship connections, even if only through a formulaic ritual. And the cards needn't be wasted. There are uncountable practical and aesthetic household uses for a small square of cardboard printed with a pretty picture...as long as we can overcome our guilt enough to slice through them. Alas, the pagans have the last laugh. The trees cry out in silent slaughter. The commercial baron reaps his multi-national wealth. And the rest of us overlook the pittance of pennies and time and trees it costs to escape a little guilt and be a little lazy. What will you do with your Christmas cards this year? Merry Christmas.
Annotated Bibliography
Christmas - Where Did It Come From? Where Is It Going? 22 Oct 2008. Accessed 30 Oct 2008.
Doe, John. Personal interview. 27 Oct 2008.
An honest discussion allowed to meander into peripheral reflection by both interviewer and interviewee but comprised mainly of five fundamental questions: To whom do you send Christmas Cards?, Why do you send Christmas cards?, Do you keep any you have received, where, and which ones?, What do you do with them after Christmas? Do you ever look at them again?
Ferguson, Corrie and Amy N. Grupp. "Constantine Converts to Christianity 312". Webchron - the Web Chronology Project. 15 Dec 1998. Accessed 30 Oct 2008.
This highly concise article outlines Emperor Constantine's political career from the time he became Emperor in 306AD until about 340AD. The major points upon which the article reflects include his controversial ‘vision’ that he attributes to the success of his military campaign, and his subsequent conversion to Christianity. The article further outlines Constantine's 'tolerance' of paganism after the conversion and the highly political way in which he superimposed Christian celebrations on pagan festivals and rituals.
"History of Christmas Cards". Big Site of Amazing Facts. 20 Aug 2007. Accessed 30 Oct 2008.
In a detailed article that extends far beyond the history of the Christmas card itself, the text begins by questioning the date ascribed to the birth of Christ and follows the pagan origins of many Christmas traditions including the celebration of the winter solstice and the Roman exchange of gifts. The article then quickly moves to the modern celebration of Christmas and specifically details the creator of the first card and its artist, including a detailed description of both its picture and inscription and follows its commercial success, expansion, and acceptance into the twentieth century.
Johnston, Marianne. Personal interview. 27 Oct 2008.
An honest discussion allowed to meander into peripheral reflection by both interviewer and interviewee but comprised mainly of five fundamental questions: To whom do you send Christmas Cards?, Why do you send Christmas cards?, Do you keep any you have received, where, and which ones?, What do you do with them after Christmas? Do you ever look at them again?
Mann, Theodore H. Did Constantine Invent Christmas? 2006. Accessed 30 Oct 2008.
The article provides a detailed outline of Emperor Constantine's appropriation of a late December date as the celebration for the birth of Christ and represents a collection of smaller sections which detail historical events which may be the reasons that the modern Christmas date is established as December 25. The articles pay particular attention to the earliest possible celebration of the birth of Christ, through its historical rejection and acceptance by religious groups and up to its modern proliferation.
Minnes, Gordon. "Pulp and Paper Industry". The Canadian Encyclopedia. Accessed 30 Oct 2008.
The article outlines the chemical process of pulp and paper production, followed by a history of the industry in Canada, and ends with a global comparison of the industry. The article is dense with statistics on the dollar value of commercial revenues and the percentages of product distribution worldwide.
"Planting". Outland. 20 Oct 2008. Accessed 30 Oct 2008.
The page is an informational document as part of the tree-planting employee recruiting for the Outland Company. The page responds to "frequently asked questions" by potential employees as to where, when, and how they might become part of the tree-planting force in Canada. Although it is a commercial recruitment, the page opens with an interesting statistic on the amount of annual tree planting sponsored by provincial governments in Canada.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
This Is Not A Poem
If I have to read another poem written by some brooding teen
Imagining the reaction of their parents after they die
I'm gonna puke.
I've earned the right to say that; People have puked on me.
Ghosts only scare me at night; During the day I have bills to pay.
It always scares me a little when I'm teaching
And I look around the room
And all the students are writing down everything I say.
I'll be honest; I'm makin' a lot of this shit up.
"I'd rather be a coach, not a critic" I think as I tear the heart out of
A piece of writing far superior to anything I could have done.
If a tree falls in the forest, does a bear shit in the woods?
What!? One hand can't clap alone!
A wise man once said, "In the real world,
People actually expect you to produce something
Before you feel good about yourself!"
Ok, he wasn't so wise
But he was smart and rich and nowadays most people can't tell the difference.
Everyone who is a bully was once bullied themselves
But that's not an excuse: They still deserve to get their asses kicked.
I once wrote a story about shooting a guy in the face. I farted.
Insert poetic image of birds or wind or singing crickets or something
And love the alliteration in the lengthwise line.
The drugs are all gone. Gimme that bottle.
See you in hell. Shakes.
Imagining the reaction of their parents after they die
I'm gonna puke.
I've earned the right to say that; People have puked on me.
Ghosts only scare me at night; During the day I have bills to pay.
It always scares me a little when I'm teaching
And I look around the room
And all the students are writing down everything I say.
I'll be honest; I'm makin' a lot of this shit up.
"I'd rather be a coach, not a critic" I think as I tear the heart out of
A piece of writing far superior to anything I could have done.
If a tree falls in the forest, does a bear shit in the woods?
What!? One hand can't clap alone!
A wise man once said, "In the real world,
People actually expect you to produce something
Before you feel good about yourself!"
Ok, he wasn't so wise
But he was smart and rich and nowadays most people can't tell the difference.
Everyone who is a bully was once bullied themselves
But that's not an excuse: They still deserve to get their asses kicked.
I once wrote a story about shooting a guy in the face. I farted.
Insert poetic image of birds or wind or singing crickets or something
And love the alliteration in the lengthwise line.
The drugs are all gone. Gimme that bottle.
See you in hell. Shakes.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
A Penny's Worth
It seems that Milo is a never-ending source of bloggable stories. The kid had a rough week last week. Mid-week I was called away from the university to go and take him to the clinic to see if he had sustained eye damage. I rushed to the school to find him lying in the nurse's office, streaks of tears having been wiped recently from his cheeks, and a gauze pad bandaged over his left eye. He seemed calm, but I wasn't.
"What happened!?"
"It looks worse than it is", said the nurse. "We only called because when it comes to eyes, we like the parents to be able to take every precaution". No kidding.
As it happens, Milo, in his recent efforts to behave and control his emotions in class, was actually innocent. Some bully had blocked Milo from putting his lunch bag away when asked to do so by the teacher. Milo became emotional and eventually took a good kick to the face. The school nurse was very concerned that when she flashed her little light at his eye he got upset and started crying. "That is an indicator of eye damage". As concerned as I was, I wasn't convinced. I took her little flashlight and pointed it at his other eye - same reaction. At this point I couldn't help but articulate the obvious to the nurse. "Did you consider the possibility that he just doesn't like having a light flashed across his retina?" Ultimately, he was no worse for wear. We did visit the doctor to be safe, but his 'sensitivity to light' seemed to disappear the second he got a fast-food lunch. Many parents disparage McDonald's but I say never underestimate the medicinal value of a good happy-meal.
Later that same week, I had to make a pit-stop to pick up a paycheque from a local place of employment. I left Milo and the kids in the van with Marianne, quite comfortably and safely strapped in place. When I returned, I once again found Milo wiping red streaks of tears from his face and being gently pampered by Marianne upon her lap.
"What happened!?"
"It looks worse than it is", said Marianne. "Milo swallowed a penny". He seemed calm, but I wasn't. Fortunately, Marianne had had experience with this sort of thing and knew it not to be as serious as it sounds. It turns out that she had swallowed a key when she was quite young in order to try and get her father to stay home from a fishing trip. Her father had another key to the boat, his trip went on as scheduled and uninterrupted, and Marianne had to wait several days for the 're-emergence' of the key.
It quickly became evident to me, by what Milo was saying, that he was more concerned for the loss of his penny than for his health safety. I assured him, it would be back, and that it was, in the meantime, in a definitively safe place.
At the clinic, the doctor told me that the human body is amazing in "what it can squeeze out of its system". He assured me that there was really nothing to worry about, save a few "tight corners" the penny would have to manipulate that might cause Milo a little discomfort for a couple of days. To put this in perspective, he informed me that he would be giving me the same speech if Milo had swallowed a loonie, and that a penny was really nothing to worry about. His only real concern was that the penny had actually been inhaled which was far more dire. Several hours and several x-rays later, while driving home from the hospital, Milo confidently told his mother on the phone that "the penny was in a safe place of his body, not a bad place".
It has been three days and the penny is yet to make an appearance, although it is reasonable to assume that it may well have slipped past Jennifer or I. Milo seems none the worse and none the wiser - except that he keeps his coins away from his mouth now. I must admit, I sure have gotten my penny's worth of anecdotes out of that boy!
Shakes.
"What happened!?"
"It looks worse than it is", said the nurse. "We only called because when it comes to eyes, we like the parents to be able to take every precaution". No kidding.
As it happens, Milo, in his recent efforts to behave and control his emotions in class, was actually innocent. Some bully had blocked Milo from putting his lunch bag away when asked to do so by the teacher. Milo became emotional and eventually took a good kick to the face. The school nurse was very concerned that when she flashed her little light at his eye he got upset and started crying. "That is an indicator of eye damage". As concerned as I was, I wasn't convinced. I took her little flashlight and pointed it at his other eye - same reaction. At this point I couldn't help but articulate the obvious to the nurse. "Did you consider the possibility that he just doesn't like having a light flashed across his retina?" Ultimately, he was no worse for wear. We did visit the doctor to be safe, but his 'sensitivity to light' seemed to disappear the second he got a fast-food lunch. Many parents disparage McDonald's but I say never underestimate the medicinal value of a good happy-meal.
Later that same week, I had to make a pit-stop to pick up a paycheque from a local place of employment. I left Milo and the kids in the van with Marianne, quite comfortably and safely strapped in place. When I returned, I once again found Milo wiping red streaks of tears from his face and being gently pampered by Marianne upon her lap.
"What happened!?"
"It looks worse than it is", said Marianne. "Milo swallowed a penny". He seemed calm, but I wasn't. Fortunately, Marianne had had experience with this sort of thing and knew it not to be as serious as it sounds. It turns out that she had swallowed a key when she was quite young in order to try and get her father to stay home from a fishing trip. Her father had another key to the boat, his trip went on as scheduled and uninterrupted, and Marianne had to wait several days for the 're-emergence' of the key.
It quickly became evident to me, by what Milo was saying, that he was more concerned for the loss of his penny than for his health safety. I assured him, it would be back, and that it was, in the meantime, in a definitively safe place.
At the clinic, the doctor told me that the human body is amazing in "what it can squeeze out of its system". He assured me that there was really nothing to worry about, save a few "tight corners" the penny would have to manipulate that might cause Milo a little discomfort for a couple of days. To put this in perspective, he informed me that he would be giving me the same speech if Milo had swallowed a loonie, and that a penny was really nothing to worry about. His only real concern was that the penny had actually been inhaled which was far more dire. Several hours and several x-rays later, while driving home from the hospital, Milo confidently told his mother on the phone that "the penny was in a safe place of his body, not a bad place".
It has been three days and the penny is yet to make an appearance, although it is reasonable to assume that it may well have slipped past Jennifer or I. Milo seems none the worse and none the wiser - except that he keeps his coins away from his mouth now. I must admit, I sure have gotten my penny's worth of anecdotes out of that boy!
Shakes.
A Moment of Milo
One of the most fascinating people I know is a mere child, not yet even seven-years-old. Recently, this particular child has been garnering much attention in the public school that he attends. He has been diagnosed with every fashionable disorder from ADHD to being somewhere on the Asperger's continuum. He is a 'square peg' attempting to be forced into the 'round hole', generic-child public schooling system. It was this recent attention that prompted me to focus on him as the subject for yet another blog entry.
A child is somewhere between an object and a person from an adult's perspective - they are not fully developed 'people' and their behaviour and actions are always subject to interpretation. As such, the answers one might get from a personal interview with a child will always be interpreted, however unintentional, by our adult wisdom and psychoanalysis. In order to move a profile of my six-year-old son out of my first person interpretation, I will rather review some of the discussions that occurred in an interview between myself, Jennifer and a psychologist regarding his behaviour and imminent visits to said Psychologist.
She asked me to describe him so that she could evaluate my opinion of my son.
"He is a super-loving and hyper-energetic ball of curiosity and destruction. He needs and thrives on much attention and affection . . . so sweet, he's almost socially naive." In order to unpack this highly dense expository description, she asked me to provide her with examples of some of these items.
"What do you mean socially naive?"
"Well, . . . " I began, "at a recent family fun-fair at his school at the beginning of the year, as soon as we got there, he started bouncing up and down when he saw a little girl in his class, and screaming 'There's Rebecca! There's Rebecca!' and waving at her frantically." I replayed the scene in my mind and chuckled, "She was a little fat girl that didn't like him - her expression showed she wasn't exactly happy to see Milo. She grimaced and just kind'a waved back - probably just 'cause Marianne and I were standing there. . . He was totally oblivious - absolutely naive about her reaction, and he wasn't fazed at all! He just smiled and kept right on waving until something else caught his attention and he took off." It was true. In many ways he was naive about her disdain - totally lost in the moment - not careless, but carefree.
"What about curiosity and destruction?” she asked.
"Well, . . . first of all . . .” I paused. "He can make five pounds of mess from a meal that was only a half a pound to begin with." He certainly can spread a meal about his clothing and immediate vicinity. But he must get some in his mouth. His level of energy suggests that he is well nourished.
"And there was one time in the living room... I had spent the better part of an entire night cleaning and reorganizing the living room in our little two-bedroom apartment so that we had at least a little living space for us and our three kids. In the morning, I left to get groceries and Jennifer fell asleep on the couch. Upon my return I was stunned by the scene before me. Before I could even react, it took a moment to take inventory of the extent of the damage. There was black permanent marker scribbled all over the television screen, and up and down the freshly painted white walls. Every block of every type of construction set had been dumped out and mixed together into a pot-pourri in the middle of the floor. Every plant in the room was knocked over and spilling soil everywhere it shouldn't be. The finger paint jars were all tipped sideways and spilling on to the off-white carpet along with his works of art, which had far strayed from his papers. He held up one sheet and innocently asked, 'Do you like my art, Daddy?' I paused for a moment thinking of the whole room as a work of art - a physical testimonial to his energy and destructive creativity - a work of art that, in all my adult pretension, would have taken far longer than half an hour to destroy/create. In hindsight, it is a work of art of which I wish I had taken a photograph." But therein lies Milo's beauty. For adults, hindsight is 20/20 and often marred with regret. We become preoccupied with foresight. For a child hindsight exists only in the form of consequence - often imposed by adults - and foresight is non-existent. There is only here. There is only now. And every moment is a beautiful work of art.
Later, upon my return home from this interview, I became occupied with cleaning, or homework, or some such necessity, but was suddenly distracted by an urge to glance over at Milo. He was completely entrenched in a video game, bouncing away joyously, game controller gripped firmly in hand, and mesmerized by the cacophony of dancing sound and colour before him - he appeared a nearly hilarious paradox of perpetual motion and total attentiveness. With every minor success in the game, he would release a jubilant giggle, look over at his father to see if he had witnessed his triumph, and without a moment of disappointment in seeing that he had not, begin his bouncing anew.
Eventually, a clearly pivotal success was achieved and Milo couldn't help but share his excitement. He ran toward me with his already huge eyes widened in sheer exuberance, cheeks flushed, and gasping through his own breathlessness.
"Didja see?! Didja see, Dad?!"
"No, honey. I'm sorry, I didn't."
Milo was undaunted by my lack of attention to his gaming prowess.
"Well, dere was da guy (pant, pant) and he had two weapons and I couldn't beat him and I couldn and I couldn (gulp, wheeze) but den I dzumped into da blue spot and dere was a secret safe place (wheeze, pant) and I got him, I GOT HIM!"
His speech simultaneously made no sense at all and all the sense it ever needed to. Milo is a child - perfect in all his imperfections - and worth a room full of precious antiques, if only for the privilege of watching him artistically destroy. Milo does have a lot of energy. It does take a lot of energy to raise him and take care of him, . . . and to understand him. It would take a lot more energy to know I had missed any of it, though, . . . even a moment.
See you in heaven,
Shakes.
A child is somewhere between an object and a person from an adult's perspective - they are not fully developed 'people' and their behaviour and actions are always subject to interpretation. As such, the answers one might get from a personal interview with a child will always be interpreted, however unintentional, by our adult wisdom and psychoanalysis. In order to move a profile of my six-year-old son out of my first person interpretation, I will rather review some of the discussions that occurred in an interview between myself, Jennifer and a psychologist regarding his behaviour and imminent visits to said Psychologist.
She asked me to describe him so that she could evaluate my opinion of my son.
"He is a super-loving and hyper-energetic ball of curiosity and destruction. He needs and thrives on much attention and affection . . . so sweet, he's almost socially naive." In order to unpack this highly dense expository description, she asked me to provide her with examples of some of these items.
"What do you mean socially naive?"
"Well, . . . " I began, "at a recent family fun-fair at his school at the beginning of the year, as soon as we got there, he started bouncing up and down when he saw a little girl in his class, and screaming 'There's Rebecca! There's Rebecca!' and waving at her frantically." I replayed the scene in my mind and chuckled, "She was a little fat girl that didn't like him - her expression showed she wasn't exactly happy to see Milo. She grimaced and just kind'a waved back - probably just 'cause Marianne and I were standing there. . . He was totally oblivious - absolutely naive about her reaction, and he wasn't fazed at all! He just smiled and kept right on waving until something else caught his attention and he took off." It was true. In many ways he was naive about her disdain - totally lost in the moment - not careless, but carefree.
"What about curiosity and destruction?” she asked.
"Well, . . . first of all . . .” I paused. "He can make five pounds of mess from a meal that was only a half a pound to begin with." He certainly can spread a meal about his clothing and immediate vicinity. But he must get some in his mouth. His level of energy suggests that he is well nourished.
"And there was one time in the living room... I had spent the better part of an entire night cleaning and reorganizing the living room in our little two-bedroom apartment so that we had at least a little living space for us and our three kids. In the morning, I left to get groceries and Jennifer fell asleep on the couch. Upon my return I was stunned by the scene before me. Before I could even react, it took a moment to take inventory of the extent of the damage. There was black permanent marker scribbled all over the television screen, and up and down the freshly painted white walls. Every block of every type of construction set had been dumped out and mixed together into a pot-pourri in the middle of the floor. Every plant in the room was knocked over and spilling soil everywhere it shouldn't be. The finger paint jars were all tipped sideways and spilling on to the off-white carpet along with his works of art, which had far strayed from his papers. He held up one sheet and innocently asked, 'Do you like my art, Daddy?' I paused for a moment thinking of the whole room as a work of art - a physical testimonial to his energy and destructive creativity - a work of art that, in all my adult pretension, would have taken far longer than half an hour to destroy/create. In hindsight, it is a work of art of which I wish I had taken a photograph." But therein lies Milo's beauty. For adults, hindsight is 20/20 and often marred with regret. We become preoccupied with foresight. For a child hindsight exists only in the form of consequence - often imposed by adults - and foresight is non-existent. There is only here. There is only now. And every moment is a beautiful work of art.
Later, upon my return home from this interview, I became occupied with cleaning, or homework, or some such necessity, but was suddenly distracted by an urge to glance over at Milo. He was completely entrenched in a video game, bouncing away joyously, game controller gripped firmly in hand, and mesmerized by the cacophony of dancing sound and colour before him - he appeared a nearly hilarious paradox of perpetual motion and total attentiveness. With every minor success in the game, he would release a jubilant giggle, look over at his father to see if he had witnessed his triumph, and without a moment of disappointment in seeing that he had not, begin his bouncing anew.
Eventually, a clearly pivotal success was achieved and Milo couldn't help but share his excitement. He ran toward me with his already huge eyes widened in sheer exuberance, cheeks flushed, and gasping through his own breathlessness.
"Didja see?! Didja see, Dad?!"
"No, honey. I'm sorry, I didn't."
Milo was undaunted by my lack of attention to his gaming prowess.
"Well, dere was da guy (pant, pant) and he had two weapons and I couldn't beat him and I couldn and I couldn (gulp, wheeze) but den I dzumped into da blue spot and dere was a secret safe place (wheeze, pant) and I got him, I GOT HIM!"
His speech simultaneously made no sense at all and all the sense it ever needed to. Milo is a child - perfect in all his imperfections - and worth a room full of precious antiques, if only for the privilege of watching him artistically destroy. Milo does have a lot of energy. It does take a lot of energy to raise him and take care of him, . . . and to understand him. It would take a lot more energy to know I had missed any of it, though, . . . even a moment.
See you in heaven,
Shakes.
Time Will Tell
Dear Dad:
As I daily remind myself to use the phone and then never do, I have decided that while I am sitting at a computer working on an assignment, I would update you electronically.
It seems that my recent relationships have taken a greater toll than I had realized. Regardless of my sins of the past, infidelity against me and dependence on me have been identified as hugely abusive by my counselors while I was in a cycle of relationship addiction. I only now am beginning to see things objectively. Currently, I am not in a state of depression but more of a walking catatonia. The passionate behaviour that was the hallmark of my personality has all but disappeared. I feel neither romantic nor motivated towards dreams and goals as I once was, but merely numb and dull. My doctors assure me that my personality will return in time, but that I first need to learn to recover.
My foray into the world of theatre education has been marred by disillusionment with the program. However, I did manage to achieve a grade of 100% in second year theatre history - heretofore unachieved by anyone. All of my examination answers were published on the U-Vic Study Guide website. As such, I have been successful in my direct application to the Theatre History MA program, as well as the PDP (post-degree public school teaching certificate) program. I am once again faced with a choice - so long as my funding/loans hold up. However, neither program begins until next school year (Sept. 2009) and I find myself this year doing prerequisite contemporary English courses to satisfy my qualifications. I am actually quite enjoying them so far and my performance as a student has never been better. I am seriously concerned with the long-term loan costs but in two or three years, I stand to emerge with an MA in theatre history, A public school teaching certificate for English and Drama on top of my BA in English, my BA in Economics, as well as my broadcasting and TESL certificates. Time will tell.
A friend has invested in starting up an internet radio station. Although the industry is fledgling, it is not the pipe-dream it was a decade ago. I have been slated to do a weekly music and talk show for him. Although it is currently merely a hobby, it stands to become a viable industry and source of income. Time will tell.
My run with the Victoria Shakespeare Society this summer was once again met with rave reviews by the local newspapers ("David Christopher is the master of villains") and I am finished with that now. I once again worked for Pan Pacific this summer. Although it affords me a steady income during the summer months, I ended up teaching ESL to children more often than not. Administrative problems made that even less pleasant and I found myself disliking much of my summer work. My time with that organization may be quickly coming to an end. I did get the opportunity to re-write and design their ESL curriculum and level testing over a four week period which I quite enjoyed. When I demonstrated it to my girlfriend, Marianne, she pointed out how utterly brilliant she thought it was but I realized my own lack of foresight in contract negotiations when she also pointed out that it was too bad that I didn't own it because I could have sold it for much more than I was paid to design it.
Marianne and I have been dating for some months now. She and I began a friendship during the last stages of my relationship with Amelia which later blossomed into a full relationship. Of course, in reality, my 'friendship' with her was pivotal in the final demise of my relationship with Amelia as is so often the case with me. Marianne is 30 yrs. old, divorced with 3 kids of her own of which she has full custody. She is intelligent, beautiful, responsible, sweet and loyal to a fault . . . and for some reason, absolutely in love with me. In fact, she and I met some three years earlier at a water park - two parents who just started a conversation. There were sparks then, but we were both involved with other relationships at that time. Inevitably, she fell out of my immediate thoughts, but her own relationship dissolved shortly after that first meeting
and she says she carried a flame for me for two years hoping to bump into me again, until ultimately, she did. Our interactions represent everything I have ever loved and wanted. I consider myself lucky to have such a wonderful partner and truly enjoy her company. She has quickly taken over almost every aspect of my life, including moving in. Every day is an adventure.
The kids are great and remain the greatest source of happiness and passion in my life. Rory has become quite a talented football player and continues to mature into a responsible young man. He is taking school more seriously than ever before and really likes his new teacher. He stands to experience a successful and enjoyable year. Currently he is in track and field, gymnastics, and football, and still maintains A grades. Whether or not he can keep that pace remains to be seen. Time will tell.
Blair is as sweet as ever and enjoying the early stages of grade three. I do not wish to gloss over him, but there is not much more to tell. He has become an avid reader and seems happy and well integrated. I don't think am being naive or subjective in this analysis. Time will tell.
Milo's behaviour has prompted Jennifer and I to seek assistance from a psychologist outside of the school. Her current employment covers that cost as a benefit. Although he does very well with his school work, he becomes emotional easily and is difficult to calm. He has lately developed a habit of hitting. Fortunately, he seems happily oblivious to any stigmatization and moves through his days as buoyantly as ever. The psychologist has suggested (and I agree) that the behaviour began and manifested at school and has overflowed into our homes. I never had any problem with Milo that a lot of attention and a LOT of affection couldn't quickly cure, but as an energetic round peg in the square-hole-school-system, he has not been able to easily conform to large group interaction with minimal adult presence (ie. the classroom). All alarmism aside, he is fine and continues to be doing just fine.
Alas, I am breathless having not said a word, but merely writing about all that is my current emotional being. I am sure you are equally breathless having read it and must have questions. Please write back to update me on what is new there.
Love, Dave.
a.k.a.,
Shakes.
As I daily remind myself to use the phone and then never do, I have decided that while I am sitting at a computer working on an assignment, I would update you electronically.
It seems that my recent relationships have taken a greater toll than I had realized. Regardless of my sins of the past, infidelity against me and dependence on me have been identified as hugely abusive by my counselors while I was in a cycle of relationship addiction. I only now am beginning to see things objectively. Currently, I am not in a state of depression but more of a walking catatonia. The passionate behaviour that was the hallmark of my personality has all but disappeared. I feel neither romantic nor motivated towards dreams and goals as I once was, but merely numb and dull. My doctors assure me that my personality will return in time, but that I first need to learn to recover.
My foray into the world of theatre education has been marred by disillusionment with the program. However, I did manage to achieve a grade of 100% in second year theatre history - heretofore unachieved by anyone. All of my examination answers were published on the U-Vic Study Guide website. As such, I have been successful in my direct application to the Theatre History MA program, as well as the PDP (post-degree public school teaching certificate) program. I am once again faced with a choice - so long as my funding/loans hold up. However, neither program begins until next school year (Sept. 2009) and I find myself this year doing prerequisite contemporary English courses to satisfy my qualifications. I am actually quite enjoying them so far and my performance as a student has never been better. I am seriously concerned with the long-term loan costs but in two or three years, I stand to emerge with an MA in theatre history, A public school teaching certificate for English and Drama on top of my BA in English, my BA in Economics, as well as my broadcasting and TESL certificates. Time will tell.
A friend has invested in starting up an internet radio station. Although the industry is fledgling, it is not the pipe-dream it was a decade ago. I have been slated to do a weekly music and talk show for him. Although it is currently merely a hobby, it stands to become a viable industry and source of income. Time will tell.
My run with the Victoria Shakespeare Society this summer was once again met with rave reviews by the local newspapers ("David Christopher is the master of villains") and I am finished with that now. I once again worked for Pan Pacific this summer. Although it affords me a steady income during the summer months, I ended up teaching ESL to children more often than not. Administrative problems made that even less pleasant and I found myself disliking much of my summer work. My time with that organization may be quickly coming to an end. I did get the opportunity to re-write and design their ESL curriculum and level testing over a four week period which I quite enjoyed. When I demonstrated it to my girlfriend, Marianne, she pointed out how utterly brilliant she thought it was but I realized my own lack of foresight in contract negotiations when she also pointed out that it was too bad that I didn't own it because I could have sold it for much more than I was paid to design it.
Marianne and I have been dating for some months now. She and I began a friendship during the last stages of my relationship with Amelia which later blossomed into a full relationship. Of course, in reality, my 'friendship' with her was pivotal in the final demise of my relationship with Amelia as is so often the case with me. Marianne is 30 yrs. old, divorced with 3 kids of her own of which she has full custody. She is intelligent, beautiful, responsible, sweet and loyal to a fault . . . and for some reason, absolutely in love with me. In fact, she and I met some three years earlier at a water park - two parents who just started a conversation. There were sparks then, but we were both involved with other relationships at that time. Inevitably, she fell out of my immediate thoughts, but her own relationship dissolved shortly after that first meeting
and she says she carried a flame for me for two years hoping to bump into me again, until ultimately, she did. Our interactions represent everything I have ever loved and wanted. I consider myself lucky to have such a wonderful partner and truly enjoy her company. She has quickly taken over almost every aspect of my life, including moving in. Every day is an adventure.
The kids are great and remain the greatest source of happiness and passion in my life. Rory has become quite a talented football player and continues to mature into a responsible young man. He is taking school more seriously than ever before and really likes his new teacher. He stands to experience a successful and enjoyable year. Currently he is in track and field, gymnastics, and football, and still maintains A grades. Whether or not he can keep that pace remains to be seen. Time will tell.
Blair is as sweet as ever and enjoying the early stages of grade three. I do not wish to gloss over him, but there is not much more to tell. He has become an avid reader and seems happy and well integrated. I don't think am being naive or subjective in this analysis. Time will tell.
Milo's behaviour has prompted Jennifer and I to seek assistance from a psychologist outside of the school. Her current employment covers that cost as a benefit. Although he does very well with his school work, he becomes emotional easily and is difficult to calm. He has lately developed a habit of hitting. Fortunately, he seems happily oblivious to any stigmatization and moves through his days as buoyantly as ever. The psychologist has suggested (and I agree) that the behaviour began and manifested at school and has overflowed into our homes. I never had any problem with Milo that a lot of attention and a LOT of affection couldn't quickly cure, but as an energetic round peg in the square-hole-school-system, he has not been able to easily conform to large group interaction with minimal adult presence (ie. the classroom). All alarmism aside, he is fine and continues to be doing just fine.
Alas, I am breathless having not said a word, but merely writing about all that is my current emotional being. I am sure you are equally breathless having read it and must have questions. Please write back to update me on what is new there.
Love, Dave.
a.k.a.,
Shakes.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
My Favourite Quotes Part II - The Real Deal
"Control. You must learn control." - Yoda
No good deed goes unpunished.
Have fun with that. / Sorry about yer luck.
NO! I am your father.
It is too late for me, son.
You don't know the power of the dark side.
If you think there is some good in everybody, you haven't met everybody.
Take what ya can. Give nothin' back.
"It's shining outside" - Milo Christopher.
"They're not called feet. On horses they're called trit-trots" - Blair Christopher.
"I don't like this adult toothpaste" - Rory Christopher (while brushing his teeth with Ben-Gay)
"Cheeky boy!!" - MJ
"I like your gun" - the TX
"Unlikely. I am an obsolete design. The TX is faster, more powerful, and more intelligent and comes equipped with onboard weapons and nano-technology" - the T101 (Arnie).
The entire song entitled 'Flawed Design' by Stabilo.
It's too late to apologize.
"Goddamn, it's deafening! . . . wish she would shut up about everything" - Matthew Good
"We are glad the Dauphin is so pleasant with us . . . so get thee hence, . . . in peace, . . . and tell the Dauphin that his jest will savour but of shallow wit, when thousands weep more than did laugh at it" - Billy Shakes
"For all your anger and bitterness, you forget that you have much to be happy about - You should forgive the world a little" - me
"I've been counting stars all evening and I'm glad you finally arrived - 'one'" - me
"We rocked!" - Brendan Bailey
"The best way to ruin a hobby is to make it a career" - Peter Long
"You can wake up tomorrow and change your life forever" - Doug Long
"But you never keep your promises" - Matthew Patry
"De Americanss arre . . . (how you say?) . . . douchebags" - Christopher Walken as some french politician on SNL
If you're close enough to read this, fuck off.
If ignorance is bliss, why aren't there more happy people?
That's the gayest shit I ever heard. - some puppet on Chappelle voiced by Snoop responding to a hyper-optimistic, precocious little girl
"There can be only one . . ." - the Highlander
"Nobody gets away with shit like Dave does" - Alex Coll and Joanna Gaskell a.k.a. Reefer Man and the Filter Queen.
"I know that you have secrets..." - MJ.
"AAAAAAAAAH-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA! Welcome to your life, David!" - Satan, looking at me in my rear-view mirror from over my shoulder in the back seat as I was driving on Ring Road on the morning from hell.
"Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin as self-neglect" - Billy Shakes.
"Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways - Chardonnay in one hand - chocolate in the other - body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOO HOO, What a Ride"
"Ha-ha-ha. Good on ya! You are pure evil!" - Matty Cools.
"My mom is the devil. But she isn't dressed up." - Aiden (lost on Halloween and describing his Mom to an assisting parent)
See you in hell,
Shakes.
No good deed goes unpunished.
Have fun with that. / Sorry about yer luck.
NO! I am your father.
It is too late for me, son.
You don't know the power of the dark side.
If you think there is some good in everybody, you haven't met everybody.
Take what ya can. Give nothin' back.
"It's shining outside" - Milo Christopher.
"They're not called feet. On horses they're called trit-trots" - Blair Christopher.
"I don't like this adult toothpaste" - Rory Christopher (while brushing his teeth with Ben-Gay)
"Cheeky boy!!" - MJ
"I like your gun" - the TX
"Unlikely. I am an obsolete design. The TX is faster, more powerful, and more intelligent and comes equipped with onboard weapons and nano-technology" - the T101 (Arnie).
The entire song entitled 'Flawed Design' by Stabilo.
It's too late to apologize.
"Goddamn, it's deafening! . . . wish she would shut up about everything" - Matthew Good
"We are glad the Dauphin is so pleasant with us . . . so get thee hence, . . . in peace, . . . and tell the Dauphin that his jest will savour but of shallow wit, when thousands weep more than did laugh at it" - Billy Shakes
"For all your anger and bitterness, you forget that you have much to be happy about - You should forgive the world a little" - me
"I've been counting stars all evening and I'm glad you finally arrived - 'one'" - me
"We rocked!" - Brendan Bailey
"The best way to ruin a hobby is to make it a career" - Peter Long
"You can wake up tomorrow and change your life forever" - Doug Long
"But you never keep your promises" - Matthew Patry
"De Americanss arre . . . (how you say?) . . . douchebags" - Christopher Walken as some french politician on SNL
If you're close enough to read this, fuck off.
If ignorance is bliss, why aren't there more happy people?
That's the gayest shit I ever heard. - some puppet on Chappelle voiced by Snoop responding to a hyper-optimistic, precocious little girl
"There can be only one . . ." - the Highlander
"Nobody gets away with shit like Dave does" - Alex Coll and Joanna Gaskell a.k.a. Reefer Man and the Filter Queen.
"I know that you have secrets..." - MJ.
"AAAAAAAAAH-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA! Welcome to your life, David!" - Satan, looking at me in my rear-view mirror from over my shoulder in the back seat as I was driving on Ring Road on the morning from hell.
"Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin as self-neglect" - Billy Shakes.
"Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways - Chardonnay in one hand - chocolate in the other - body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOO HOO, What a Ride"
"Ha-ha-ha. Good on ya! You are pure evil!" - Matty Cools.
"My mom is the devil. But she isn't dressed up." - Aiden (lost on Halloween and describing his Mom to an assisting parent)
See you in hell,
Shakes.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
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.
See you in hell,
Shakes.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
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.
See you in hell,
Shakes.
Friday, January 05, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, October 13, 2006
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.
#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.
Friday, October 06, 2006
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.
See you in hell,
Shakes.
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