Good Vibrations

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

Taffan the Elf

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

Three Wise Men

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

Is there anybody out there?

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

Krumholtz and Tuckamore

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

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

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

Ol' Lot 67

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

Some Small Pinatas

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

How dare you bring me here to witness your death

How dare you bring me here to witness your death when all I have in my heart is the ability to celebrate your life.
You passed on so much wisdom but 100 years from now, nobody will give a shit. I can only hope that 100 years from now, nobody will give a shit as much about me.

B: "You’re not such a dragon."
D: "I never claimed to be."
B: "Then why is everybody scared of you?"
D: "Because I’m somebody. In fact, I’m somebody else, but I’m trapped here. I’m sorry you had to love me."
B: "I’m not"
(Do you remember this moment? It was on the driveway at 21 Meadowbank Drive late one evening, when you came to me (of all people) for relationship advice. You asked me why you kept getting hurt. Do you know who you are?)

You failed, Dad. I will never be as good a man as you were.

Before you condemn me, try being me. If you don't like me, you can walk away, but I am trapped here. Would you want to be me? Now, if you can, go ahead and hate me.

When I see you in hell, you won't shed a tear for me, but I'll shed one for you. That's the difference.

Once Upon A Time

As self-gratifying as it might be, many have asked. So in my defense, the story was requested. Be careful what you wish for. Happy stories are subjective and happy endings are strictly within the control of the maker.
I was born in 1970. Yes, that makes me 36 years old...today in fact. Happy birthday to me. My mother and father were both 15 years old. As such, I was adopted at birth into another family. Doug and Carole Long would be the parents I would know to grow up. I would call Kathy, Barb and Peter siblings. I was the only adopted child and destined to be the ultimate black sheep. I was always the smallest in my class as a grade school student and I got bullied accordingly. I was a particularly sensitive child and these years would begin a long career of cynicism and anger. When I was 8, my father left the family and ended his marriage. By the age of 10, my parents had divorced and my father had moved into a new relationship. I did not handle things well and I became what the rest of my family would describe in therapy as a problem child. I remember one 'group session' in which my family was asked what they deemed was the problem and every one of my siblings pointed at me. I will remember it forever.
When I was 8, I also came across a new friend at school. His name was Blair Mackenzie and he would become my best friend. For all my idiosyncracies, his loyalty never wavered. I named one of my sons after him. The time I spent with his family was a much needed refuge from the strange turbulence at home and his parents can easily be qualified as my third set of parents. Colleen and Hamish offered guidance that has proven invaluable in my life. At 15 I would have my heart truly broken for the first time and it would not be the last time. I seem to have developed a talent for mistreating women and getting hurt. By the time I was 17 I had started experimenting with a variety of drugs and my anger had grown to leviathan proportions. I was highly intelligent, highly naive and feared everything.
It was at this age that my eldest sister Kathy committed suicide. She was a kindred spirit with a mutual hatred for the breed of humanity, but I had a greed in my soul which cannot be attributed to her. Her loss would cause repercussions in my life both unexpected and immeasurable... and to this day.
Shortly afterwards, my mother would decide that life with me was too much to bear and she returned to BC to tend to her ailing father and mother. My brother, who didn't particularly like me (and probably with good cause), and I were left alone in the 'family' house with my father (living outside of the city limits) as our financial benefactor. I put myself through grades 12 and 13 - and succeeded!
I graduated high school at the age of 18 with a record number of 40 credits and a cocaine habit to the tune of nearly $10000. I voluntarily and autonomously went into rehabilation and came out clean of all drugs in only one month . . . almost.
My friendship with a young man named Todd Kowalik, which had started about the same time I befriended Blair had been sporadic in the past but had since become very solid. I will list him as probably my best friend of all time and his patience, wisdom and generosity would be instrumental in helping me through some of the most difficult emotional times of my life.
I entered university with high hopes. That would change.
I had begun the process of meeting my genetic mother. After a brief requisite period of counselling with the Children's Aid Society, we were introduced in person. Ask me more about this story some time. Our first telephone conversation alone was a hilarious story.
I found a lot of solace in this new relationship. My whole (genetic) family was just like me. They were all short (very short - in fact, compared to most of them, I am tall!), and had extra-curricular pharmaceutical habits that were tantamount to my own. I fit in nicely, for the first time in my life. Things were looking up and the development of a relationship with my genetic mother and the rest of my family was invaluable in helping me learn to accept myself. Even better, I had a little brother!
A career of bad relationships in which I regularly cheated on girlfriends was well under way and I would be several years to learn to be a better person. When I was 21 years old, Blair Mackenzie was killed in a car accident. I had been estranged from him for almost two years, but never had our loyalty and friendship been lost. We helped each other through second year algebra. Todd showed up at the carwash where I was working part-time and insisted that I attend the wake which I had decided to forego. Blair's current group of friends didn't exactly approve of me. Upon arrival, the line-up was out to the street and I was immediately brought by Ross (Blair's elder brother and my traditional nemesis) to the family receiving line. Colleen looked at me with an anguish like I had never seen, forced a little smile and then whispered in my ear through silent tears, "I knew you would come,.... I knew YOU would come." I was asked to remain with the family for the rest of the wake. At only 21, the relevant death toll in my life was already at two and I went careening downhill. Although I did not start taking hard drugs again, I was living a horribly depressed and self-destructive lifestyle. Infidelity and promiscuity became a way of life.
With slow eventuality, I graduated university and entered the working world. My first real job was as a service advisor at a Ford service outlet. I was so miserable in this profession that I became seriously and regularly ill until I was eventually laid off. A summer of pogey was all I could stand. However, it was the summer that women won the right to go topless in public in Ontario and I spent the summer with binoculars on local beaches. I didn't see much. I returned to work as a disk jockey, full-time, in an exotic dance club. The result was the final (and inevitable) demise of my relationship with Melanie.
I enjoyed this work. It was fun, made me popular with many of my friends and, quite lucrative. It was in a club in Ottawa that I would meet my eventual wife. Jennifer and I would be wed within a year of meeting each other and I became father to her one-year-old son, Rory. His real father was estranged to them for various legal reasons, although, I should have seen Jennifer's behaviour towards him as a red flag against things to come. I chose to ignore those signals and wed in October of 1998.
Jennifer and I had a whirlwind romance and a marriage to match. Almost immediately following our marriage, we impulsively decided to quit our jobs and go live in Daytona Beach, Florida where I had been offered work as a disk jockey in both an exotic dance club and a famous local saloon. I actually met Shaq and Flea (from the Red Hot Chili Peppers) in these venues while I was there. In the first month we were there, the house which we had rented burned to the ground and we were temporarily moved to a condo on the strip. Exciting, but not a great place to raise a child. The house was rebuilt and we returned to our suburban rental. After one year living and working in Daytona, we had become so disillusioned with American people and culture, that we made a near financial escape from the country, but not before we exhausted the entire of the inheritance money I had accrued from my father. We returned to Canada as a fledgling family, penniless and bereft.
We decided to move to BC. After a year in Florida, Ottawa weather was less than appealing and I was equally bereft in both Provinces, so why not go where it was warm. It is poignant to note that my loyal dog of 11 years, Pooch, died within days of our departure to BC, in my arms on New Years Eve millenium. Jennifer, Rory and myself arrived in BC in early January and my adopted mother helped us get on our feet. Jennifer took waittressing jobs and after an agonizing job search, I managed to get part-time DJ work in three clubs to make ends meet. To all outward appearances, we were very happy. I thought we were very happy and we had two more sons: Blair in November 2000 and Milo in July 2002. Unfortunately, before 2004 would come, Jennifer would become so unhappy in our relationship (of which she kept me completely oblivious) that she would have a sexual affair with one of her fellow employees at the cellular call-centre where she had taken work. She was emotionally violent towards me in ending our marriage. She had spent my entire second inheritance to pay off a debt on our car which she would ultimately give to the new boyfriend. Once again, I was penniless and emotionally bereft but I managed to maintain full-joint custody and the boys remain a beacon of love, hope and joy in my life.
I had begun a very rewarding career as an instructor at a private college. First I taught ESL and later I taught teachers in the domestic/international TESL program. I am taking a hiatus from that career this year to study at University again. I intend to return, however, as I love my work. My employment at the college also luckily afforded me the opportunity to do my first professional work as a book editor. Keep your eyes open for my name in print. I had also begun a fledgling career as an amateur actor in local Shakespearean productions and would be heralded by local media with some fanfare to my surprise and absolute delight. I have future aspirations in this field as well. It was a production of Hamlet where I would meet another important friend whom you all know as Alex the Dog. (Mom thinks he's smokin' hot - I don't see it!)
During this time in BC, I underwent several other personal tragedies, however. One of my twin cousins was killed in a car accident when she was 21 and I was honoured and agonized to be asked to eulogize her. The Patry family was torn apart. When the family began to recover, we were shocked again by the unexpected death of my Grandmother, Terry. She was an important family matriarch and the family was torn asunder again. Terry's death came at a time when I was still suffering at the hands of a brutal marital break-up and I was left barley able to stand. My boss gave me a generous, paid 'mental leave' to try and get on my feet. I managed. My father always said to me that I should be proud of who I am because through all my tribulation, I am a true survivor.
Shortly after my marriage broke up, I met Amelia. In the beginning, this relationship would be turbulent to say the least, but ultimately has proven to be the greatest learning experience of my life for which I am truly a better man. She is intelligent, beautiful, loving and completely insane. Together, we raise her son Cainan full-time and my three part-time (every second week as per my joint custody). This chapter of my life is, as yet, unfinished.......
Truth is stranger than fiction. Be careful what you wish for.
See you in hell,
Shakes.

Locked in the trunk of a car

It's a not particularly well known fact that I am a claustrophobe and I am afraid of the dark. I don't know the formal latin phobia name for the latter. Yesterday was the only day in months that I had accidentally forgotten my cellular phone at home. I thought that was bad luck, but not a harbinger of things to come. As I was rushing out of the college to a meeting with one of my new professors at U-Vic, my elevator ride down was abruptly interrupted by a cacophony of silence and darkness - pitch black and very alone. In terror, I was subconsciuosly taken aback several steps and was met by the elevator wall. With my back still pressed to the wall, I slowly slid into a sitting position......and waited. Soon I could hear the voice of my boss calling down the shaft to see if anyone was trapped. I meekly responded to publicize my presence. He informed me that there had been a huge power outage and that help was on its way. That offered some, but very little, comfort and once again, in my black, sealed coffin, I waited. It should be noted that one cannot simply panic while in their place of employment. A certain degree of professionalism and decorum is required by college instructors and it took a lot of energy to suppress my natural reactions. I began outlining the rim of my coffee cup with my finger to focus my mind. I ended up creasing my finger with the pressure exerted through my terror. After what seemed like an eternity alone in the darkness, a funny thought crossed my mind. I figured that I had better finish my coffee because, depending on how long I would be trapped, this coffee cup may come in handy if I have to go pee. I found myself relieved to have it. Just then, the prying sound of some sort of tool jarred a crack of light into the opening of the door. A voice told me that I would be out in a minute and only a moment later the door was fully open and almost evenly balanced between the two floors. A head leaned into the lower opening and asked if I was okay. I said, "I will be in a minute," and pushed passed him. I jumped down onto the lower floor. I had been trapped for nearly thirty minutes; not the most fun half-hour of my life. Next time, I hope to be trapped with a 30-year-old bottle of scotch...and Ami. On second thought, next time, I'll take the stairs. It couldn't have happened to anybody else.
See you in hell,
Shakes.
P.S. If two guys are on an elevator and one guy farts, everybody knows who did it.

Cunning Linguist

The other day, a really hot chick told me that she honestly didn't know the difference between an adverb and a noun.
"It's simple," I told her. "An adverb modifies a verb and usually ends in 'ly' like 'happily' whereas a noun might be a subject predicated by a verb, such as 'family'." I hope it's all clear now.
See you in hell,
Shakes.

Some of the best people...

You don't have to know me very well to know that I am pretty melodramatic...with good cause. The story of my life is surely an interesting one with extreme highs and equally extreme lows. I was at a pretty low point emotionally in my early twenties. One night, in a stupor of loneliness, I decided to go and see my sister Barb at a roadhouse called O'Toole's where she was working as a bartender. I popped in, said "hello" and was headed for the door when her near-perfect sense of empathy prompted her to stop me. She insisted I pull up a seat at the bar and keep her company. This was clearly a gesture of generosity as she was in no need of me keeping her company with her regular customers surrounding the bar. She would serve them drinks as they ordered them and then promptly return to my end of the bar to chat and continue feeding me drinks on her tab. Barb has always been a knockout which I'm sure was much appreciated eye-candy to her regulars and obviously she normally spent more time chatting with them because as she went to the other end of the bar to serve one guy, he indignantly questioned her.
"Who's the punk at the other end of the bar that's getting all your attention tonight?" I didn't even flinch; I was emotionally in no place to give a rat's ass what some middle-aged bar regular thought about me, and without looking up, I continued nursing my current drink. Then something happened that surprised me. Barb had no idea that I was absorbing every word of this conversation and I was amazed to hear her response.
"Be careful what you say. That 'punk' has got more intelligence in his little finger than you and I put together. And don't talk about my brother that way." Then she walked away to continue her social time with me, much at the expense, I'm sure, of any tip he might have been planning to leave. To this day, Barb probably still doesn't know that I heard what she said. It is one of those memories to which I regularly return when I am in need of a little emotional reassurance. Sisters are some of the best people. Remember that.
See you in hell,
Shakes.

Alex is a dog!

Alex and I were at a rehearsal for Hamlet. Each of the actors had been asked to lead the warm-ups with some sort of new activity or exercise. Normally I make it a habit of showing up late and skipping the warm-up activity because I don't do the 'love-your-castmate-hold-hands-like-a-faggot-group-cooperation' activities very well. Nevertheless, I was present for this one. It was Alex's turn. It is important to note that most of the large cast was female. Alex very casually instructed everyone to stand in a circle and shake their arms out. I could see a twinkle in his eye so I decided to put out my cigarette and go stand next to him. He then instructed everyone to close their eyes and to stretch their arms out in front of them. Keeping eyes closed, he then told everyone to stretch their arms back and try to touch their elbows behind their back. He and I were the only two with our eyes still open and he flashed me a sly grin. There is nothing quite so glorious as a room full of oblivious, scantily-clad women standing in a circle with their eyes closed and their bosoms pushed out towards you like an offering to the gods. After several quiet minutes, each of the ladies slowly opened their eyes to find Alex and I standing with eyes wide open and large grins enjoying the view. Like I said, Alex is a dog! I love you man.
See you in hell.
Shakes.

SooooooSmoooooth!

Why is it every time I hit on this girl, she falls asleep? Oh yeah, baby. I've got the moves. I am sooooooooo smooth!
P.S. Amelia is the most beautiful girl you will ever meet!

Patry+McConnell+James+Wedding=DEBAUCHERY

Where do I begin? So my cousin Shannon makes the bewildering decision to enter into the life-sucking bonds of marriage and my estranged Uncle Patrick sees fit to actually include me on the guest list. Of course that high honour didn't come free. I was asked to bring a bartender and to be prepared to DJ if the one they had hired bailed.
It was quite a scene. All of the McConnell's, Patry's and MisCampbell's were there (with obvious absences, god bless). That type of attendance has not happened in years! Tha gang's all here! So, I'm quite enjoying myself. James is comfortable and happy behind the bar; Amelia is socializing with the ladies and trying to impress my mother; I have some time to spend with Matt and long-missed family members. After having enjoyed a wide variety of alcoholic beverages and extra-curricular pharmaceuticals, I was feeling NO pain! I could barely feel my legs! Of course that was when Bruce the MC approached me and asked me to give a speech. I actually managed to pull off a fairly eloquent distilling of humour and content to end by welcoming Jason to the family. Later, Jason would approach me and say, "Hey, thanks a lot." Of course, being the ultimate Patry ambassador, I looked at him in a condescending way and said, "And you are...?" to which he responded, "I'm Jason.....the groom!"
"Ooooooh! Oh! Hey! Welcome to the family." He was pretty gracious about the whole thing.
Grampa Stan tripped the light fantastic with every girl in the house at least once. I think he took a liking to Amelia. Easy tiger!
The next morning as I was driving with Uncle Derrick and Uncle Mike back to the hall to help clean up (which I never did), an obviously still drunk Derrick was full of energy. When I asked him what time it was, he loudly and abruptly responded with, "Who stole my fuckin' watch!?!" He spent the rest of the morning looking for it. He found it in his pocket. And that's just the tip of the iceberg - I'm sure everyone has a tale to tell. I miss you all!
See you in hell,
Shakes.

Adult Toothpaste

Back when Rory was about 5-years-old and I was still with my ex-wife, I remember an evening when I was in the living room with her and we were in the process of putting Rory to bed. He has always been fairly independent so after he had put on his pajamas, I sent him to the bathroom to brush his teeth. After about 15 minutes, my ex and I agreed that too much time had gone past...and it was far too quiet. Off I went to check on the boy. Now it is important to be aware that we had regularly provided him with the popular childhood amenities of the new millenium including designer toothpaste for children, often in bubble-gum flavours, and Disney-covered tubes. Rory had been indoctrinated from a young age not to touch the adult amenities in the bathroom, but he was typically curious. I found him standing in the doorway of the bathroom with a guilty and uncomfortable look on his face. He sheepishly looked up at me and said, "Daddy, I don't like this adult toothpaste" and he held up my tube of Ben-Gay. Ouch! I was still wiping tears of laughter away as I called the poison control hotline. The woman on the other end also burst into laughter and spluttered through giggles.
"No....no...he'll be fine. He'd have to eat like three full tubes of the stuff before it could be hazardous........but I bet his gums are tingly and warm....hahahahah." Then she hung up.

See you in hell,
Shakes.

Tough love via spelling.

My Dad has been a mainstay of understanding and support in the very colourful history of my life. His wisdom and financial support have saved me from an otherwise unpleasant past. Nevertheless, his generosity has had limits. I remember being in dire straits for cash (yet again) and having to contact Dad for another handout. I was so sheepish about it that I didn't even have the courage to call so I sent him an e-mail. (Ahhh, the cowardly advent of technology) It read something like this...
"Dear Dad.
Once again I am finding myself unable to make ends meet. As you know I have been trying very hard to keep my fledgling family afloat. Unfortunately, I am not able to make my bills again this month and I am facing eviction. You are the only one I have to turn to. Please send a check for whatever you can to help as soon as possible. Thanks again.
Dave."
His response came back as follows.
"You spelled 'cheque' wrong. You've been living in the United States too long.
-Dad."
He never did send any money. I came home.
See you in hell.
Shakes.

People who wear cowboy hats

People who wear cowboy hats but live in the city are idiots. Pointing out your loyalty to the institution of country music is like saying you're the smartest kid in the remedial class. The only thing worse than country music is country music fans. Men who wear a moustache and no other facial hair probably think it's cool to wear a cowboy hat in the city. Get a clue.
See you in hell.
Shakes.

Beware the Babysitter!

I met Alex during a production of Hamlet. He was playing the lead and I was playing Guildenstern. A lot of the text had been dramatically manipulated to create original love triangles and his character and mine had been opposed as jealous enemies. He and I, however, became fast friends.
During one early morning rehearsal, well before the play opened, I was feeling distracted and disoriented. The director asked me what was wrong and without really measuring my response, I honestly blurted, "Last night I slept with my babysitter and I'm not sure how I feel about that." Of course, this conjured images in everyone's mind of some pigtailed 15-year old, which was NOT the case.
About half way through the run of our production, I noticed that Amelia had come to see it. Her and I had been dating (fairly) steadily for a couple of months at this point. After the play, I was at the bathroom counter with Alex, washing my face over the sink. He was standing next to me preening in some way.
"Dude, did you see the blonde in the front row?"
"Uhh, yeah."
"Man, she's hot."
"Yeah."
"She made eye contact with me right in the middle of my 'to be or not to be' speech. I was so distracted that I screwed up my speech. Did you hear it?"
"Ha-ha. Uh, no. I missed that."
"Man, I'd love to fu....."
I abruptly lifted my head from washing.
"ALEX, ALEX...That's the babysitter!"
"Whoa. You mean you're . . . . "
"Yes, Alex. That's my girlfriend. She wasn't looking at you; she was looking at me!"
"Fuckin' Dave."
He later told me that he was going to put an "I saw you" ad in Monday magazine to see if he could hook up with her. Sorry, my brother. Been there, done that, and she ain't available. Rumours about the babysitter, however, continued to abound but eventually people understood.

See you in hell,
Shakes.

BBQ Fear!

So my Dad came to visit us a few weeks back and the whole family went on an awesome camping trip up to French Beach. This story is a short, irrelevant life-blurb that was just plain sweet. Before we left for French Beach, we had a couple of days at the house to get ready. One warm evening we were having a BBQ and Dad was out next to it minding the kids. He had picked up Milo in one arm (on the side of him closest to the BBQ) and was leaning down to try and pick up Cainan in the other. As I peeked out the front door, I could see Milo lowering towards the hot BBQ as Dad leaned down to get Cainan. Milo was, of course, not in any danger, but in the sweetest little Milo voice, he looked down at the ever-nearing open BBQ and announced, "Don't put me in there!"