Olympic Primer - Part Two

Tickets

The great winter showcase of amateur sport charges fans prices no amateur could ever afford to pay. Of course, some sports are more in demand than others. Hockey tickets will be by far the most coveted, but the problem is that no one knows for sure which teams will be playing in a particular semifinal or final game. Should Team Canada bow out before the medal round, look for thousands of tickets to suddenly become available.

There are a few other sports which can garner huge prices for tickets that are legally scalped on the authorized VANOC site. Figure skating is probably second, after hockey, in popularity among winter olympic sports in this part of the world.

VANOC is the company created to put on these games, and are essentially folks appointed by the powers that be to try to make the various levels of government look good. In return, the provincial government will make sure it appears that the Olympics don't bankrupt our children's future by saddling us with decades of debt.

They do this in a variety of ways, like being petty about sponsorship and Olympic logo copyright. For example, their legal team went after (unsuccessfully) a Vancouver Greek restaurant with "Olympic" in its name--just because the restaurant had been operating with the name for 40+ years didn't mean that they should be allowed to keep it.

Then there's the use of our tax dollars to indirectly prop up the games. Sure, billions of tax dollars are going directly into the game venues, security, highway and other upgrades, but there's more than that. Three provincial crown monopolies: ICBC (insurance), BC Hydro, and BC Lotto have bought 1.4 million dollars worth of Olympic tickets. BC Hydro is spending over a quarter million dollars to book a luxury suite for all 33 hockey games in GM Place. (Which will be named "Canada Hockey Place" during the run of the games.)

Funny how there's money for this, while millions have been cut from health care and education this year.

VANOC has set up a website for ticket resales. It's legal to scalp tickets in BC, but when you buy your tickets, there's a bit of legalese you agree to that states that no one but VANOC can resell them for more than face value. Want tickets to the gold medal hockey game? At one point last week (when the article I read was written) the cheapest pair of tickets for the men's gold medal final available were listed at $4444.00. There were a pair of better tickets on sale for $9998.00.

I'm sure if you want biathalon (ski, shoot, ski some more, shoot some more event) tickets they're cheaper, but when you figure in inflated hotel costs, there is no way regular folks can afford to see these games live.

Olympic Primer - An Introduction

Since the world's attention is turning this way in the next little while, I thought I'd offer some background for those of you not fortunate enough to inhabit this part of our globe. (the unofficial version)

I thought it might be worthwhile since my counter tells me I've had recent visitors from: the U.S., Honduras, Ireland, France, Venezuela, Hungary, the Philippines, Switzerland, Belgium, Spain, Indonesia, Saudi Arabia, Lebanon, the U.K., South Africa, Korea, Greece, India, New Zealand, Australia, Taiwan, Russia, the Netherlands, Italy and Namibia.

So for now we'll start with

Part One - Whistler

On NBC, you'll probably hear reference to "Whistler Village" but it's rarely called anything but Whistler in this part of the world. The population of Whistler is officially 10,000 (or so) but during ski season there can be a lot more people there.

Whistler's development really got going in the early 80s when Nancy Greene (Olympic gold and silver medalist in Grenoble in '68, plus a number of world cup titles) and her husband began flogging it as they themselves opened a resort there. There was a fair bit of government money that went into the development of Whistler in the 70s and 80s, much to the chagrin of other mountains in the province which were not being tax-funded and were struggling during some years with fairly bad ski conditions.

In fact, Whistler was offered the 1976 Winter Olympics when Denver, originally scheduled to host them, declined due to financial issues, but the government at the time didn't want to be saddled with potential financial disaster (the '76 Montreal Olympics were clearly showing that to be a distinct possibility) so they were held in Innsbruck, Austria that year.

Whistler is a playground for the rich. It is not generally a mountain that those on a budget can enjoy during peak season. Three or four-day lift passes for adults this time of year run $278, compared to Mount Washington where a full day adult pass is $61 or a half-day is $46. Mount Washington is here on the island and actually has more snow than Whistler. Silver Star in the Okanagan is $71 per day, and of course, Aspen, Colorado is generally more.

But it's not lift tickets that hurt as much as the overall cost of staying at Whistler. For Mt. Washington, there are reasonable accomodations available at the bottom of the mountain in the Comox Valley, but with Whistler, if you want to get in a decent day's skiing, you pretty much need to stay there for a night at least. That means if you have an AAA membership, you can get a nightly rate at the Delta hotel of $360. (yes, the Canadian dollar is worth less, if you qualify for that discount it will only be $343 U.S.

Those who live there don't need to worry about such problems; if you want to buy a condo to enjoy Whistler every ski season, it will run you about a half-million for a 800 square ft. condo:
http://www.propertiesinwhistler.com/whistler-homes/index.php?&page=3

Of course, during the Olympics, posted hotel rates are meaningless. There will be no vacancies; there haven't been for quite a while. Those who have even tiny rooms for rent can make a killing as people scramble for accomodations once they've managed to luck into Olympic tickets.

Tickets. That's a story for next time.

Facebook Creeping for the Greater Good

Last Christmas, my dad didn't bother with the subscriptions Mom used to buy us each year to a major publication known for heartwarming stories and condensed books--we'd all decided it had become too insipid and slipped from inspiring tales of everyday people to something more like People magazine with its increasing focus on pop culture icons.

Then they sent us the gift subscriptions in Mom and Dad's name anyway--same with my sisters. He decided to pay for them, path of least resistance, I guess. He quit paying for his own, though, figuring they'd just stop sending them.

They didn't. They did start sending him nagging letters demanding payment for magazines he didn't want. By this fall I told him I'd deal with it. I wrote the magazine, directing my strongly-worded letter to the name at the bottom of these repetitive annoyance mailings.

That was October 1. I made it clear: no more money was coming from my dad, and no more subscriptions were wanted.

Then, a week and a half ago, we get a card notifiying us my parents had given us another gift subscription. No--Mom always bought those and she died in February. Apparently, though, to this great magazine (so great the american side of the company is in bankruptcy protection) even telling them by letter won't stop their negative billing campaign.

So, last weekend I found what I had bookmarked back when I searched (unsuccessfully) for email addresses for people in the publication to make sure they knew we were opting out. (I guess email addresses would make it easier for people to tell them to stop sending them unwanted crap.)

I had researched the guy whose name appeared on all those statements. He was real, and fortunately, before Facebook changed all the privacy settings, I figured out which one of several guys with the same name was actually him.

I sent him a facebook message. I copied the wording from my previous letter and made a bit of a threat about going to the media about their harassment of a bereaved senior citizen at Christmas time.

Within a few hours I had a return message. He would get someone on it on Monday. He was true to his word. The email apology came from that person with assurances they wouldn't bug my dad any more.

Score one for facebook creeping.

It's that time of year

...when there are lots and lots of concerts and performances going on. This is a clip from an excellent music concert at my son's school a couple of weeks ago. (He's on piano in this one.) I've always liked this arrangement of Ode to Joy--now they just have to add some movement to complement the singing.

My daughter won't be attending her concert tomorrow--she wasn't feeling great this afternoon, and as we were on our way home a bit early from school, my wife called to tell us my father-in-law had just passed away.

It's a bit tough at this time of year, and hard on the kids to lose a second grandparent this year, but he was ready, and there will be lots of family and love around the next while to comfort my mother-in-law.

More clips and stuff to come soon, I hope.

The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as a

Sports Collectibles Dealer

Yeah, kid, I've seen your Reggie Jackson rookie card. You've shown it to everybody in the school about half a dozen times, now. No, I don't know when lunch will be over--why don't you go out and pla... er, show some people outside your baseball card?

No, it's my lunchtime too. Really? I've told her a hundred times not to book my lunch... oh, what the hell. Just keep that it away from this pastrami; you could cut the value of that card pretty quickly with my lunch all over it.

So what's the plan? Really? You want to trade cards like this for a living? I don't care if your uncle says sports collectibles are hot right now, I think it may go like this:

You'll have to hit up your uncle and everyone else you're related to for a start-up loan. You'll get an incredibly small space up in a mall like that one by the airport. You'll spend weeks building your initial stock by buying everything that seems undervalued on Ebay and elsewhere online. You'll read the obituary pages faithfully, looking for estates of sports fans who might have the occasional autographed baseball or signed jersey.

Even though you advertise your grand opening in collectors' magazines, on their websites and in all the local papers, the public is lukewarm to your business. Collectibles are a luxury, and in tough times people don't bother with that framed uniform or historic home run ball. Plus, you've only got the budget to stock C list collectibles anyway.

Still, you eke out a living by working every moment the store is open, thus hiring as few staff as possible. It's a stressful existence, though; you're always barely ahead of your creditors and all it will take is one stroke of bad luck to destroy your dream.

You scramble to find quality collectibles and eventually agree to a deal with a sketchy "collectibles acquisition agent" who goes to major sporting events and athlete appearances and harasses stars to sign all manner of sports clothing and memorabilia. You know some such agents use sketchy tactics like lying about sick kids to get donations, but you try to ignore your pangs of conscience when new items are sent in. Eventually you figure out the acquisition agent is taking such a big cut you're not making enough from the deal to bother renewing it after the first year.

Then you get a bit lucky. That cousin of yours--what's her name, Tessa?--the one who wants to be a Budweiser girl, agrees to come and work for you on weekends. What? Oh, yeah, she's been in here to share that little dream before. My guess is she'll be available when you need a temp. employee just the same.

She attracts collectible geeks like Star Trek conventioneers are drawn to, well, any female that will talk to them. Your weekend business picks up, and eventually you feel confident enough to leave her in charge so you can run a booth at a collectible convention in Dallas.

You learn a lot that weekend. Simply put, you have plenty of time to study your more successful competitors since virtually no one comes to your boring booth, and you take notes. The ones who have the biggest crowds offer either hot girls or sports celebrities.

The following month you take Tessa with you to another convention, and she helps you make enough to cover your convention merchant fees. Still, you realize a celebrity would draw even more people, and fortuitously, an agent drops his business card off at your booth and offers to help make that happen.

He's a representative of an agency who offer a stable of more than 200 ex-athletes from nearly every major sport, and when you call him he faxes you a list of stars with their appearance fees listed beside each one.

One in particular catches your eye. He's a well-known former major league batting star, famous not only for his home run and RBI stats, but also because of the controversy that erupted when his use of steroids was exposed. Despite his slightly tarnished reputation, you know he'll bring in fans, eager to meet someone so well known. You're surprised that he seems underpriced, so you decide to call the agent and book him.

The deal is completed, pending the bank's approval of your extending your line of credit to help cover the appearance fee. The bank manager hears the name of the ball player and smiles, agreeing to help provided you'll get his son an autographed ball.

Everything seems fine, and you excitedly arrange advertising and promotions to let everyone know who's coming to your store the following weekend. You even get a plug on a local sportcast when one of their reporters drops by to ask about the upcoming visit, though you're disappointed when the reporter and cameraman decide that Tessa would be a better choice to appear on air.

Sure enough, the publicity works, and when the limo you hired shows up in front of the store to deliver your guest, there are close to four hundred people waiting for a peek. The star athlete stumbles as he disembarks, then curses loudly, pulls a can of beer out of his pocket, and takes a long swig.

"Let's party!" he yells, and with a sinking feeling you realize that maybe there was a reason for his discount fee.

The rest of the afternoon is about damage control. You apologize for his crude comments to female customers and try to focus his energies on signing items for fans who are growing rapidly disenchanted with the drunken lout.

At one point he disappears into the bathroom, and finally after 15 minutes you go looking for him, only to find him passed out. You call a cab and try to get him out of the store, but he's discovered Tessa and insists she needs to go for a ride with him.

She's probably worked at a few places by this time that have given her relevant experience in dealing with drunken admirers, and she slickly twists out of the cab after the semi-conscious celebrity is buckled in. You sigh with both relief and despair as you watch him disappear.

The results of the day are mixed; you sold more merchandise than usual, though not quite enough to cover the appearance fee, and a local bar owner, impressed by Tessa's acumen in dealing with the athlete, hires her as his manager, depriving your store of the one thing that kept some customers coming in.

A couple of sports writers pen scathing editorials about the horrible example set by your guest, and letters to the editor from outraged parents complement their efforts.

You manage to clear out enough merchandise by having a "blow out sale" to cover your obligations to the bank, but you're on thinner financial ice than ever.

The final blow will come when a number of your collectibles are exposed in a fraud investigation as counterfeits. Apparently your sketchy acquisition agent went beyond finding collectibles, he also liked to invent some of them. Dozens of angry customers return to demand refunds, and when you can't manage to satisfy them, many file suit against you and your store.

Don't lose that Reggie Jackson card. You can trade it for a warm blanket when you're living in your car.

How H1N1 leads to frostbite

Well, in kind of a roundabout way.

I work in the new wing of our building, opened in 2002. The stupid heating/cooling system is of course, state of the art, and can't be adjusted by any of the mere mortals who work in our building. Apparently, to make any changes, someone must bring a special computer in to hook up to the system and feed data back to Vancouver where adjustments can be made.

Or something like that.

Doesn't matter anyway, since a flaw in the design makes correcting the problem impossible.

You see, our theatre and the band room share a common heating/cooling thermostat somehow. That means that on days like yesterday and today, we have a problem. We've had an H1N1 vaccination clinic in our gym the past couple of days.

That means no P.E. classes in there. That means that the grade 9 and 10 band kids are all in our band room at the same time. All 145 of them.

That makes the temperature rise pretty quickly. That makes the cooling system blow air from outside into the band room. Unfortunately that means that the sub-freezing air is also blowing into my theatre. Thing is, it's already not that warm in there.

We bundle up in our jackets and try to get out of the line of the air vents. I turn on 30,000 watts of stage lighting to try to bring up the room temp. one degree or so. Today I brought a little space heater from home and kept it running for the morning.

*sigh* Reminds me of my very first high school job in Prince Rupert. We had climate control there too, and the windows were bolted shut to prevent folks like me from disturbing the finely-tuned system that meant one fan blew car exhaust into my room any time anyone idled by the "no parking" sign.

I had to threaten to throw a chair through a window before the principal came down with a screwdriver to help me sabotage that system. I wonder if taping over our fans would cause some sort of system failure now?

(After yesterday's incident where a band student plugging in some amps caused a power failure that darkened the school and some of the surrounding neighborhood, I'm reluctant to find out.)

Hope you're all keeping warm where you are. Clear and cold here, and about -6 (21 degrees F) right now.

We're just waiting by the phone at them moment, looks like my father in law is getting near the end and we're hoping a bed in hospice is available tomorrow.

Stolen

Don't even know the original creator of this list; saw it on a hockey newsgroup I frequent:

Random Thoughts

1. I think part of a best friend's job should be to immediately clear your computer history if you die.

2. Nothing sucks more than that moment during an argument when you realize you're wrong.

3. I totally take back all those times I didn't want to nap when I was younger.

4. There is great need for a sarcasm font.

5. How the hell are you supposed to fold a fitted sheet?

6. Was learning cursive really necessary?

7. Map Quest really needs to start their directions on #5. I'm pretty sure I know how to get out of my neighborhood.

8. Obituaries would be a lot more interesting if they told you how the person died.

9. I can't remember the last time I wasn't at least KIND OF tired.

10. Bad decisions make good stories.

11. You never know when it will strike, but there comes a moment at work when you know that you just aren't going to do anything productive for the rest of the day.

12. Can we all just agree to ignore whatever comes after Blue Ray? I don't want to have to restart my collection...again.

13. I'm always slightly terrified when I exit out of Word and it asks me if I want to save any changes to my ten-page research paper that I swear I did not make any changes to.

14. "Do not machine wash or tumble dry" means I will never wash this -- ever.

15. I hate when I just miss a call by the last ring (Hello? Hello? Damn it!), but when I immediately call back, it rings nine times and goes to voice-mail. What did you do after I didn't answer? Drop the phone and run away?

16. I hate leaving my house confident and looking good and then not seeing anyone of importance the entire day. What a waste.

17. I keep some people's phone numbers in my phone just so I know not to answer when they call.

18. My 4-year old son asked me in the car the other day "Mom what would happen if you ran over a ninja?" How the hell do I respond to that?

19. I think the freezer deserves a light as well.

20. I disagree with Kay Jewelers. I would bet on any given Friday or Saturday night more kisses begin with Miller Lites than Kay.

Thought you might enjoy it.

UPDATE: I think they may have come from here: http://www.ruminations.com/site/

The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as a

Publisher

Publisher, huh? Probably go something like this:

You'll graduate from a writing program and take an entry-level job at a reputable publishing house. Long hours for little reward will pave your slow climb to the middle. You end up in the reader pool; learning to quickly peruse a manuscript to determine whether it's worth a serious look. After a while, though, you realize it's like looking for a needle in a haystack; 99% of those you label "interesting" still get rejected.

You slip into a routine, and fear that you may become lost forever in this unsatisfying, predictable job, instead of getting the chance to publish blockbusters and make careers. Then, through a moment of inspiration, you get your break. You create a new revenue stream for the company while solving an expensive problem at the same time.

Even though your publishing house, like most, accepts submissions online, many others feel it's too easy to just ignore an email attachment, and instead choose to send a hard copy of their work. It may well be true that the real thing in hand gets a better look than tired eyes can offer yet another story on your computer screen.

This creates tons of waste paper--you don't return manuscripts due to handling costs, even if the author includes return postage. Rather than paying for disposal of the rejections, you work out a deal with Duraflame to convert the manuscripts to fire logs, and the company gets a small income while eliminating recycling fees.



Your supervisor promotes you to head of the reading team, and you get to pick and choose the scripts you read. You also now appear on the company's internet employee list, which means you have to get an unlisted phone number and take your personal security seriously. Those who work in areas people feel passionately about are always at risk from wackos, and publishing company employees are sandwiched between poodle groomers and child pageant judges in the top ten death threat recipient list.

Still, things are lining up to earn you that coveted promotion to management when suddenly, it all comes crashing down.

On national television, your company is named by the author of a wildly successful new series about teen leprechauns as one of the big publishers who rejected her work. Her first novel, Ginger McGillicutty and the Shamrock of Doom, was what everyone had been looking for--the successor to the Harry Potter and Twilight series, the next great magical teen story. The financial windfall for the company that published the series pushed them into first place in your industry, and led to an investigation at your publishing house to find out who passed up the golden goose.

Your name is found when the paperwork revealing the story's rejection is uncovered. You're fired with no more than the obligatory severance package, and know with your epic failure quickly becoming a water cooler legend, you stand little chance of being hired elsewhere.

You use your severance money to start up a vanity publishing house. You know a printer that works cheap--your company quit using them after their substandard glue led to customer complaints--and you know that there are enough deluded but solvent writers around to give you a shot at success.

You buy annoying ads on sites like Facebook and Twitter, and you also buy a stolen list of Nanowrimo novel-writing contest entrants for a direct-email campaign. Sure enough, your business succeeds and you're earning enough to live comfortably.

As you rebuild your self-esteem you start to think about creating a legitimate publishing arm for your company. You've just hired your start-up staff when the second great disaster takes place.

Yet another tough copyright law gets passed, and this one goes beyond everything previous in protection of all kinds of intellectual property. It also allows for stiff penalties for those who publish stolen ideas, even if such mistakes are made innocently. Suddenly, emails from people who've spotted plagiarism in a variety of your clients' works start showing up in your inbox with annoying frequency. Most ask for a payout to keep quiet about your company's complicity in these situations, but you're unable to find the hush money required.

Soon legal fees, fines and court awards have driven your company to bankruptcy. You declare personal bankruptcy yourself a year later, and end up in a ratty rooming house in the rough part of town, where a draft and poor diet ultimately contribute to your death by pneumonia.

Almost no one attends your funeral because, ironically, the newspaper doesn't publish the obituary sent in by your former assistant when the payment cheque bounces.

Deck the Halls with Awkward Moments

1. On Friday evening my wife and I had a lovely dinner out and then decided to do a little Christmas shopping after. We ran into some folks we know; the wife works with my wife sometimes, and their daughter's in my program, and had a great visit outside a store for about 45 minutes.

Awkward moment: I ranted at one point to the husband about how much I hate the program we use for attendance and grades in this province (by government mandate) only to discover that he's been working on the software for over a year now. I wished he'd mentioned what he'd been doing for a living since leaving the navy before I made the remarks about the software designers having compromising photos of government ministers to blackmail them into forcing us all to use the program. *sigh*

2. 12th grade student sent in her "fave five" to local station that plays the songs I don't love (see posts recently) and was selected for this lunchtime's winner. She took the phone call here in the theatre, then I put the station on the theatre sound system when the segment came on. Remember that "Whatchya Say" song I ranted about before? She hates it to. The radio station ignored two of her requests, and passed off that song along with another she hates as two of her "fave five". Nice--the city hears her name, her school, and these songs she despises as her favorites.

Oh, and her big prize? 4 tickets (worth 4 bucks apiece) to a Christmas craft sale. I doubt anyone who actually listens to that station would likely go to any craft sales at any time of the year.

She's considering her legal options...

internet time capsules

I've always been a bit fascinated by those old things you find that take you back to another time--old newspapers or magazines that might be stashed in an attic, for instance. It's probably why I have a few thousand old radio shows from the 30s to 50s I like to listen to when I'm out working the yard or around the house. It's why the books from 100 years ago always catch my eye if I'm wandering the university library.

Maybe you've seen those time capsules that get buried on special occasions to be recoved 50, 100 or more years in the future. There are probably many buildings that still have items stashed in the cornerstone that may be discovered when demolition happens.

It's also that way with things more personal. I've never kept a diary regularly, but there are old letters and other bits of writing stashed away here and there that I might run across every few years that can take me back a couple of decades to a time when priorities and ideas were quite different.

Still, there isn't much of that stuff. There are, though, electronic captures of moments in the past, and each of us is leaving a trail of our past in the technology that surrounds us.

I got my first cassette recorder in the 6th grade. I loved it, and used it so much I needed a new one a year later.

My friends and I used to do all sorts of performing on this device, mostly silly routines where we'd imitate our teachers or something. I used to have a lot of those around but I don't think I have any left now. Then there were the tapes an old girlfriend and I used to send back and forth to each other when we lived in different towns--I know I chose to erase those.

Still, these things are private, and we can make them vanish forever if we want.

With the web it's a bit different. We can forget exactly where we've left electronic footprints, and others can post photos or videos of us that we have no control over. I know, for instance, that somewhere one of my nanowrimo novel blogs still exists, but I have no idea how to find it. I suppose if I could find that unfinished transcript file on my computer I could then do a search, but why bother?

Many of us have joined or signed up for all sorts of networking, writing or photo sharing accounts on all sorts of sites. Some get forgotten. Maybe it's the myspace page after facebook wins out, or the livejournal abandoned in favour of blogger, but some do get abandoned.

Somewhere there are a few other blogs done for fun years ago that never got wiped out. A deviantart page with some writing and photos, a bunch of photobucket accounts, some flickr IDs, a youtube or two, vimeo, lastfm and more. I go to a page and see photos of people I don't talk to anymore, or read comments and conversations between myself and those who wouldn't talk to me now if I sat next to them on a four-hour air flight.

It's not ever really gone, though. Various places on the web cache pages with the result that if you know the right places to look, you cam probably still find that deleted account with your passionate accounting of your pokemon collection, or the photos from the good times in a relationship that ended badly.

Maybe that's a good thing, though. When we're tempted to paint another with a broad and unforgiving brush, we can recall when they weren't the one-dimensional dysfunction slotted into that drawer in our memory's filing cabinet, but someone we also admired, teased, cared about and even loved. We see that our simplification of them isn't likely fair or accurate.

That's only if we can bear to look. Sometimes I still do.

When duty sucks

There are times when you have to obey the rules you've established over more than a decade, but you wish you didn't. When your work partner states the obvious, and you know you have to do what you don't want to, because we made these rules, everyone playing agreed to them--in writing--and even after a second chance, at some point you have to be that person--the enforcer of the rules.

It kind of ruined an otherwise nice dance show evening. I left after the intermission because my daughter's portion of the show was done and it's my wife's birthday, and she was a good sport when birthday dinner was me staying at work and she and daughter showing up at 6:15 with a burger and fries in a bag for me; we all ate together in the booth.

My colleague, whose show it was, urged me to leave as well at the intermission, and having had to have the conversation before the show with a parent about the "consequences" of the rules being broken again, I didn't relish the end of the evening and possible further chats. So I decided to take the offer and head out to my car. Nice timing--there at the back door was a heavy convo as the parents of said kid are discussing the whole thing--I hadn't had the heart to tell the kid tonight before that child was to go on stage tonight.

It was more tact than cowardice that, after meeting the mom's eyes, made me retreat and find an alternate route out of the building. (I'd like to think that, at least.)

*sigh*

I think sometimes people get the idea I like being the prick who brings the wrath when people aren't doing what they're supposed to, or living up to their commitments. It's far from true. If I could look the other way, I often would.

I've seen too many shows fail for that reason. Sure, a three or four-person undertaking can have some flexibility, but when you put several dozen people on stage at the same time, it changes things.

It's one of the most wearing things about the job, and a big reason I sometimes think I'd like to step out of that aspect for a while. At least I've got a work partner now who volunteers to share the load on this and wants to do it together. If only the kids believed it wasn't ultimately all my doing, then that would help.

Happy U.S. Thanksgiving!

Well, I'm a few days early, but in case I don't post again before Thursday, thought I should add that.

The murder mystery went really well--they liked it even more this year, and I think it was because we put quite a bit more humour in it. The kids like playing over the top characters and many of them took full advantage. Plus we had a great time scarfing down pizza across the road afterwards. I was very proud of the wonderful job they all did.

Then the next night it was the "revue" show by mostly band kids as a band fundraiser. It also ran Saturday, but my wife, daughter and I went on Friday. Amazingly talented kids, many doing their own original compositions, and quality of the calibre that I'd buy their albums when/if the release any.

There were a couple of issues, but I'd best save them for the "other" blog if I bother.

Dance show is this Thursday night--this afternoon was spent inundated by dancers working through their dress rehearsal in the theatre. I've got some amazing tech kids this year, my number one guy was in the murder mystery thursday, came back to the school around 7:30 with me and stayed there to help with the Revue rehearsal, then was back the next two nights to work that show, then in on Sunday to help strike it all, then in all afternoon today to help with the tech for the dance rehearsal.

He's proven himself as the rightful "keeper of the keys" this year.

Nanowrimo: *sigh* I had high hopes, and there's enough story in my brain to fill the 50,000 words, I am just too busy to spend the time I need writing it. I'm at 20,000 now with only a week left to go; it ain't gonna happen.

Maybe next year.

not going to get there

17 thousand something on nano and less than two weeks left--I'm not going to finish. Ah well, I made it once.

Rain's been crazy here for a few days, and lots of flooding--up island is particularly bad.

Way too much to see this time of year--accompanied students on Saturday to see the CCPA show, then this Thursday's our murder mystery, Friday night we go to the revue put on by the band kids, then next week it's the dance show (daughter's in that one) on Thursday night, then Saturday there's a matinee at Langham Court that one of my students is in, and then a community variety show my son's playing in that night. The following week he has his band concert, and then a few days later is in another local concert. After that I'll be taking kids to another CCPA show, plus one of my students is involved in a St. Luke's show I should see in December as well.

It's kind of fun, though, as well.

okay--you asked for it--songs that annoy me in my car #1

Well, you didn't ask for it, but Rachel did.

First on the list there's "You Belong to Me" by Taylor Swift. It offers the following petty annoyances:

Rhyming "If you could see that I'm the one who understands you" with "Been here all along, so why can't you..." She rhymes "you" with "you". Plus she rhymes "that" with "that" and "do" with "do". Brilliant. She also rhymes "upset" with "said", "night" with "like", "find" with "time"--oh, and about "time" which is repeated at the end of a couple of verses--she says "tsime". Don't believe me? Listen next time it comes on the radio, before you switch the station, and I bet you'll hear it.

And then there's Sean Kingston--I want to drive into a telephone pole every time I hear "Shawty fire burning on the dance floor". I can't even bother with the rest of the lyrics to that stupid song.

Thing is, the station my daughter inflicts on me plays about a dozen songs over and over, throwing in something else occasionally just to fulfill whatever Canadian content rules they have to obey as part of their broadcast license. (or did that get outlawed with the free trade pact?)

I think we've heard "I've gotta feeling" at least half of the morning commutes in the last month on that station, and considering it takes less than 25 minutes to drive in, that's one predictable radio station. (and actually, as much as I dislike Fergie, I have to admit I don't mind that song)

It may be I'm going to have to go with option 2--I get the radio and she gets her Ipod--but then it's tough to have actual conversations so I guess for now I'm stuck with autotune song after autotune song. (You know, that weird distorty voice thing that virtually every song on certain stupid stations uses--it also disguises a lack of actual singing talent.)

Oh, and one more annoyance: "Oooh Watchya Say"--I liked the Imogen Heap song with the amazing harmonies and then this comes out. Yeah, Jason Derulo, you've got a sampling and autotune setup in your basement and you are an artist. You even named your "album" "Watcha Say" as well--wow, you're a musical genius, capitalizing on that one number you sampled.

I'm so tired of the samplers who pretend they've created something original--particularly the ones who fake up their voices with autotune. Seriously, all it proves is that you've got a knack at choosing a good song to rip off and you have access to some audio technology.

Now back to nanowrimo.

Nano!

I decided to take yet another shot at Nanowrimo--I've done it once, got the 50,000 words completed by the deadline.

Report card marking and a bunch of other stuff put me way behind and as of this time yesterday I was at about 6400, but now, 24 hours later, I'm over 10,400, so maybe I won't quit yet.

That's why I haven't been blogging much, though. Maybe I'll post something this weekend, though. I feel a good rant about some of the music I'm hearing all the time now my daughter chooses the radio stations going to and from school together every day.

Happy Halloween!

Hey, it's a big deal for me to be able to say that. I used to hate halloween. Hate.

I used to blame my childhood memory of having my candies jacked (oops--hanging with adolescents clearly has vocabulary implications) by some older kid when I was 9 and then having that kid pull a knife on me when I chased him.

Really, though, that wasn't it. It was more the craziness that we moved into in our current neighborhood 15 years ago. For the first few years it was always "150+ kids at our door, pipe bomb blew up the kiosk where we all pick up our mail, stupid kids next door keeping mine awake for a couple weeks with screechers and firecrackers every night..."

Now it's way more relaxed. My better half actually was arguing that we should just take each kid to their planned celebratory location, turn off the outside lights, and bugger off somewhere ourselves. That used to always be me.

Now I'm the one who wants to be sure someone's here handing out candy--at least until the 17 year olds in garbage bags with holes for their arms start showing up at 9:00 p.m.

In sort of related things, I had a visit around lunchtime from a grad of '06--there were supposed to be two of them and we were going to reprise/update my favorite halloween photo from about five years ago when they made me up as a zombie.

The one who did come still wanted to do it, and after she finished making me rather undead, we did a few photos.


















While looking for a video of a play she was in, I ran across the montage video of embarassing clips from the past I made for her grad class. We debated the wisdom of my posting it on facebook; there's one friend whose gender feelings and changes might make that old video particularly unwelcome, but maybe an edited version?

Watching it brought back some memories. Made me think of a quote someone passed along--I think it was from Camus? "Nothing thwarts happiness like the memory of happiness". If you knew the back story that would make sense.

Then I had to go see my daughter and the rest of the junior band kids play for the olympic torch gathering. You see, the torch was lit in Greece, then flown here to be relayed throughout this area, across the province and then around the country. Doesn't really make sense--shouldn't they have started on the east coast and worked their way across to Vancouver? I guess the hype begins and ends out here.

The weather was nicer than expected, and I walked to the park a few blocks from the school. Thing is, I was still decked out as a zombie--just added my glasses. I got a few funny looks, but there were others in olympics-related costumes, plus they'd been expecting protesters anyway, so maybe it wasn't all that strange, considering it was the day before halloween.

I caught one parent photographing me from a distance; she's someone I know though. It was funny as various band kids spotted me and then figured out who I was. A couple of grads from last year came by as well--after one's mom took our photo I asked her to take one on my camera as well:


















On our way back, my daughter and I encountered the torch relay. Man--what a lot of cops from various police forces were on duty riding by on motorbikes and in various vehicles--I'm sure I saw over a hundred. All for a silly publicity gimmick.














Anyway, this rambling is good practice for Nanowrimo. I'm still scrambling for a decent novel idea, but I'm thinking of taking another shot this year. The person who got me started on this a few years ago told me she's trying again this year, and if she can do it while fulfilling her college work obligations, surely I might pull it off. (I'm one for three on this, but the last time I really didn't give it an honest try.)

If you've got any last minute suggestions for my novel direction, let me know. If you're going to take a crack at it yourself, let me know that as well.

Timing seems appropriate

What with it being halloween and all. Remember the feet?

http://herrdirektor.blogspot.com/2008/05/another-foot.html

http://herrdirektor.blogspot.com/2008/06/this-is-getting-ridiculous.html

http://herrdirektor.blogspot.com/2008/06/another-day-another-one-found.html

Well, apparently it's not a sick halloween prank--they've found another one.

First another ship of illegal migrants shows is taken into custody a couple of weeks ago, and now this--it's like we're reliving the news stories from a couple of years back.

New Link

Go read "Some Pig"--I don't know much about Caroline, the author, but it's a great read. I saw my counter suddenly was registering a lot more hits on "the kid who sits behind you" for a few days, and her blog was the reason.

She's got a lot of readers and it's easy to see why.

The power of touch

Something weird happened this evening; I wish I'd videotaped it.

We went to my in-laws to have supper with our niece who's in town just for the day. My father in law is in the end stages of lung fibrosis and isn't expected to be around that much longer. At the end of the evening, when the others had left, my wife and I were setting up an old intercom system of ours so that her dad could summon her mom if he got into trouble. (He sleeps sitting upright, with oxygen, in a room at the other end of their suite.)

There's a "call" button which sets off an alert on the other unit; we had it working and then we had him try it. Nothing. There aren't any "buttons" actually, the call button is really a metal touch pad, which works like those touch lamps.

We try to figure out what's wrong. My father in law is exerting plenty of pressure, but nothing happens. We surmise it might be because of callouses from working with his hands for years, but then something weird happens. His finger is still on the touch pad, and I touch his other hand to see if maybe he's too cold or something. The call alert activites, and a little light turns on.

We try it again--same thing. My wife gets the same result by touching the back of his other hand.

Somehow even though his body isn't producing enough charge, or capacitance (according to some sites I looked up that explain how these sort of switches work), he can still conduct the charge from one of us when we hold his other hand, and we're not particularly close to the switch.

I don't know why he was the only one it wouldn't work for. He's had serious heart problems as well as his lung trouble, and the heart is the electrical engine of the body. Perhaps that's it.

What is interesting is that there is enough of a "charge" available in our touch that it passes through another's body and can then trigger something that person is holding. Could all those clichéd love stories not just be metaphorically talking about the jolt that happens when two lovers touch? Could there something more than the psychological feel of touch that gives it its therapeutic value? Could we be wired to give each other an almost imperceptible jolt on contact?

It was a lighter moment as we face the inevitable, and it made me curious.

Sufferings of my kids over dinner, AKA

...my Macbeth/Disney connection once more.

As some know, my daughter switched schools and now is not only at my school, but in my drama class as well. It's gotten past the initial weird first few days, and is working out quite well so far. I think we'll have to eventually work not to talk shop at home too much, since I doubt my wife or my son would enjoy that too much.

Meanwhile, he's in English 11 this semester at his school, which was probably my favorite grade to teach English back before my gig evolved into full time theatre, and he's studying Macbeth, which was probably my favourite unit in that course.

Thing is, his teacher's taking forever to get through the play. They've been at it for at least three weeks and they're just finishing Act II. (It's semestered, not linear.) He's started asking me about the play, and today my wife warned me off filling his head with "not the stuff his teacher will want them to know" about it.

Too late. First it was the whole "it makes more sense for Bellona's bridegroom to be Macduff" theory which I won't get into here, and then there was the "everything with Hecate was written by Middleton" issue. Still, I have to share the "Disney ripped off Shakespeare" Macbeth/Lion King thing once more. I've been flogging this with my classes since the late 90s (when my kids made us watch the damn movie over and over)

A good king (Duncan, Mufasa) is envied by a relative (Macbeth, Scar) who eventually murders him and places the blame on his son (Malcolm, Simba). The son flees his home (Scotland, Pride Lands) and goes into exile, while the new king begins a reign of terror aided by his evil supporters (mercenaries, hyenas).

Eventually things grow so bad that out of desperation one person (Macduff, Rafiki) travels to find the young king and convince him to return, but he argues that he is not worthy to come back and rule the land. Eventually Macduff/Rafiki succeed, and Duncan/Simba is joined by his newfound allies from the new land (Timon & Pumba/Old Siward & Young Siward) and they battle the evil king and his allies and restore the rightful heir to the throne.

But I guess they stole the "I am your father's ghost" from Hamlet.

A Perfect Day

It goes something like this:

A beautiful drive to work just before sunrise with my daughter, then a little later my friends now up from Honduras arrive--first time in over a year I've seen them, and we have a nice bus ride to catch up. Then, a play that all my students enjoyed, a short bus ride back to Duncan, and a break for food--pizza with my friends then back on the bus and home.

We all drive out to my place, beer on the patio enjoying the sunshine, and even my wife joins us for a while when she gets home. Then eventually we end up downtown, wandering like tourists and settle on a cheap but delicious restaurant in Chinatown.

Later, a stroll back through downtown to a pub, and a chance to laugh over drinks.

It was the bestest day ever. Here are a few pics:










Phone pic at Boston Pizza in Duncan












Dani contemplates her beer on the patio













Mmm, smell the horses.
















We stand on guard for thee.













The chinese food becomes part of a classic movie re-enactment: "You talkin' to ME?"

(well, it could have happened)

October garden

Some yard & garden pics from Sunday:

Don't even know what to call this

This commercial has come on a few times when we're watching tv and I just enjoy how it makes my wife giggle uncontrollably--mostly because it's so darned creepy. Don't quite know how it relates to chocolate bars, or anything else for that matter.

edit: I notice for some reason this posts as wider than fits in the blog. I really must try to fix up this blog layout one of these days. If you want to see it properly, you can also go to where I posted it originally, on photobucket. I think this will work without a password:

http://s11.photobucket.com/albums/a152/jpurple/?action=view¤t=eyebrowscommercial.flv

tense

There are some of you who know my friend who's been living in Honduras for about two years now--she's more family than friend.

Things aren't good there at the moment, and while normally I might take some comfort in the fact that she's living on an island far from where most of the troubles might be, she and her girlfriend were on her way home for a visit--they had planned to be in Canada by tomorrow--and they're caught in this situation:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/8270218.stm

I've been keeping up by chatting and messaging on line quite a bit, even yesterday at lunch from work, and they're stuck indoors just a couple of blocks from where a lot of the action was going on a couple days ago in Tegucigalpa.

Today I'm having a quick coffee with her successor--the only other techie kid I've ever trusted with their own set of keys to the theatre--to say goodbye before she heads off Friday to live in Nicaragua.

I need to start giving those keys to people I don't like.

In the meantime, I'm sending prayers and thoughts that my Honduras friends will soon be out of that and here for a while. No doubt there will be some pressure not to go back from those who care but I'll trust they know the best course of action.

The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains

The DaVinci Code

(Editor's note: The Kid Who Sits Behind You has been on sabbatical for a while, but he is happy to be back now that he is in college and being forced to read books again. He did manage to graduate high school and tried his luck touring with a band for a couple of months, and well, the less said about that, the better. He is now enrolled in a community college, and has also joined a book club, formed by his new girlfriend, Lisanne. He is happy to once again to be able to offer you his unique insights into a variety of literary works.)

So this Dan Brown guy is all into symbolism and secret stuff and Sangreal, which I think is like some sort of wine mixed with fruit juice, plus he's all into weird religious crap and goddesses and goats and stuff. (Kinda like some of the posters I got cheap when my favorite metal record store had that closing out sale.)

He goes on about something called Opus Dei, which I think means something like "Opie's Day" or maybe "Opie is God" in latin. So I kinda got into this symbolism thing too, (cause on account of some stuff we was adjustin' our consciousness with after the first book meeting, even though Lisanne said she's going to be all straightedge now she's starting college but it was a Friday night...) Anyway, I think I get what he's hinting at.

Opie was the kid in that Andy Griffith show I used to watch on those dvds at my grandma's place and the show used to be called "Andy of Mayberry". Well, the Leonardo's name isn't "da Vinci"--that just means his name is really "Leonard of Vinci". See the connection? Plus Mayberry is like some sort of plant that they'd probably wear in their hair on May Day, when they dance around the maypole, which is like all goddess symbolic and pagan and stuff.

Plus there was a guy on the show named Gomer, and that was one of the kids of Japeth, who is one of Noah's three sons and there's all this stuff in the freemasons (my grandpa was one and after he kicked it we found this weird apron in his closet and for a while I thought he was some sort of crossdresser) about Noah's kids and that all ties in.

The main woman in the show is this hella old chick named "Aunt Bea", and that's short for Beatrice, who was a character in some play by some guy named Percy Shelley and she's treated like crap and beat on by her dad. So I figure like Aunt Bea's always havin' to be maid for Sheriff Andy 'cause he's the male authority and she's this "sacred feminine" that the religious authorities have beat down all the time.

Finally, the theme music to the show was called "The Fishin' Hole" and when they start the show there's Opie carrying a fishing pole. This is symbolic cause on account of Dan Brown tells us the "age of pisces" (the fish) is over and the "age of aquariums" is beginning, which I think mean that the christian fish-symbol is going to be replaced by the goddess of fish tanks, and Andy and Opie are going to kill fish so it all makes sense.

Plus the deputy Barney had no play with the babes and that stupid guy in the book has this hot French chick detective around and he is too busy looking for symbols to get busy, if you get what I'm sayin.

This sounds like a Mickey Mouse deal to me

Disney cruises will be stopping here by 2011. My daughter will be a few years out of their target demographic by then, but I'm sure some locals will be thrilled. Expect a lot of little girls in princess dresses wandering the tourist trap shops on Government Street...

Regeneration

In about 10 hours, I'll meet with students for the first time this school year. (So I should probably get to bed.)

I've been thinking about the beginning of this new school year the last week or two, and as always, I have mixed feelings about it. While it's a little sad to say goodbye to the summer, particularly one as nice as this one, the last few days have been rainy and felt more like fall, and it feels like we should be getting back at it.

My daughter's excited about coming to my school this year, although she's leaving behind all her close friends from her previous school to do so. I'm looking forward to our daily commutes together; no doubt we'll have lots of time to discuss all manner of things as the weeks and months pass. I suspect we'll also argue about radio station choices quite a bit...

The summer is quite long, but I think it's necessary. Not for the "school is such a grind we need a longer break" excuse so much as I think it needs to be clearly separated by time from the year that's ended--we need to make a clear break from what came before and feel that what lies ahead is something new, something fraught with possibility.

In much the same way as the winter is needed for fruit trees to lie dormant and then blossom to life once more, so we need to empty the school and leave it to the custodians and tradespeople so that we can return to someplace clean, perhaps painted or renovated, and ready to be filled with the expectancy the new school year brings.

We turn over at least 25% of our population each year as well. As wonderful as any departing grad class may be, after four years we've all gotten a little too used to each other, and they've outgrown what we have to offer, and all of our particular idiosyncrasies--theirs and ours--have begun to wear thin. The incoming kids will bring their own challenges, but at least some will be new challenges.

No matter how many first days of school one experiences, you can't help but pick up some of the nervous energy and excitement that fill the halls as the new grade 9s try to muster a confident swagger and eagerly clump together for encouragement, talking a little too loudly as they pretend they know where they're going.

The new grade 12s take a little while to settle into the rarefied air of senior status, and at first wander about as if looking for the big kids who ran the show a few months before. The senior hangouts gradually become less empty, as one by one they dare claim these spaces as their own. In a few weeks, though, they'll wear the mantle of their seniority more comfortably, and the memory of another departed grad class will gradually fade.

There will be all sorts of resolutions--the best lesson plans and most innovative units are often those written for the first few weeks of school. Once routine is established, and any number of unexpected demands steal focus, we will succumb, to varying degrees, to the temptation of the familiar, the safe.

Still, there will be surprises. I hope, for all who read this and are facing their own new school years, that most are nice ones.

Nice ending

It was a terrible situation--story was on my google all Thurday evening. A two-year-old B.C. toddler wandered away from where his family was camping in the Yukon. Not exactly safe terrain, and it gets cold at night.

Then, the next day, turns out the little guy is found. He'd followed a dog he saw into the forest. The dog had been lost for a week or so, and it must have stayed with him, and probably kept him warm overnight. They were found together, and are okay. The owners of the dog found out the little boy wanted to keep the dog, so they're letting him have it.

Full story here.

And the latest retro/nostalgia trend to return is...

McCarthyism.

Obama wants to start off the school year by making a 15-minute speech to students encouraging them to take control of their education.

Apparently it's really an attempt to indoctrinate them with "Marxist propaganda".

First, the ridiculous proposition that health care isn't just for the rich and now telling kids "to set goals for your own education: to study hard and get involved in your school."

Fortunately a lot school districts are savvy to his gun-hatin', healthcare-forcin', ways and they won't be lettin' their kids be brainwashed by the man the country is followin' like a bunch of crazy cult people.

*sigh*

nostalgia

I'm back in my home town--had the high-school reunion on Friday and Saturday evenings, and my family got here today.

Reunions are funny things. Some people haven't aged very well; others look amazing. I went up with my old roommate from university days; we were also best men at each other's weddings. Apparently we were better preserved than most, we were told. Might make sense; I'm sure we drink a lot less than many of our former classmates, and haven't been through as many divorces.

It was disappointing how many locals didn't show up for the event. I suppose there is the possibility that in a smaller town, there are folks who have bad feelings from broken marriages or other connections that have transpired over the years, and they didn't want to see certain people in that sort of situation.

It was fun to talk to some people I haven't really had conversations with since elementary school. It's also amazing how we can trigger each other's memories of all sorts of details from back in grade 2 or 3 that I hadn't thought of for years.

Yesterday I had some hours to kill after my friend left on one ferry and my family came over on the next, so I bought a novel and wandered the town, reading on the beach for a while, then strolling by old haunts. It was weird what came back as I walked by the house where I lived until I was four, or wandered the grounds of my old elementary school. The door was wide open so I even went in to see the hallways didn't look much like they had back when I attended.

Now we're staying at a nice resort on the water--here's a photo of the sunset from our deck last night:




Coffee on the same deck this morning, listening to the waves roll in, was very good for the soul.

too damn hot

"BC Heat Wave Gets Worse"

We aren't set up to deal with a long spell of hot weather. Today, Port Alberni's supposed to get up to 40 (104 F). They're about two hours north/west of us, and that sort of weather is what's turning the forest into a tinderbox ready to burn from a carelessly-tossed cigarette butt or even a piece of broken glass that acts as a lens to focus the sun's rays on dry grass.

There's a campfire ban everywhere on the island; campers aren't even allowed those citronella candles to keep mosquitos away.

It's still about 80 (26) at 11:00 p.m. the past few nights when we're sitting outside trying to cool down before we attempt to sleep in the overheated house.

We had an air conditioner we got rid of for energy/environmental reasons a couple of years ago--but the past few days I've been questioning that. Maybe I'll just drive around in the air conditioned car all day...

A quick trip by pic (lots of pics)

We spent the first nine days of this month south of the border, in Washington and Oregon, where we got to experience our first U.S. 4th of July. Never saw so many flags as in some of the small towns we drove through.

Here are some pics:










Leaving Victoria on a beautiful morning on the Coho ferry to Port Angeles

















View of downtown Seattle from the Space Needle
Then, on to a boat tour of Elliot Bay with various Seattle landmarks pointed out:


























The very first Starbucks:




















We found snow on Mount Rainier, but it was still warm--about 70 degrees.

















Fireworks at Fort Dent on the 4th














Glass art at Tacoma














It was cloudy in Portland











Lincoln City on the Oregon coast--also where we found a decent outlet mall, to my daughter's delight. (no sales tax in Oregon)













Looking down on the Columbia River













The State Senate in Olympia, Washington. I was surprised to discover we could walk in and wander, even look into the Senate chamber, or go up into the viewing gallery in the Senate or the House--nobody even checked us for bombs or weapons...








Vietnam memorial at the State Capitol--they had something for each war, but I found this one somehow more... powerful than the others.





There were lots of other things, and I've posted a ton of pics on facebook if you're on it you can check. I may post some on my photobucket eventually--there's info elsewhere in past blog posts as to how you can access that.

One annoyance is the exchange rate--it was about 85 1/2 cents when we got home and now, a bit over two weeks later, our dollar has jumped to 92 1/2 against the U.S. buck.

Stupid fluctuations.

The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as a

Bouncer

Hi kid--just slide that table over and there should be room, oh, watch for that lamp. Sorry, it's a bit of a small office.

So what's in your future plans? Bouncer? As in the guy at the bar? Oh, clubs, right. Okay, I think it shouldn't be too hard to figure out.

First of all, how many hours you figure you spend in the gym? Per week? Oh, per day--well, that should be fine. You'll keep up that bodybuilding regime, and of course, resist the urge to use steroids... What? Oh, no, I didn't laugh. I just had a sneeze that didn't come out right. Oh, and you might want to get a little Oxy or something for that acne outbreak--it helps for bouncers to look their best, at least at the trendier nightspots.

You'll probably wait until after you graduate high school to get started; after all, you're underage and it's also tough to fit in late nights when the football coach has you guys on the field most mornings by 6:30.

You may not wait until you make drinking age to try out the gig--there are other places you can be the intimidating hulk. For instance, there are those weekend all-ages concerts and shows, plus there's a couple of fast food places downtown who need people to glower at the street kids who tarry too long over their small coffee.

Tarry? Oh, it means to wait, hang around.

You'll try to get hired with fake ID but the types of nightclubs you want are pretty careful; most have had jerky but connected patrons threaten legal action from time to time, and they cover their backsides by taking care of small details. Once you are of age, though, you'll be more than physically up to the challenge; the endless days of weight training will see to that.

You'll be taken under the wing of some guy whose nose looks like it's been broken a few times, and likes to occasionally pull out his fake front teeth and drop them into your beer when you're not looking. He kind of reminds you of a taller version of that bounty hunter guy on t.v.

You make a few mistakes as you learn the tricks of the bouncer game. For starters, like most, you're too eager to prove yourself, whereas a more seasoned bouncer remembers the goal is always to defuse the situation, rather than "laying the smack down".

Eventually you're proficient enough... pardon? Oh, it means "good". Anyway, you get good enough to be left in charge of the line out front. You do the regular door security shtick--let in the guys who've got the cash to buy lots of drinks, and the cute girls they'll want to buy drinks for, even if it means you don't examine some questionable ID's very well. Meanwhile, block every young guy who doesn't look like he can afford to buy a round, or like he'll be jealous and make trouble when his girlfriend gets a little wasted and starts grinding with her coke dealer on the dance floor.

You'll develop a sort of crude charm that goes with your bouncer persona, letting the prettier girls snort lines off your biceps, or making your tattoos dance as you flex before a giggling audience.

The downside is that you always have to maintain. Got the flu? Still got to get to the gym. Want to take a holiday--make sure the hotel has a fitness studio so you can put your hours in. If you don't you'll lose the main tool of your trade--your intimidating physique.

In time, you become more and more aware of the social hierarchy of the club, and you're lower on the ladder than you'd expected to be. No doubt the regular club girls will be more than happy to take you home once in a while, but anyone who's got enough going for her to be worth considering as relationship material, only sees you as... something less. You'll be surprised how hurt you get when they don't call after, or you realize the number they gave you is fake.

The guys with the Porsches and the Rolex watches are the ones who the girls really want to go home with, and you begin getting to know them better; soon you're getting extra jobs providing security for their private parties. Then, one night you're asked to go along as muscle by one of the drug dealers who frequents your club; he hands you a gun to stick in the waistband of your pants before you get in his car and he drives you to some seedy warehouse.

You look suitably menacing, and everything goes down without a problem. You go home with a week's worth of pay in your pocket, and the order to forget everything you saw, if you know what's good for you.

The next weekend, the same dealer comes up to you and says you can earn twice as much if you're interested. Thinking it's a repeat of your earlier duties you agree, but instead he drives you to an abandoned farmhouse where several other dealers are waiting--each with his own "champion". Seems these criminals have grown bored of dogfights, and have graduated to people--you don't want to back down so you end up in a free-for-all.

Adrenalin and the many hours of physical training come to your rescue; soon it's down to just you and Greg, your old mentor. As you go in to grab him in a choke hold, he steps aside and brings his right fist up against your temple--you're knocked down and nearly unconscious. You glance up and your blurry vision still spots the roll of quarters in his hand--cheating, in your mind.

As you pull yourself up on the open BMW trunk--the dealers had a bar set up in it--you hear his taunts, mocking you, calling you his "bitch". In a blind rage, you reach into the trunk and grab the tire iron, and swing it wildly, and manage to connect. Greg goes down in a heap, and one of the dealers checks him and announces he's dead.

Your "sponsor" gets into a heated discussion with the dealer who brought Greg to the fight, but it's over who won the pot of money, not about the fact that a man is lying dead at their feet. They agree to split the cash and they all head for their cars. When you try to join your dealer friend, he pulls a gun and motions you away. Seems as a murderer, you're too much of a liability to help now.

Fortunately, as you watch them all vanish in a cloud of dust, you realize Greg's beat up Toyota is still waiting nearby, and after you fish the keys from his pocket, you struggle to stuff him in the trunk.

You drive the car to the edge of a cliff, stuff Greg in the driver's seat, empty a couple of beer cans you found in the trunk on him, and push him and the car over the embankment--there's a loud crash but no explosion.

It only takes them a couple of days to charge you; you were in such a panic you didn't even think to wipe your fingerprints off the car.

On the bright side, you'll have lots of time to pump iron in prison.