Not my Scene
It's the first meeting of the year
Lunch time--room 309.
They wonder if the media will show up this time
To give the defenders of morality
Reason to get their signs out of the garage.
I sit in a back corner,
Unallied. I like it that way.
They're all there--those who've known since 6th grade,
Those who aren't sure,
Even the fag hags in training.
Tommy Hilfiger should've put more stripes in his logo--
He'd get rich off this crew.
They begin--volunteers self-disclose.
It's like testimonies at a revival meeting
Presided over by the "sponsor",
Who smiles supportively and leads the applause
After each weakling is finished whining.
I notice one butch glance in the doorway
She surveys the room--is about to move on
Then sees me, and steps inside.
Sadly, for her, not my type
But I never write off a game piece
When my games are so much fun.
Then our "leader"--the face of this club
Seen on local television
Each year when the evening news lacks
Plane crashes or hollywood scandal
He begins his self disclosure.
He tells of his adolescent angst,
The regrets of his sham marriage
The hatred of the community
Where he first revealed his truth.
I plead guilty to a smirk,
As I watch him choke up
And tears of sycophant sympathy
Glisten among a few disciples
throughout the room.
I've had enough--when they offer everyone a pin
To show solidarity in the hallways
I gracelessly decline.
Their prophet sees it all, and out loud,
in front of the group--his biggest mistake--
He asks why I don't want one.
(Perhaps it's payback for my listening skills
during his earlier pityfest.)
Normally not one to proclaim to the masses
What I can dagger through the hearts of individuals
I rise to the occasion.
"I don't need any pins of yours"--here I allow myself
a meaningful glance at "Rocky", as she has dubbed herself--
"I have enough body art of my own, thanks."
Then, I mock their weakness--their need for support
The world does not frighten me--I create fear.
"I don't need to spend my lunchtime playing therapy group
for an aging queen too cheap to pay a shrink."
The room is silent except for someone weeping quietly
off in a corner. Not cowed by my words, the teacher--
a few disciples crowded protectively around him--
Asks why I bothered to come.
"It's some cheap entertainment 'til the weather's good enough
for the skaters and the wiggas to start pounding each other
out on the back parking lot again."
I know when to exit for best effect, but as I near the door,
I make my only strategic mistake.
"Where did you learn to be so angry?"
I could've walked on--his voice was soft,
I might not have heard him.
But I stopped. They waited.
Life is what it is, I explain,
I ask no quarter and give none.
"Is that what your parents taught you?"
"My parents? A father who hides in is study,
lost in drink--spending all his time making online dates
He never intends to keep?"
"My mother--joining every committee in sight
To hide from her only child, who scares the hell out of her?"
I hate myself the moment the pathetic syllables
Escape my lips. I hate worse, what I see next:
Empathy.
I don't need it, him, or them.
I do break a lot of windows that night, though.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Friday, September 22, 2006
The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as a
Wedding Planner
Hi kid--wedding planner? You do sort of have an "always the bridesmaid" kind of look about you, so I guess you might as well make a career of it. No, no, I didn't mean anything by that remark. But hey--if you take offence easily, you might want to rethink this.
You'll need to go take a little bit of training--a smattering of bartending, some accounting, design, decorating and maybe even a bit of restaurant management. Even so, none of that will prepare you for this. The best thing to do is find an experienced wedding planner and job shadow them for about six months--that or just get yourself thrown into a prison yard with the word "snitch" tattooed on your forehead--you'll be treated about the same way by those around you.
Once you've shadowed long enough to know the three key strategies of wedding planners--what's that? Oh, simple.
Number one: Small print saying "this is not a binding contract, but merely an estimate of total costs. Actual cost of service is subject to change". You can NEVER plan for the disasters that some poor cursed souls will face on their nuptual day.
Number two: Facing a tirading mother of the bride--always steer her to the employee who speaks the least English
Number three: You can always shut down and open again under a new business name. Buh-bye creditors.
You'll see the routine repeated over and over 'til you can predict it flawlessly: Which bridesmaid will hook up with which groomsman, when the father of the groom will signal for the cheaper booze to be opened up, how badly you'll want to throttle the the canned music guy every time he plays the "bird dance"--all leading up to somebody's cheque bouncing a few days after it's all done.
Still, weddings are emotional times, and eventually, you'll get to see the full spectrum--I don't mean joy, happiness--all that hallmark crap--I mean the raw alcohol-fueled revelation of anguish at love lost, hope betrayed, or youth faded.
One day it will go farther. A bitter, jilted ex will be too loaded to find the happy couple before they depart for their honeymoon, but since he packed the gun into the hall--well, maybe some of those flowers could double as your employees' tribute to your memory.
Hi kid--wedding planner? You do sort of have an "always the bridesmaid" kind of look about you, so I guess you might as well make a career of it. No, no, I didn't mean anything by that remark. But hey--if you take offence easily, you might want to rethink this.
You'll need to go take a little bit of training--a smattering of bartending, some accounting, design, decorating and maybe even a bit of restaurant management. Even so, none of that will prepare you for this. The best thing to do is find an experienced wedding planner and job shadow them for about six months--that or just get yourself thrown into a prison yard with the word "snitch" tattooed on your forehead--you'll be treated about the same way by those around you.
Once you've shadowed long enough to know the three key strategies of wedding planners--what's that? Oh, simple.
Number one: Small print saying "this is not a binding contract, but merely an estimate of total costs. Actual cost of service is subject to change". You can NEVER plan for the disasters that some poor cursed souls will face on their nuptual day.
Number two: Facing a tirading mother of the bride--always steer her to the employee who speaks the least English
Number three: You can always shut down and open again under a new business name. Buh-bye creditors.
You'll see the routine repeated over and over 'til you can predict it flawlessly: Which bridesmaid will hook up with which groomsman, when the father of the groom will signal for the cheaper booze to be opened up, how badly you'll want to throttle the the canned music guy every time he plays the "bird dance"--all leading up to somebody's cheque bouncing a few days after it's all done.
Still, weddings are emotional times, and eventually, you'll get to see the full spectrum--I don't mean joy, happiness--all that hallmark crap--I mean the raw alcohol-fueled revelation of anguish at love lost, hope betrayed, or youth faded.
One day it will go farther. A bitter, jilted ex will be too loaded to find the happy couple before they depart for their honeymoon, but since he packed the gun into the hall--well, maybe some of those flowers could double as your employees' tribute to your memory.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Poetry by Dythandra
Back to School
A familiar ritual
My mother dragging me to sales
Thrusting floral prints at me
Despite what your magazines say, Mater dear,
There is no "new black".
The first moments in class, the roll call
My name--if they're good, you don't notice
The catch in the throat and the anxious eyes
I stare, then let a little smile drift across my lips
In return: a shudder, a swallow, a hastily-scrawled note
The principal will be sure to hear
Sound reasons why I might be better... relocated.
Another first week ritual:
My annual skirmish with the forces
of sweat socks and volleyballs.
The Vice Principal sighs
"You know P.E. is manditory for your grade."
The same tired paper pusher who decreed last year
that 40 minutes to untie one's boots
Was insufficient excuse.
It's my, uhm, corset-thing
I see the wheels turn, while visions of all manner of frightening things
Dance in his head.
Then I hand him the "doctor's note".
(They shouldn't leave the letterhead handy
When the receptionist steps away from the desk.)
Attached is the informative brochure
I downloaded from the 'net.
"What teachers should know about scoliosis".
That round won, I return to the hallways
And then my year takes its first
Unexpected turn.
His kind hasn't been seen here before
Perhaps a fan of "The Crow", I think to myself.
I suddenly reevaluate all those pronouncements on orientation
That have shattered my few past suitors.
He doesn't see me at first;
Some cementhead jock made a smartass remark
To his steroid buddies
My soon to be friend turned instantly
And the joker was on the floor.
Apparently it only took a couple of such displays
To give him a degree of tolerance
Rarely accorded anyone in this incestuous petri dish
of preppy pondscum.
Our friendship was assumed from the first
Though I looked for hint of more
Sadly, one day as we sat near a football practice
Mocking the fools on the field
I noticed something else in his eyes
His view of the practice had something more...
Unrequited.
I sighed--here I am, hoist on my own petard,
or lack thereof.
Still, a friend is better
Than most years start.
Finally a biology partner who understands
The true joy of dissection.
A familiar ritual
My mother dragging me to sales
Thrusting floral prints at me
Despite what your magazines say, Mater dear,
There is no "new black".
The first moments in class, the roll call
My name--if they're good, you don't notice
The catch in the throat and the anxious eyes
I stare, then let a little smile drift across my lips
In return: a shudder, a swallow, a hastily-scrawled note
The principal will be sure to hear
Sound reasons why I might be better... relocated.
Another first week ritual:
My annual skirmish with the forces
of sweat socks and volleyballs.
The Vice Principal sighs
"You know P.E. is manditory for your grade."
The same tired paper pusher who decreed last year
that 40 minutes to untie one's boots
Was insufficient excuse.
It's my, uhm, corset-thing
I see the wheels turn, while visions of all manner of frightening things
Dance in his head.
Then I hand him the "doctor's note".
(They shouldn't leave the letterhead handy
When the receptionist steps away from the desk.)
Attached is the informative brochure
I downloaded from the 'net.
"What teachers should know about scoliosis".
That round won, I return to the hallways
And then my year takes its first
Unexpected turn.
His kind hasn't been seen here before
Perhaps a fan of "The Crow", I think to myself.
I suddenly reevaluate all those pronouncements on orientation
That have shattered my few past suitors.
He doesn't see me at first;
Some cementhead jock made a smartass remark
To his steroid buddies
My soon to be friend turned instantly
And the joker was on the floor.
Apparently it only took a couple of such displays
To give him a degree of tolerance
Rarely accorded anyone in this incestuous petri dish
of preppy pondscum.
Our friendship was assumed from the first
Though I looked for hint of more
Sadly, one day as we sat near a football practice
Mocking the fools on the field
I noticed something else in his eyes
His view of the practice had something more...
Unrequited.
I sighed--here I am, hoist on my own petard,
or lack thereof.
Still, a friend is better
Than most years start.
Finally a biology partner who understands
The true joy of dissection.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
a moment for some props
...specifically giving them to my friend Carrie.
First, this pic of her was in the NY Daily News recently:
It seems it was connected to a movie she's been filming--"Good Luck Chuck".
Also, last week she was taping her second appearance on "The L Word". This time she's a Russian film actress, apparently--so being able to do the accent paid off. (Here's where I look sternly at a few people who mock me for my rare slips into an ersatz Russian accent.)
And it seems she's scored a recurring role on Smallville as the secretary of Lex Luthor's dad. It's nice to see someone who works hard get rewarded.
In a unrelated addendum to this--I just happened to be searching names at random on google, and I discover that a student in my acting class in my first high school job (the one who won best drama student in the province that year) was a contestant on Jeopardy this past February and won over 18 grand.
I wish I'd known so I could've watched.
First, this pic of her was in the NY Daily News recently:
It seems it was connected to a movie she's been filming--"Good Luck Chuck".
Also, last week she was taping her second appearance on "The L Word". This time she's a Russian film actress, apparently--so being able to do the accent paid off. (Here's where I look sternly at a few people who mock me for my rare slips into an ersatz Russian accent.)
And it seems she's scored a recurring role on Smallville as the secretary of Lex Luthor's dad. It's nice to see someone who works hard get rewarded.
In a unrelated addendum to this--I just happened to be searching names at random on google, and I discover that a student in my acting class in my first high school job (the one who won best drama student in the province that year) was a contestant on Jeopardy this past February and won over 18 grand.
I wish I'd known so I could've watched.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a
Concierge
What? A concierge? I imagine you'd have to do some sort of training for that job. Back in the old days, when the school used to do those "slave day" fundraiser things, then you could get an idea... sorry, I get nostalgic sometimes for the way school used to be. Back when you could have slave days and smoke in staff rooms and... right. A concierge.
You'll probably take some sort of hospitality management course but really, on the job is where your training will happen. You will likely have to do the bellhop gig--back in the day we called them bellboys, and by the way, what the hell is a "fisher"? Oh, right. So you'll do the bellhop thing and carry bags, maybe drive the "limo"--glorified short bus if you ask me--to the airport to pick up tourists, but then, if you're lucky, you can maybe work your way up to the night gig as a concierge.
It's kind of like being a personal assistant, but you don't just have to cater to the whims of one selfish idiot--you're supposed to make everyone happy. It's also kind of like being a pimp, but instead of selling your girls, you're pimpin' the entire city. At least there are some perks that make it worth your while.
That's the glory of this job--you get to eat at the best restaurants and drink in the best lounges for free. Feel like taking in a theatre show? On the house. Of course, there is a price--it's your shilling for them when some tourist wants an idea for dinner or entertainment. Unfortunately, it isn't just you who gets comped by these businesses--all of your bosses and managers also get freebies in return for ordering you to promote their friends' places.
You'll become the master of the "let me call and make a reservation for you" method of ensuring your kickbacks. You'll have to be smooth, though--it's expected that every concierge is never flustered by anything anyone requests, no matter how depraved or ridiculous. The customer is always right--as are the 40 members of the hotel staff above you in the pecking order who each feel it is their right to order you to attend to their whims on a moment's notice.
You won't have to stay a concierge--you could always move to desk clerk or shift manager--maybe get into the catering department. You won't, though--you like the tips you receive out front, dealing with the baser needs of the public. You also generously offer to stay on the night shift. It's simple--the darkness brings out the darker side of human nature, and guests tip more for those who don't show their disgust.
Your end will come unexpectedly--either you'll be caught in a lie to the wrong psycho husband about his wife's weekly trysts with her lover, or the government will catch up with all the years of underdeclared gratuity income you can never manage to pay back taxes on.
You'll have a great wardrobe, though. Should look good for photos when your tragic story hits the paper.
What? A concierge? I imagine you'd have to do some sort of training for that job. Back in the old days, when the school used to do those "slave day" fundraiser things, then you could get an idea... sorry, I get nostalgic sometimes for the way school used to be. Back when you could have slave days and smoke in staff rooms and... right. A concierge.
You'll probably take some sort of hospitality management course but really, on the job is where your training will happen. You will likely have to do the bellhop gig--back in the day we called them bellboys, and by the way, what the hell is a "fisher"? Oh, right. So you'll do the bellhop thing and carry bags, maybe drive the "limo"--glorified short bus if you ask me--to the airport to pick up tourists, but then, if you're lucky, you can maybe work your way up to the night gig as a concierge.
It's kind of like being a personal assistant, but you don't just have to cater to the whims of one selfish idiot--you're supposed to make everyone happy. It's also kind of like being a pimp, but instead of selling your girls, you're pimpin' the entire city. At least there are some perks that make it worth your while.
That's the glory of this job--you get to eat at the best restaurants and drink in the best lounges for free. Feel like taking in a theatre show? On the house. Of course, there is a price--it's your shilling for them when some tourist wants an idea for dinner or entertainment. Unfortunately, it isn't just you who gets comped by these businesses--all of your bosses and managers also get freebies in return for ordering you to promote their friends' places.
You'll become the master of the "let me call and make a reservation for you" method of ensuring your kickbacks. You'll have to be smooth, though--it's expected that every concierge is never flustered by anything anyone requests, no matter how depraved or ridiculous. The customer is always right--as are the 40 members of the hotel staff above you in the pecking order who each feel it is their right to order you to attend to their whims on a moment's notice.
You won't have to stay a concierge--you could always move to desk clerk or shift manager--maybe get into the catering department. You won't, though--you like the tips you receive out front, dealing with the baser needs of the public. You also generously offer to stay on the night shift. It's simple--the darkness brings out the darker side of human nature, and guests tip more for those who don't show their disgust.
Your end will come unexpectedly--either you'll be caught in a lie to the wrong psycho husband about his wife's weekly trysts with her lover, or the government will catch up with all the years of underdeclared gratuity income you can never manage to pay back taxes on.
You'll have a great wardrobe, though. Should look good for photos when your tragic story hits the paper.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Poetry by Dythandra
Your Fall from Grace
You're staying for the summer,
My favorite cousin
Part of the parentals' plan
To "restore" me.
You seemed... more complex, before.
Now there's the hour of painting, filing, curling
Each morning, with pit stops throughout the day.
While we used to bond,
Now there's uncomfortable silence.
You meet the boy who runs the outdoor camps.
Seems his assistant backed out--he's desperate for help.
You talk about him to your friends back home
You don't know about my silent extension.
I also hear your laughs
At the expense of your "pathetic little wannabe vampire" cousin.
I don't complain when you propose to leave
All comforts of home shed for a month
While you help 10 year olds paddle a kayak.
Too bad you're careless.
Should've hidden that myspace password more
When you typed it five times a day.
Should've looked over to my window
When you got friendly down on the porch
With Mr. Wilderness.
Does he know about the boy back home?
My mother looks at me sadly.
Her hopes dashed, and fearing my summer
Somehow ruined.
I smile bravely, and retreat to my room.
It's a gradual process, this destruction.
I find I enjoy being electronic you:
You're rude to your friends when you comment
Your blog details new friends and their chemicals
You ask your boy back home for more space
And Paris-like, you post the nightvision shots
Of your cozy times on the veranda.
Of course, the phone calls from worried or angry friends
Find only voicemail--
No phones or computers allowed
In Camp Wannagebizzee
It's a good month;
You return suntanned and smiling.
I hope camp boy has the internet
You're going to have lots of free time
When you get home.
You're staying for the summer,
My favorite cousin
Part of the parentals' plan
To "restore" me.
You seemed... more complex, before.
Now there's the hour of painting, filing, curling
Each morning, with pit stops throughout the day.
While we used to bond,
Now there's uncomfortable silence.
You meet the boy who runs the outdoor camps.
Seems his assistant backed out--he's desperate for help.
You talk about him to your friends back home
You don't know about my silent extension.
I also hear your laughs
At the expense of your "pathetic little wannabe vampire" cousin.
I don't complain when you propose to leave
All comforts of home shed for a month
While you help 10 year olds paddle a kayak.
Too bad you're careless.
Should've hidden that myspace password more
When you typed it five times a day.
Should've looked over to my window
When you got friendly down on the porch
With Mr. Wilderness.
Does he know about the boy back home?
My mother looks at me sadly.
Her hopes dashed, and fearing my summer
Somehow ruined.
I smile bravely, and retreat to my room.
It's a gradual process, this destruction.
I find I enjoy being electronic you:
You're rude to your friends when you comment
Your blog details new friends and their chemicals
You ask your boy back home for more space
And Paris-like, you post the nightvision shots
Of your cozy times on the veranda.
Of course, the phone calls from worried or angry friends
Find only voicemail--
No phones or computers allowed
In Camp Wannagebizzee
It's a good month;
You return suntanned and smiling.
I hope camp boy has the internet
You're going to have lots of free time
When you get home.
Friday, July 21, 2006
too hot
It was 90 at 8 tonight--bleah. We had left the house closed up while we were all out most of the day, so it was probably 100 inside.
Plus I was cruising around town in a little tin bucket w/out air while mine was in for maintenance.
There--whining done.
Item for consideration--while in Qualicum, we noticed a hospice there named "Valhalla". Anyone else think that's in questionable taste?
Had lunch w/ Alix today. I feel sorry for anyone who works in a restaurant kitchen in the summer (which she does). Tonight we were at my in-laws and rather than cook we decided to go to KFC where, unfortunately for the employees, there's no air conditioning. It must've been hellish in the kitchen, because it was disgustingly hot out by the counter, and they couldn't manage to keep up with the orders--a bunch of people got cranky and took refunds and left.
Up the Fraser Canyon--maybe two hours inland from Vancouver, it was 42 today--a bit over 107.
I recall as a kid we went on holidays through that area in a car without air conditioning, and camped in a tent. I don't think we could manage that with my family without killing each other.
I know that folks down south are mocking our wimpiness now. Wait for global warming, my friends. You'll want real estate up here, I bet.
Plus I was cruising around town in a little tin bucket w/out air while mine was in for maintenance.
There--whining done.
Item for consideration--while in Qualicum, we noticed a hospice there named "Valhalla". Anyone else think that's in questionable taste?
Had lunch w/ Alix today. I feel sorry for anyone who works in a restaurant kitchen in the summer (which she does). Tonight we were at my in-laws and rather than cook we decided to go to KFC where, unfortunately for the employees, there's no air conditioning. It must've been hellish in the kitchen, because it was disgustingly hot out by the counter, and they couldn't manage to keep up with the orders--a bunch of people got cranky and took refunds and left.
Up the Fraser Canyon--maybe two hours inland from Vancouver, it was 42 today--a bit over 107.
I recall as a kid we went on holidays through that area in a car without air conditioning, and camped in a tent. I don't think we could manage that with my family without killing each other.
I know that folks down south are mocking our wimpiness now. Wait for global warming, my friends. You'll want real estate up here, I bet.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Poetry by Dythandra
My Summer Vacation
The parentals insist, each year
Upon a family bonding time.
Camping was a disaster--Fire, lanterns,
Pointed marshmellow sticks...
And my imagination.
Though I did enjoy the bats
Who joined me each night to play.
Something different this year--a surprise
They promise. I despise surprises
Unless they're of my design.
I fear their bland conformity,
And brace myself for Yellowstone.
But the plane takes us to San Jose--
The Bay Area.
I almost smile--San Francisco has its perks.
But then the hammer falls,
A rental car, and down the coast we go.
Anaheim our destination.
But not before we stop the SUV and add
My Aunt and her annoyingly tanned
California kids.
Poor Aunty Jan--all alone, with those two
How does she ever manage
On the court ordered half mil a year
Her financier ex must pay.
Her spawn are first smug and superior
I have no precancerous coloring,
So they feel me unworthy of their company.
This suits me, until the son--my cousin, Daniel
(I remember him from the Dan and Danny incarnations)
Decides to find me exotic, or perhaps dangerous.
And his tiresome pursuit begins.
All manner of discouragement fails to dissuade
Even my intimation that his sister is more to my...
Well, suffice to say, it just increased his ardor.
At the mecca of the rodent's empire,
I relent enough to sample the rides
The Tower of Terror holds few for me
And the roller coaster is tame,
Though my Aunt loses her filet mignon.
I give my suitor a hint of encouragement.
"We'll ride the Small World together"
His eyes light up. He runs away with me
As I shake away his attempt to hold my hand.
We see an opportunity--it's early, and we manage
To get a boat to ourself.
Inside, I know exactly what to do
(I reconnoitered the day before)
At the right moment, we climb out
And sneak behind some horrible stereotypes
Of Africa's children.
I pull out the handcuffs I managed to sneak in
And his eyes light up.
Later, the park security is eventually told
About the young man behind the animatronic
Natives.
Seemed no one heard him for hours
Over that shrill song.
I whistle it all the way back
To San Francisco.
My parents agree that next year
The two of them are taking a cruise.
The parentals insist, each year
Upon a family bonding time.
Camping was a disaster--Fire, lanterns,
Pointed marshmellow sticks...
And my imagination.
Though I did enjoy the bats
Who joined me each night to play.
Something different this year--a surprise
They promise. I despise surprises
Unless they're of my design.
I fear their bland conformity,
And brace myself for Yellowstone.
But the plane takes us to San Jose--
The Bay Area.
I almost smile--San Francisco has its perks.
But then the hammer falls,
A rental car, and down the coast we go.
Anaheim our destination.
But not before we stop the SUV and add
My Aunt and her annoyingly tanned
California kids.
Poor Aunty Jan--all alone, with those two
How does she ever manage
On the court ordered half mil a year
Her financier ex must pay.
Her spawn are first smug and superior
I have no precancerous coloring,
So they feel me unworthy of their company.
This suits me, until the son--my cousin, Daniel
(I remember him from the Dan and Danny incarnations)
Decides to find me exotic, or perhaps dangerous.
And his tiresome pursuit begins.
All manner of discouragement fails to dissuade
Even my intimation that his sister is more to my...
Well, suffice to say, it just increased his ardor.
At the mecca of the rodent's empire,
I relent enough to sample the rides
The Tower of Terror holds few for me
And the roller coaster is tame,
Though my Aunt loses her filet mignon.
I give my suitor a hint of encouragement.
"We'll ride the Small World together"
His eyes light up. He runs away with me
As I shake away his attempt to hold my hand.
We see an opportunity--it's early, and we manage
To get a boat to ourself.
Inside, I know exactly what to do
(I reconnoitered the day before)
At the right moment, we climb out
And sneak behind some horrible stereotypes
Of Africa's children.
I pull out the handcuffs I managed to sneak in
And his eyes light up.
Later, the park security is eventually told
About the young man behind the animatronic
Natives.
Seemed no one heard him for hours
Over that shrill song.
I whistle it all the way back
To San Francisco.
My parents agree that next year
The two of them are taking a cruise.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
July 5--
On this date, 15 years ago, I was contemplating my last day of singleness.
On the whole, it's been an amazing and very quick 15 years. I am very lucky. If only my wife had known what she was getting herself into...
Off we go to celebrate for a couple days and take in a play along the way. Back in a few days, folks. Hope you're all enjoying the summer.
(Oh, and Ella IS still alive--we chatted yesterday (actually Monday--since it's after midnight now) and I was reassured as to her continued existence.)
Oh, and we had a 3.7 earthquake here today--but I was driving at the time and so heard about it from my family when I got home. The joys of living on a fault line...
On the whole, it's been an amazing and very quick 15 years. I am very lucky. If only my wife had known what she was getting herself into...
Off we go to celebrate for a couple days and take in a play along the way. Back in a few days, folks. Hope you're all enjoying the summer.
(Oh, and Ella IS still alive--we chatted yesterday (actually Monday--since it's after midnight now) and I was reassured as to her continued existence.)
Oh, and we had a 3.7 earthquake here today--but I was driving at the time and so heard about it from my family when I got home. The joys of living on a fault line...
Monday, July 03, 2006
I kind of like this one
What horrible Edward Gorey Death will you die?
You will sink in a mire. You like to think you're normal, but deep down you really just want to strip off your clothes and roll around in chicken fat.
Take this quiz!
The ADD Movie Usher Reviews
Mr and Mrs. Smith
Yeah this movie's believable. Just like all the James Bond movies and every other one that would have you believe that expert shooters can magically miss people who happen to be main characters in the show. Kind of like the fact they don't notice that each other are assassins even though they're trained to notice all these tiny details.
Or like how every fat guy gets the hot girl in movies like Hitch or all those sitcoms with the Jim Belushi-type guy who has the hot wife.
Still, at least Brad and Angelina are both more a match like that. But her lips--yeah right they're not enhanced. I mean, you can practically see the little air valve thing to pump them up between shots.
And Vince Vaughn? So did Brad Pitt take him aside during the breaks and say "Hey, go date my ex-wife would ya?" or what? Weird. Kind of like how all the people in the concession date all the other people in the concession. But somehow the ushers, well, we're good enough for the janitors but somehow those concession snots are all "We're bondable--we can handle cash".
And what's with their uniforms--I mean, they get those really nice black vests and we have those stupid green blazers, and we have to do ALL the garbage at the end of the night... oh yeah.
So, uhm, 3 out of 5 for Mr. and Mrs. Smith. I wonder if anyone asked her what she did with Billy Bob's blood vial after they broke up? Probably some evil mojo goin' on there...
Yeah this movie's believable. Just like all the James Bond movies and every other one that would have you believe that expert shooters can magically miss people who happen to be main characters in the show. Kind of like the fact they don't notice that each other are assassins even though they're trained to notice all these tiny details.
Or like how every fat guy gets the hot girl in movies like Hitch or all those sitcoms with the Jim Belushi-type guy who has the hot wife.
Still, at least Brad and Angelina are both more a match like that. But her lips--yeah right they're not enhanced. I mean, you can practically see the little air valve thing to pump them up between shots.
And Vince Vaughn? So did Brad Pitt take him aside during the breaks and say "Hey, go date my ex-wife would ya?" or what? Weird. Kind of like how all the people in the concession date all the other people in the concession. But somehow the ushers, well, we're good enough for the janitors but somehow those concession snots are all "We're bondable--we can handle cash".
And what's with their uniforms--I mean, they get those really nice black vests and we have those stupid green blazers, and we have to do ALL the garbage at the end of the night... oh yeah.
So, uhm, 3 out of 5 for Mr. and Mrs. Smith. I wonder if anyone asked her what she did with Billy Bob's blood vial after they broke up? Probably some evil mojo goin' on there...
Thursday, June 15, 2006
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future in
Lawn Maintenance
Oh, hi kid--look, I know I promised to pay you on Saturday but I forgot the alimony had gone up after the court... oh--you're not here about the lawn? Ahh--well, I guess since you already kind of do the whole lawn thing, it makes sense. Let me see...
You'll quickly realize that your future in this business depends on first distinguishing yourself from the generic gardening and yard maintenance guys--you will be all about lawns, and nothing else. You'll get a truck with one of those ramp things, and a set of good mowers and you're on your way. You'll need a cell phone to run your business--the voicemail will have a recording that makes it clear you only do lawns so you don't have to bother mocking the idiot who still asks if you prune trees.
One problem with your job will be the lack of sick days. You may think since you're self-employed you can just take a day or two off whenever you want, but once you have that schedule in place, the folks in the rich neighborhoods won't care if your mother died or your mower shot a piece of glass into your leg; if the lawn starts looking a little shabby, they'll call the next guy in the phone book, and you can't afford that.
There won't be a big profit margin in the cutting--too much competition like there is in all unskilled, cheap-startup businesses. You need an edge, so you'll buy one of those spray-on grass planting systems, and add the top of the line aerator and a heavy-duty power rake. Of course, with more gear, you'll need a trailer and a bigger truck, but if you're credit rating's okay you may be able to manage that.
Even with the new gear, you still won't feel secure nor will the profits soar. You scrape together the fee to attend a convention in Kentucky run by a sod sales company, and there you get the advice that will take you to the next level: snob appeal.
The good clients are the ones in the privileged neighborhoods where elegant homes are surrounded by beautifully-manicured lawns spread across five-acre lots. The logo on your truck--a cartoon of a hayseed hillbilly chewing on a piece of grass in a straw hat while he pushes a lawn mower towards a pile of dog crap--just doesn't appeal to this clientele. You lose the logo, change your business name from "Terry the Turf Man" to "St. Alban's Green Maintenance", and you're on your way to becoming a regular fixture in neighborhoods where your leaf blower is outlawed due to noise regulations.
It goes well, and within a few months you're confident enough about the future to buy another truck and hire someone cheap--probably an illegal or a high school kid. You dream of a time when you can have a fleet of trucks and you won't actually have to cut the lawns yourself.
Sadly, the good times won't pan out. One night you'll get behind schedule--maybe a flat tire or a problem with a mower--and you'll cruise up to the bank manager's house later than usual. Normally, there's no one home, but since it's late, he's home from work and you spot him lounging beside his pool, a drink in one hand, while the other twists the hair of an attractive young woman you recognize as the one who staffs the bank's commercial transaction wicket.
You'll be running the weedeater around the edges of their rose garden when his wife's mercedes pulls up. The screaming match that follows is unpleasant, and you hear enough while loading your gear onto the truck to realize the wife hadn't been expected home for two more days. When you notice the bank manager push his wife into some lawn furniture, you take a few steps in their direction, unsure of what to do--normally the rich ones have an understanding with you; they pretend you don't exist, and you go along with being less than human to ensure good tips at Christmas.
The bank manager gives you a cold look, and you stop short. You really have no idea what you would do anyway, and he makes a show of helping his wife up, but she shakes off his hand and storms into the house. He looks toward you again, and you just go to your truck and drive away.
Three days later, you are shocked to see your chief competitor, "Lord Montague's Lawn Care", parked in front of the bank manager's home. You saunter over to ask him what he's doing there--the grass doesn't grow that fast--and he explains he was called in to do a small turf-replacement job. "Four rolls", he explains. "Nothing big. He had to dig up a pool drain or something and he needed a patch."
You are troubled. Four rolls--each roll is eight feet long and a foot wide. Plenty to cover the evidence of a crime. You decide to stop by the house on the way home, and have a look at the patch yourself. The layout of the turf rolls will either fuel or calm your suspicions about the possible disposal of a body.
It's really just your paranoia, fostered by the detective novels you read on breaks in your truck, that drives you to stand over the newly-laid turf by the wealthy banker's pool and contemplate whether he murdered his wife. Maybe if you had a partner--some daily human contact--you'd have realized you were overreacting.
Happily, though, the banker's wife will be alive, sitting by the pool, drinking to forget the pain of hearing her lawyer explain the the pre-nup will stand up in court. She'll have her handgun out, thinking how she'll frighten her husband with it when he gets home. When she spots you lurking by the new turf, it will only be dumb luck that makes her shot at what she fears is an assassin sent by her husband prove fatal.
The bank manager will send a lovely floral arrangement to your funeral.
Oh, hi kid--look, I know I promised to pay you on Saturday but I forgot the alimony had gone up after the court... oh--you're not here about the lawn? Ahh--well, I guess since you already kind of do the whole lawn thing, it makes sense. Let me see...
You'll quickly realize that your future in this business depends on first distinguishing yourself from the generic gardening and yard maintenance guys--you will be all about lawns, and nothing else. You'll get a truck with one of those ramp things, and a set of good mowers and you're on your way. You'll need a cell phone to run your business--the voicemail will have a recording that makes it clear you only do lawns so you don't have to bother mocking the idiot who still asks if you prune trees.
One problem with your job will be the lack of sick days. You may think since you're self-employed you can just take a day or two off whenever you want, but once you have that schedule in place, the folks in the rich neighborhoods won't care if your mother died or your mower shot a piece of glass into your leg; if the lawn starts looking a little shabby, they'll call the next guy in the phone book, and you can't afford that.
There won't be a big profit margin in the cutting--too much competition like there is in all unskilled, cheap-startup businesses. You need an edge, so you'll buy one of those spray-on grass planting systems, and add the top of the line aerator and a heavy-duty power rake. Of course, with more gear, you'll need a trailer and a bigger truck, but if you're credit rating's okay you may be able to manage that.
Even with the new gear, you still won't feel secure nor will the profits soar. You scrape together the fee to attend a convention in Kentucky run by a sod sales company, and there you get the advice that will take you to the next level: snob appeal.
The good clients are the ones in the privileged neighborhoods where elegant homes are surrounded by beautifully-manicured lawns spread across five-acre lots. The logo on your truck--a cartoon of a hayseed hillbilly chewing on a piece of grass in a straw hat while he pushes a lawn mower towards a pile of dog crap--just doesn't appeal to this clientele. You lose the logo, change your business name from "Terry the Turf Man" to "St. Alban's Green Maintenance", and you're on your way to becoming a regular fixture in neighborhoods where your leaf blower is outlawed due to noise regulations.
It goes well, and within a few months you're confident enough about the future to buy another truck and hire someone cheap--probably an illegal or a high school kid. You dream of a time when you can have a fleet of trucks and you won't actually have to cut the lawns yourself.
Sadly, the good times won't pan out. One night you'll get behind schedule--maybe a flat tire or a problem with a mower--and you'll cruise up to the bank manager's house later than usual. Normally, there's no one home, but since it's late, he's home from work and you spot him lounging beside his pool, a drink in one hand, while the other twists the hair of an attractive young woman you recognize as the one who staffs the bank's commercial transaction wicket.
You'll be running the weedeater around the edges of their rose garden when his wife's mercedes pulls up. The screaming match that follows is unpleasant, and you hear enough while loading your gear onto the truck to realize the wife hadn't been expected home for two more days. When you notice the bank manager push his wife into some lawn furniture, you take a few steps in their direction, unsure of what to do--normally the rich ones have an understanding with you; they pretend you don't exist, and you go along with being less than human to ensure good tips at Christmas.
The bank manager gives you a cold look, and you stop short. You really have no idea what you would do anyway, and he makes a show of helping his wife up, but she shakes off his hand and storms into the house. He looks toward you again, and you just go to your truck and drive away.
Three days later, you are shocked to see your chief competitor, "Lord Montague's Lawn Care", parked in front of the bank manager's home. You saunter over to ask him what he's doing there--the grass doesn't grow that fast--and he explains he was called in to do a small turf-replacement job. "Four rolls", he explains. "Nothing big. He had to dig up a pool drain or something and he needed a patch."
You are troubled. Four rolls--each roll is eight feet long and a foot wide. Plenty to cover the evidence of a crime. You decide to stop by the house on the way home, and have a look at the patch yourself. The layout of the turf rolls will either fuel or calm your suspicions about the possible disposal of a body.
It's really just your paranoia, fostered by the detective novels you read on breaks in your truck, that drives you to stand over the newly-laid turf by the wealthy banker's pool and contemplate whether he murdered his wife. Maybe if you had a partner--some daily human contact--you'd have realized you were overreacting.
Happily, though, the banker's wife will be alive, sitting by the pool, drinking to forget the pain of hearing her lawyer explain the the pre-nup will stand up in court. She'll have her handgun out, thinking how she'll frighten her husband with it when he gets home. When she spots you lurking by the new turf, it will only be dumb luck that makes her shot at what she fears is an assassin sent by her husband prove fatal.
The bank manager will send a lovely floral arrangement to your funeral.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Hello, Dalai
Sorry.
Interesting joking competition as I shared the booth after school with two students--one explained he was named after the Dalai Lama, and had met him when he was quite young in India. The other countered with "well, the Dalai Lama kissed me when I was four".
I somehow felt sooo not one of the buddhist cool kids...
Interesting joking competition as I shared the booth after school with two students--one explained he was named after the Dalai Lama, and had met him when he was quite young in India. The other countered with "well, the Dalai Lama kissed me when I was four".
I somehow felt sooo not one of the buddhist cool kids...
Saturday, May 27, 2006
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a
Political Commentator
Interesting choice, kid. Most parents teach their kids that polite topics of discussion don't include religion, sex or politics--of course, the ones who miss that little lesson might eventually make a living violating those taboos.
How you approach this depends on whether you want to be considered right wing or left wing. What's that? Neutral? Oh, that's funny, kid. Nobody wants to hear what a middle of the road rational thinker has to say, so get ready to pick an ideology and go with it.
If you choose left wing you'll go somewhere ivy league, if you can afford it, or some place like Berkeley, which still has a pretty good pinko pedigree. You'll study all the folks so hated by the right--from Marx to Chomsky and everyone in between. You'll also work on the college paper, and enjoy that warm cozy left-wing incubator--never again will your audience be as supportive of your viewpoints on everything from abortion to gay marriage.
If you choose the right wing option, you'll go somewhere less "intellectual" like Bob Jones University. You'll go to classes on foreign policy where the professor's pronounciation of "Eye-talian" and insistence on using the prefix "Red" whenever referring to China makes it clear you're in the heart of Fox News country. You'll join the NRA, get a bumper sticker that has some slogan superimposed over the stars and stripes, and another that has a target superimposed over Michael Moore's face. You'll even buy a confederate flag tie to impress the the Anne Coulter wannabes at the occasional cotillion you're invited to attend.
I figure you for a lefty, though--you don't seem like the pork rind type.
After college you'll turn an internship at some left wing publication like Mother Jones into a low-paying minion job, and hope to climb the ladder to something better. Problem is, you have gone too far left, and you eventually wise up and slip back towards the mainstream a little. You settle for writing op-ed pieces for some mid-sized city's daily rag, and you're always on the side of the liberal angels when it comes to everything from fighting greenhouse gases to eliminating aid to Israel.
Sometimes even you will have a hard time swallowing the swill you have to dish out--you dutifully trumpet the ACLU line on a talk show discussing the case of a fired bank employee who refused to speak the names of the days of the week due to his devotion to atheism--seems invoking "Woden's day" or "Thors' day" counts as prayer in your circles.
You become a frequent guest on shows that pit the left against the right--again, the middle won't be invited--and one Fox News regular will dub you the "Most hated liberal" in America--Michael Moore may be retired by then and any of the remaining Kennedys in public life by that time will be too busy in court-mandated alcohol treatment to challenge you for the title.
You will bask in the glory of your ideological purity. You will be akin to a rockstar in blue state college campuses. There will be only one problem--you aren't getting the same kind of cash flow your right-wing counterparts pull in. They mock you once the TV lights go off at the shows where you battle them, reminding you constantly that the well-connected conservatives whose bilge they sell make sure they're well rewarded for doing so.
You've always refused to sell out, but after some delicate discussions with an agent, you agree to be the spokesperson for the "Universal Encyclopedia of Mankind". It's an ambitious project to put a socially-relevant, politically-correct electronic reference tool in the hands of liberal families everywhere. It's the brainchild of a philanthropic billionaire who you've seen at various left wing fundraising events. He is thrilled you agree to be his spokesperson, and soon your face is on television, print ads and web sites promoting this educational tool.
You'll be shopping for a new Lexus when your cell phone informs you of the disaster. Your benefactor has been very quiet about his brother, and with different last names, few knew that the politically-correct billionaire is step-sibling of the leader of the United Aryan Reich. It will turn out that all the profits from the successful encyclopedia project were being secretly funnelled to train white supremacists in the use of the same weapons it was providing them.
No one will openly explain why you are shunned, but they will make you a pariah nonetheless. When you are told you are no longer grand marshall for the Kwanzaa parade, you'll drink yourself into a state worthy of a Massachussetts senator, and the resulting drunk driving incident will relegate your career to a footnote in the encyclopedia you so effectively shilled.
Hey kid--that finger ain't the peace sign, you know...
Interesting choice, kid. Most parents teach their kids that polite topics of discussion don't include religion, sex or politics--of course, the ones who miss that little lesson might eventually make a living violating those taboos.
How you approach this depends on whether you want to be considered right wing or left wing. What's that? Neutral? Oh, that's funny, kid. Nobody wants to hear what a middle of the road rational thinker has to say, so get ready to pick an ideology and go with it.
If you choose left wing you'll go somewhere ivy league, if you can afford it, or some place like Berkeley, which still has a pretty good pinko pedigree. You'll study all the folks so hated by the right--from Marx to Chomsky and everyone in between. You'll also work on the college paper, and enjoy that warm cozy left-wing incubator--never again will your audience be as supportive of your viewpoints on everything from abortion to gay marriage.
If you choose the right wing option, you'll go somewhere less "intellectual" like Bob Jones University. You'll go to classes on foreign policy where the professor's pronounciation of "Eye-talian" and insistence on using the prefix "Red" whenever referring to China makes it clear you're in the heart of Fox News country. You'll join the NRA, get a bumper sticker that has some slogan superimposed over the stars and stripes, and another that has a target superimposed over Michael Moore's face. You'll even buy a confederate flag tie to impress the the Anne Coulter wannabes at the occasional cotillion you're invited to attend.
I figure you for a lefty, though--you don't seem like the pork rind type.
After college you'll turn an internship at some left wing publication like Mother Jones into a low-paying minion job, and hope to climb the ladder to something better. Problem is, you have gone too far left, and you eventually wise up and slip back towards the mainstream a little. You settle for writing op-ed pieces for some mid-sized city's daily rag, and you're always on the side of the liberal angels when it comes to everything from fighting greenhouse gases to eliminating aid to Israel.
Sometimes even you will have a hard time swallowing the swill you have to dish out--you dutifully trumpet the ACLU line on a talk show discussing the case of a fired bank employee who refused to speak the names of the days of the week due to his devotion to atheism--seems invoking "Woden's day" or "Thors' day" counts as prayer in your circles.
You become a frequent guest on shows that pit the left against the right--again, the middle won't be invited--and one Fox News regular will dub you the "Most hated liberal" in America--Michael Moore may be retired by then and any of the remaining Kennedys in public life by that time will be too busy in court-mandated alcohol treatment to challenge you for the title.
You will bask in the glory of your ideological purity. You will be akin to a rockstar in blue state college campuses. There will be only one problem--you aren't getting the same kind of cash flow your right-wing counterparts pull in. They mock you once the TV lights go off at the shows where you battle them, reminding you constantly that the well-connected conservatives whose bilge they sell make sure they're well rewarded for doing so.
You've always refused to sell out, but after some delicate discussions with an agent, you agree to be the spokesperson for the "Universal Encyclopedia of Mankind". It's an ambitious project to put a socially-relevant, politically-correct electronic reference tool in the hands of liberal families everywhere. It's the brainchild of a philanthropic billionaire who you've seen at various left wing fundraising events. He is thrilled you agree to be his spokesperson, and soon your face is on television, print ads and web sites promoting this educational tool.
You'll be shopping for a new Lexus when your cell phone informs you of the disaster. Your benefactor has been very quiet about his brother, and with different last names, few knew that the politically-correct billionaire is step-sibling of the leader of the United Aryan Reich. It will turn out that all the profits from the successful encyclopedia project were being secretly funnelled to train white supremacists in the use of the same weapons it was providing them.
No one will openly explain why you are shunned, but they will make you a pariah nonetheless. When you are told you are no longer grand marshall for the Kwanzaa parade, you'll drink yourself into a state worthy of a Massachussetts senator, and the resulting drunk driving incident will relegate your career to a footnote in the encyclopedia you so effectively shilled.
Hey kid--that finger ain't the peace sign, you know...
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Wednesday's thoughts...
Weather is still amazing... It was 35 (95 fahrenheit) in Kamloops yesterday--for those who don't know, this part of Canada, once you move inland beyond the coast mountains, gets quite hot in the summer. Lots of rattlesnakes and such in some parts...
Our little neighborhood felt a bit less safe yesterday--fight at the high school down the street and it ended up in the skatepark nearby where one of the kids knifed the other and police and ambulance was needed.
Tomorrow we meet with the director of the video that they want to shoot a week Sunday--I still don't have the permission from the district, though. I hope it will work out.
Today was weird. Lots of people, myself included, have been under stress, feeling out of sorts, kind of cranky lately. A sense of proportion is helpful--visiting with a niece who spent almost 4 months in much less prosperous circumstances in India helps remind you of that.
I have hella video editing to do. Hear that, Rach? HELLA!
(One day I'll explain the list of forbidden words and phrases...)
Our little neighborhood felt a bit less safe yesterday--fight at the high school down the street and it ended up in the skatepark nearby where one of the kids knifed the other and police and ambulance was needed.
Tomorrow we meet with the director of the video that they want to shoot a week Sunday--I still don't have the permission from the district, though. I hope it will work out.
Today was weird. Lots of people, myself included, have been under stress, feeling out of sorts, kind of cranky lately. A sense of proportion is helpful--visiting with a niece who spent almost 4 months in much less prosperous circumstances in India helps remind you of that.
I have hella video editing to do. Hear that, Rach? HELLA!
(One day I'll explain the list of forbidden words and phrases...)
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
and for my friends of the rainbow persuasion...
...there are posters up encouraging people to be supportive and wear rainbow colours to school tomorrow. On that topic, I just heard something interesting from Murdoch. One local school--not ours or hers--has a policy that if you want to go to the prom with someone of the same gender, you have to bring a note from a parent saying you're gay.
I imagine an exchange that goes something like this:
"Here's the note dear. Now you can ask Suzie to the dance."
"But Mom, I told you I'm bi!"
"Now you listen to me, missy! I'm NOT going to be down at the florists at the last minute because you don't know if you need a corsage or a boutinier. You pick a team and you stay with it, understand me?"
Hmm--well, maybe that wouldn't be the parent's main concern...
Still, strange policy, don't you think?
Oh, and the doctor checked some things and is of the opinion my dizziness is sinus related, and so I've got something that will hopefully help that and maybe deal with the possibility that my hearing hasn't been as good the last couple of months--at least according to some things a couple of people have said to me.
Tomorrow my favorite relative arrives in town to stay for a week--much of it with us. I see some walks to starbucks (leave your corporate-bashing and let me have this) ahead...
I imagine an exchange that goes something like this:
"Here's the note dear. Now you can ask Suzie to the dance."
"But Mom, I told you I'm bi!"
"Now you listen to me, missy! I'm NOT going to be down at the florists at the last minute because you don't know if you need a corsage or a boutinier. You pick a team and you stay with it, understand me?"
Hmm--well, maybe that wouldn't be the parent's main concern...
Still, strange policy, don't you think?
Oh, and the doctor checked some things and is of the opinion my dizziness is sinus related, and so I've got something that will hopefully help that and maybe deal with the possibility that my hearing hasn't been as good the last couple of months--at least according to some things a couple of people have said to me.
Tomorrow my favorite relative arrives in town to stay for a week--much of it with us. I see some walks to starbucks (leave your corporate-bashing and let me have this) ahead...
Sunday, May 14, 2006
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a
Quantity Surveyor
You again? I told you to get out of here yester... Oh, Dr. Addison--no, I didn't know that Jeremy was... Yes, how lucky for him to have the principal for an uncle. Yes, I did kick him out of my office yesterday, sir. It's just that, well, I don't take kindly to practical jokes, after that gynec... What practical joke? Well, Jeremy made up a career and... Yes, he did. "Quantity Surveyor". I realize boys will be boys, but--it is? I'm sorry. Yes, I realize your family is from Britain. Ahh, well of course. Sure--just have him sit down a minute while I do a quick google search.
Hmm? No, of course you don't have to stay--Jeremy and I will do just fine.
He's gone? Okay kid--you didn't need to bring the office into this. Hmm--this looks pretty straightforward to me... Weird, I thought I'd heard of them all by now.
Okay, here goes:
You'll go to school in England somewhere--honestly, I don't know where, though--probably somewhere you can stay with relatives and eat all the boiled meat you can handle. You'll need... yeah, there it is--you'll need a bachelor of science degree specializing in quantity surveying. So you'll probably learn about, uhm, quantities, and er, how to survey them. It's kind of like you're the guy who watches over the construction jobs and figures out how much everything should cost and keeps track of the budget and stuff.
Once you finish your training, with the good grades you'll probably get, you'll have a number of major british firms competing for your services. You'll go to work for one which does big projects--everything from airports to shopping malls--and your attention to detail will make you invaluable.
You rise as do the fortunes of the firm, and one day they announce they've been awarded a contract by the americans to build a military training facility as part of reward for the brits' continued support in the war on terror. You are chosen to go to the U.S. to supervise it--having lived in the country before and all.
You do your normal conscientious job and are surprised when the subcontractor in charge of wiring the living quarters shows up and awkwardly tries to give you a briefcase full of money. You send him packing and refuse the bribe. Shortly after you discover he has overcharged for the conduit he installed by close to half a million dollars. You report him to the authorities, and he barely escapes prison by fleeing the country. Meanwhile, the word gets out that you are the main reason the typical defence contract gravy train won't be happening on this project.
A group of teamsters trap your car in the parking lot with their semitrucks one evening, and it's close to midnight when you find the one who can move the last truck--with no one else around to witness it they push you around a bit and threaten your life if you don't "go back where you came from" immediately.
Of course, you're still a self-righteous prig, er, uhm--I mean, your integrity makes you report the incident, but the company you work for warns you they can't protect you from all the enemies you're making. You turn once more to your uncle, the now retired Dr. Addison, who has some political contacts, and tell him your story. He is worried and promises to make some calls. Unfortunately, by this time your phone has been tapped and they know you've told him everything, so sadly, he has an unexpected encounter with some "burglars" who kill him slowly and painfully, so as to determine who else he may have told.
You flee back to England, and from there you are assigned to another military contract--you are to oversee the building of a new base in a "friendly" arab emirate. Unfortunately, the bulk of the work is being done by one of the sheikdom's most connected companies--the board of directors has several members of the country's royal family on it--and your attention to detail reveals that they're padding the expenses to finance suicide bombers worldwide.
Again, you blow the whistle, and barely make the flight out before your face is plastered throughout the country attached to some fabricated story of you attacking and killing one of your maids. You fly to a small carribean island which you are sure won't extradite you to face this bogus charge, and start your own small construction firm.
You are worried the first few months that your many enemies might find you, but over time you relax, and your company is a success; you build luxury homes for the executives of the huge tax-shelter banking interests on the island. Eventually you even marry and have a family.
Then, one day, while you are entertaining a small group of banking types at a barbecue at your home, you tell the story of your adventures in the Gulf. Unknown to you, one of your guests is quite connected to the financiers of international terrorism, and he reports your story to his masters.
Because your family knows the story, they won't be allowed to live, but their suffering will be less if you tell your captors everything quickly before they kill you and your kin.
See what happens if you insist on sharing your petty problems? People get hurt. Keep your complaints to yourself and your loved ones may live longer.
Have a nice day.
You again? I told you to get out of here yester... Oh, Dr. Addison--no, I didn't know that Jeremy was... Yes, how lucky for him to have the principal for an uncle. Yes, I did kick him out of my office yesterday, sir. It's just that, well, I don't take kindly to practical jokes, after that gynec... What practical joke? Well, Jeremy made up a career and... Yes, he did. "Quantity Surveyor". I realize boys will be boys, but--it is? I'm sorry. Yes, I realize your family is from Britain. Ahh, well of course. Sure--just have him sit down a minute while I do a quick google search.
Hmm? No, of course you don't have to stay--Jeremy and I will do just fine.
He's gone? Okay kid--you didn't need to bring the office into this. Hmm--this looks pretty straightforward to me... Weird, I thought I'd heard of them all by now.
Okay, here goes:
You'll go to school in England somewhere--honestly, I don't know where, though--probably somewhere you can stay with relatives and eat all the boiled meat you can handle. You'll need... yeah, there it is--you'll need a bachelor of science degree specializing in quantity surveying. So you'll probably learn about, uhm, quantities, and er, how to survey them. It's kind of like you're the guy who watches over the construction jobs and figures out how much everything should cost and keeps track of the budget and stuff.
Once you finish your training, with the good grades you'll probably get, you'll have a number of major british firms competing for your services. You'll go to work for one which does big projects--everything from airports to shopping malls--and your attention to detail will make you invaluable.
You rise as do the fortunes of the firm, and one day they announce they've been awarded a contract by the americans to build a military training facility as part of reward for the brits' continued support in the war on terror. You are chosen to go to the U.S. to supervise it--having lived in the country before and all.
You do your normal conscientious job and are surprised when the subcontractor in charge of wiring the living quarters shows up and awkwardly tries to give you a briefcase full of money. You send him packing and refuse the bribe. Shortly after you discover he has overcharged for the conduit he installed by close to half a million dollars. You report him to the authorities, and he barely escapes prison by fleeing the country. Meanwhile, the word gets out that you are the main reason the typical defence contract gravy train won't be happening on this project.
A group of teamsters trap your car in the parking lot with their semitrucks one evening, and it's close to midnight when you find the one who can move the last truck--with no one else around to witness it they push you around a bit and threaten your life if you don't "go back where you came from" immediately.
Of course, you're still a self-righteous prig, er, uhm--I mean, your integrity makes you report the incident, but the company you work for warns you they can't protect you from all the enemies you're making. You turn once more to your uncle, the now retired Dr. Addison, who has some political contacts, and tell him your story. He is worried and promises to make some calls. Unfortunately, by this time your phone has been tapped and they know you've told him everything, so sadly, he has an unexpected encounter with some "burglars" who kill him slowly and painfully, so as to determine who else he may have told.
You flee back to England, and from there you are assigned to another military contract--you are to oversee the building of a new base in a "friendly" arab emirate. Unfortunately, the bulk of the work is being done by one of the sheikdom's most connected companies--the board of directors has several members of the country's royal family on it--and your attention to detail reveals that they're padding the expenses to finance suicide bombers worldwide.
Again, you blow the whistle, and barely make the flight out before your face is plastered throughout the country attached to some fabricated story of you attacking and killing one of your maids. You fly to a small carribean island which you are sure won't extradite you to face this bogus charge, and start your own small construction firm.
You are worried the first few months that your many enemies might find you, but over time you relax, and your company is a success; you build luxury homes for the executives of the huge tax-shelter banking interests on the island. Eventually you even marry and have a family.
Then, one day, while you are entertaining a small group of banking types at a barbecue at your home, you tell the story of your adventures in the Gulf. Unknown to you, one of your guests is quite connected to the financiers of international terrorism, and he reports your story to his masters.
Because your family knows the story, they won't be allowed to live, but their suffering will be less if you tell your captors everything quickly before they kill you and your kin.
See what happens if you insist on sharing your petty problems? People get hurt. Keep your complaints to yourself and your loved ones may live longer.
Have a nice day.
Friday, May 12, 2006
Congratulations
...to Murdoch on The Laramie Project. I was at the opening last night and was very impressed. She did a great job as did the entire ensemble. It's also very cool to go see a show in an auditorium that goes back generations. I did a practicum at that school in the '80s and their tradition at that point was to put a picture of the grad class on one page of the yearbook and one of the grad class from 100 years previous on the opposite page.
It's the only school around here that has not only their WWII and WWI alumni who died listed on plaques, but also those who lost their lives in the Boer War.
Anyways, Murdoch--Well done!
It's the only school around here that has not only their WWII and WWI alumni who died listed on plaques, but also those who lost their lives in the Boer War.
Anyways, Murdoch--Well done!
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Poetry by Dythandra
the measure of me
It's that time again...
Standardized tests.
I know why they want to "meet" with me
I am a curiosity--they've seen my scores
All 90-something percentile
Classic "underachiever".
"Are you bored?"
Not when I picture you after school,
Seeing what I did to your car
"Are you taking something that...
Uhm, interferes with your abilities?"
I just twitch a bit, and then shake my head.
"Are there problems... at home?"
I shiver and look up
Like a wounded kitten.
"No," I stammer, unconvincingly
I toy with them--I could just as easily
Score within the norms.
But why pretend to fit?
Gifted programs, remedial classes,
Even home schooling--that was a short lived
Experiment in mutual torture
Then there was parochial school
The poor priest, so surprised,
I could see the fear when he realized
His holy water didn't hurt me.
Now I'm back, and yet another well meaning authority figure
Shakes his head and wonders what makes me tick.
A phone call; he steps out
The file is open--how can I resist:
"...exhibits sociopathic tendencies...
...potential arsonist...very dark...moody..."
And then a list, of all the stress leave
Attributed to moi.
He comes back--doesn't want me to leave,
but really, what can he do?
Better than he have lain awake worried
About what I may do next.
"Lovely flowers in your hair" he remarks,
Offering his hand--so formal as he stands.
"What are they?"
"Oh those?" I smile--he thinks me normal for a moment.
"I got them from my garden. They're... columbine."
I can't let my file get boring, after all.
It's that time again...
Standardized tests.
I know why they want to "meet" with me
I am a curiosity--they've seen my scores
All 90-something percentile
Classic "underachiever".
"Are you bored?"
Not when I picture you after school,
Seeing what I did to your car
"Are you taking something that...
Uhm, interferes with your abilities?"
I just twitch a bit, and then shake my head.
"Are there problems... at home?"
I shiver and look up
Like a wounded kitten.
"No," I stammer, unconvincingly
I toy with them--I could just as easily
Score within the norms.
But why pretend to fit?
Gifted programs, remedial classes,
Even home schooling--that was a short lived
Experiment in mutual torture
Then there was parochial school
The poor priest, so surprised,
I could see the fear when he realized
His holy water didn't hurt me.
Now I'm back, and yet another well meaning authority figure
Shakes his head and wonders what makes me tick.
A phone call; he steps out
The file is open--how can I resist:
"...exhibits sociopathic tendencies...
...potential arsonist...very dark...moody..."
And then a list, of all the stress leave
Attributed to moi.
He comes back--doesn't want me to leave,
but really, what can he do?
Better than he have lain awake worried
About what I may do next.
"Lovely flowers in your hair" he remarks,
Offering his hand--so formal as he stands.
"What are they?"
"Oh those?" I smile--he thinks me normal for a moment.
"I got them from my garden. They're... columbine."
I can't let my file get boring, after all.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Some thoughts at midnight
Well, almost midnight. As of now (although he's been asleep for a while now) my son is officially doing the "30 hour famine". He went out and canvassed the neighborhood for sponsorships after hitting up the relatives as well. I think it's a good thing, and it's going to be tougher on him than it would on the rest of the family, since he's at that "always hungry" stage of almost teenagerhood.
Question: Did the "day without immigrants" protest make an impact on any of the cities/towns where those of you south of the border live? (uhm, yeah, south of the U.S.-Canada border, I mean)
Were the turkeys being processed in H-burg? I know Chicago had a protest. How about Atlanta, Jen? Or Pennsylvania, Jenny G.? Probably not much happened up in Ella's neck of the woods, or in B.G.'s college town, I imagine.
Question: Did the "day without immigrants" protest make an impact on any of the cities/towns where those of you south of the border live? (uhm, yeah, south of the U.S.-Canada border, I mean)
Were the turkeys being processed in H-burg? I know Chicago had a protest. How about Atlanta, Jen? Or Pennsylvania, Jenny G.? Probably not much happened up in Ella's neck of the woods, or in B.G.'s college town, I imagine.
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