Elf..., er as a Vintner
Oh hey, you been waiting here long? Don't mind these bottles; they let me take a few with me 'cause the staff room's got a bunch in... well, let's just say you kids are supposed to be gone by now.
Whoa, you are a little one, aren't you? I think you'd make a great elf. Of course there's the problem of the cold, and Santa's probably a bit of a tough boss--I mean, face it; you think they get overtime those last few weeks?
Whaddya mean? Sure--a few drinks but... Vintner? What the hell is a... wine? No, you're too young--this is going home with me. Huh? Slow down, you're a little blurry.
Oh, right. I get it.
You'll go to some fancy academy in the wine growing part of California, where you'll do the crap jobs for those snotty people with their fancy name tags who get in your face just because you take the bottle from that extra table that nobody was sitting at anyway and besides, they just write it all off as... oh, right.
You mind if I smoke? I mean, technically school ended about two hours ago. You shouldn't even be here. Why are you here, anyway? Oh--that sucks. Well, maybe your plane being delayed until after supper wouldn't be a problem if you were riding on that reindeer sleigh your boss takes 'round the... oh, yeah.
Wine, right? Okay, so you go to some wine academy in... Oh, I did? Where did I leave off? Name tags? Nevermind.
Skip ahead to you figuring out you're just slave labor for some grape grower who got in a bind when immigration scared off half his work force. Of course, the wine school will call it a "work term" or something--but you'll get tired of it fast and make your escape to France.
There you'll hike the wine regions until you find a small vineyard in Bordeaux. The family, an older couple and their two adult daughters, quickly welcome you into the family. You work in exchange for free room and board, and the insights of a man with over four decades in the winemaking business. At night you sometimes accompany the daughters to the nearby village where you dance at the one nightclub in the region, and soon you're well known to everyone in the area.
You've taken french, right? Good. Anyway, your french improves rapidly, and hours after the village jeweler sneaks word to the vintner that you've just bought an engagement ring, your mentor takes you out to the vineyard for a chat. He explains that you are the son he never had and he's decided to take a well deserved retirement, and he wants you to manage his vineyard for his daughters.
The following spring you are married to the younger daughter, and the two of you move into the big house at the top of the estate, while your new sister-in-law finds herself sharing less opulent surroundings with her parents in the renovated but still humble guest house.
Marie, your wife, has never gotten along that well with her sister, and now she has beaten her senior sibling to the altar, the rivalry grows nastier. Soon Chantale, the older sister, resorts to bringing home a variety of the nastier village ne'er do wells and partying with them on the lawn out behind your house until all hours of the morning.
It gets worse when she settles on one of them for a husband. Chantale and her new spouse convince your father in law that her husband should share management duties with you out in the fields while your wives continue to manage the wholesale and retail distributing of your wine.
You gotta leave for that plane yet? Fine--but I'm going to just have a little glass of this--you okay with that? All this talk about wine is making me thirsty.
Your new brother in law is sneaky--you go out to one of the vineyards one morning only to discover he's sown pot plants between the rows of grapes. You have the laborers pull them up, and later he threatens to "take care of you". You aren't too worried, but still you begin keeping track of where he is when you head out to inspect the crops alone.
Then one day he rushes in and hurriedly blurts out his latest plan to get rich: ice wine. You're familiar with the very sweet product created by leaving grapes on the vine late in the season until they freeze. It's not a product the french like, as a rule, but your partner has made contact with some Germans who are eager to find more quality ice wine to market throughout Germany and North America.
Pierre, your brother in law has learned of a new "cheat" that allows winemakers to produce ice wine artificially--grapes are frozen in big coolers rather than on the vine, and extra sugar is added to give the wine its characteristic sweet taste.
If word of this scam gets out, it will ruin the reputation of the vineyard--a reputation it took your father in law a lifetime to build. You try to stop Pierre, but he has his first batch in the bottle before you can interfere. You swear to yourself that you'll end this abomination before it ruins the whole operation, and you drive out to the end of the estate to confront Pierre.
He listens to your tirade politely and then asks to borrow your cell phone. You hand it over and he immediately smashes it under his foot. That simple step prevents you calling for help when two German bikers step out of the grape vines and join him in physically venting his frustration on you--it won't be pretty.
If you survive, what say you come back here and tell me if the fetal position actually helps? Oh, my cab's here--good luck.
Say hi to Santa for me.
My Christmas? I'll be getting the yearly phone call from my kids at 11 a.m. and then my ex-wife will come on and accuse me of being drunk and then I'll go to the old codgers' home and listen to my mother tell me why I'm a disappointment for about two hours until we eat the pressed turkey sandwiches. With any luck I'll put a bullet in my head before New Years.
Thanks for asking, though.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Sunday, December 17, 2006
The windstorm on Friday - updated
That story is describing us--we're the "outlying areas". We didn't have it as bad as Sooke, but it was still bad--trees on houses and cars, no power, not much fun.
We knew it was coming--I had about a half hour before heading off to my daughter's school choir concert to run around the yard and pack up anything that might blow away.
Still, when we got home, there wasn't any wind, and we wondered if we'd fallen for a false alarm. By around midnight, we realized that wasn't the case. The power went out a little after 12:30. The gusts kept pounding the house, and when I heard a new noise around 3 a.m. I knew there was a problem. I discovered a ten-foot length of siding was loose and flapping in the wind--kind of shredded, and the potential was the whole side of the house could lose its siding.
So there I was, snakelight wrapped around my neck, on a stepladder with hail coming down and winds around 110 kmh (70 mph) blowing the vinyl siding at my face. It was much fun trying to hammer it into place, trust me, and the picture shows we'll have to get that replaced somehow--but at least that stopped it from getting worse.
The next morning showed the extent of the damage, and since I'd had no sleep at all, I called in sick. My kids didn't have any school--their district shut them all down--but my school had power. Even if I hadn't felt like death warmed over, I had no desire to leave my kids home alone with no electricity--and I don't want them making fires when no adults are there.
Later that morning a friend of my daughter's who had electricity invited her over, and when I drove the half mile or so to their place I saw this tree down:
They live across the fence from the house where the classic cars were destroyed in the news story at the top of this post.
We got power back around 1 that afternoon, but many people had theirs out much longer. I bother trying to make it downtown for my staff christmas party--there's 20 bucks I'd rather write off than try to drive home after a couple drinks and about 2 hours sleep in the previous 36.
The winds around our place probably didn't get much over that 110 kmh level, but out at Sooke, they had an hour of 150 kmh--which is about 94 mph, with gusts by the water of 175 (110mph).
Essentially, a hurricane. The record rainfall in November, and more the last few weeks, meant that the ground was saturated and a lot of big trees came down.
Thankfully, both yesterday and today the weather was pretty nice.
One week of shopping left, kids--hope that's the biggest worry between now and Christmas Day...
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a
Modelling Agent
Oh hi--I don't think I've seen you around before... Transfer student? I see. No, you'll have to put that little cigar away. Don't get me wrong, I'm not sexist--girls can smoke the same things boys can, I mean, I saw this picture of of Claudia Schiffer smoking a cuban one time and man, that was... Oh, sorry. No, it's the rules--nobody smokes in the school. That ashtray? Uhm, I take it outside during my break. Look, I don't have time to argue about the school's smoking policy so if you don't have anything else to talk... What's that? A modelling agent, huh?
I'll be honest with you--modelling agents are a dime a dozen. Most girls try to get started on some internet site, and hope the big city agencies might notice them. Those agencies come to town here once or twice a year and all the dreamers flock to them. You're stuck--if you stay around here you won't be able to find work for anyone you represent, and if you go to a major city you'll never make it trying to compete with all the established big players.
What's that? You've got an angle, huh? Well, maybe that's your only hope. What'll it be--something a little edgier like Suicide Girls, maybe? What? No, of course not--I just saw them on one of those CSI shows once. What's that smirk supposed to mean? Anyway, you'll find girls who don't fit the mainstream agencies--maybe the plus sizers or something, and... What? I can't do this if you keep interrupting. Yeah, of course my computer has the internet. Boys? All right, if it will get us through this quicker, go ahead.
You have to log in first--oh right, you're new. No password yet, huh? All right, here--okay, I'm logged in. Go ahead.
What's this? Hey--I can get fired for surfing to stuff like this. What--they're all 18? Some of them don't look like it. Hmm--this is a little creepy. Okay--that's enough--I don't need some IT geek coming after me for this. Anyway, I think I'm ready to give you the quick and dirty version, my friend.
You'll go to business college--learn the basics of contract law as it relates to talent representation, and then you'll go cajole your way into an internship at some agency--not in New York or L.A., but somewhere not so big league--St. Louis, maybe.
You'll specialize in recruitment. Other staffers sit in their offices waiting for prospects to walk in or email something, but you'll be cruising the emo coffee shops or offering smokes to the older denizens of local skate parks. Every chain smoking coffee house poet you sign is too naive to consult anyone about the contract you shove in front of them, and soon you manipulate them to trust you, and ultimately become completely dependent on your advice on everything from what to wear to when to phone their estranged parents for money.
Not all of them are cut out for the business--in fact, most of them aren't--so when you finish your internship and announce your intention to set up shop in Boston, the agency doesn't argue with the half dozen pretty boys who follow you there like brainwashed cultists.
You set up your agency on a shoestring, but as you continue to recruit, you eventually find a few diamonds among the pretty toys you collect and they start bringing in some cash. Ambigious sexuality eventually cycles back into vogue and you're poised to take full advantage--most suspect you have have more testosterone coursing through your veins than any of the foundlings you represent.
You don't age well--cigarillos give way to real cigars, and a bottle of scotch can be handily stored in your filing cabinet to help ease the pain of watching your pretty ones discover their attraction to each other and eventually realize indentured servitude as your harem of house boys is not worth the occasional tux shop flyer gigs you get them.
You, on the other hand, will die lonely of complications of your lungs, liver or psyche.
Hope you like it here.
Oh hi--I don't think I've seen you around before... Transfer student? I see. No, you'll have to put that little cigar away. Don't get me wrong, I'm not sexist--girls can smoke the same things boys can, I mean, I saw this picture of of Claudia Schiffer smoking a cuban one time and man, that was... Oh, sorry. No, it's the rules--nobody smokes in the school. That ashtray? Uhm, I take it outside during my break. Look, I don't have time to argue about the school's smoking policy so if you don't have anything else to talk... What's that? A modelling agent, huh?
I'll be honest with you--modelling agents are a dime a dozen. Most girls try to get started on some internet site, and hope the big city agencies might notice them. Those agencies come to town here once or twice a year and all the dreamers flock to them. You're stuck--if you stay around here you won't be able to find work for anyone you represent, and if you go to a major city you'll never make it trying to compete with all the established big players.
What's that? You've got an angle, huh? Well, maybe that's your only hope. What'll it be--something a little edgier like Suicide Girls, maybe? What? No, of course not--I just saw them on one of those CSI shows once. What's that smirk supposed to mean? Anyway, you'll find girls who don't fit the mainstream agencies--maybe the plus sizers or something, and... What? I can't do this if you keep interrupting. Yeah, of course my computer has the internet. Boys? All right, if it will get us through this quicker, go ahead.
You have to log in first--oh right, you're new. No password yet, huh? All right, here--okay, I'm logged in. Go ahead.
What's this? Hey--I can get fired for surfing to stuff like this. What--they're all 18? Some of them don't look like it. Hmm--this is a little creepy. Okay--that's enough--I don't need some IT geek coming after me for this. Anyway, I think I'm ready to give you the quick and dirty version, my friend.
You'll go to business college--learn the basics of contract law as it relates to talent representation, and then you'll go cajole your way into an internship at some agency--not in New York or L.A., but somewhere not so big league--St. Louis, maybe.
You'll specialize in recruitment. Other staffers sit in their offices waiting for prospects to walk in or email something, but you'll be cruising the emo coffee shops or offering smokes to the older denizens of local skate parks. Every chain smoking coffee house poet you sign is too naive to consult anyone about the contract you shove in front of them, and soon you manipulate them to trust you, and ultimately become completely dependent on your advice on everything from what to wear to when to phone their estranged parents for money.
Not all of them are cut out for the business--in fact, most of them aren't--so when you finish your internship and announce your intention to set up shop in Boston, the agency doesn't argue with the half dozen pretty boys who follow you there like brainwashed cultists.
You set up your agency on a shoestring, but as you continue to recruit, you eventually find a few diamonds among the pretty toys you collect and they start bringing in some cash. Ambigious sexuality eventually cycles back into vogue and you're poised to take full advantage--most suspect you have have more testosterone coursing through your veins than any of the foundlings you represent.
You don't age well--cigarillos give way to real cigars, and a bottle of scotch can be handily stored in your filing cabinet to help ease the pain of watching your pretty ones discover their attraction to each other and eventually realize indentured servitude as your harem of house boys is not worth the occasional tux shop flyer gigs you get them.
You, on the other hand, will die lonely of complications of your lungs, liver or psyche.
Hope you like it here.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Poetry by Dythandra
Unwilling Accomplice
He sits at the back--just like me
Looking bewildered when he hears:
"Just find a partner for the project".
We don't attract partners--
Or any human contact, really.
The difference is,
I work at it,
While his leprosy occurs more naturally.
It's awkward at the end--
The teacher peers over her charges
"Anyone not have a partner?"
We say nothing, but then
A little cheer whore obliges:
"Those two don't have partners"
The teacher smiles and assigns us each other
With no more thought
Than I gave the beetle
I killed before breakfast.
He looks in my direction
Won't meet my eyes.
I'm not going to make it easy
But then the blonde princess titters
So I glance daggers at her
And join my new... friend.
I pull a desk beside his and roll my eyes
We read the lab instructions
In uncomfortable silence.
He picks at his cuticles 'til they bleed;
While I draw portraits of Tiffany with electrodes,
Decorating her skin.
It's mind-numbingly simple
Earth Science is to real science
What podiatry is to neurosurgery.
We are required to meet on the weekend,
Our task: a trek into the park
To number the carbon-based lifeforms
In one square meter of greenspace.
We meet at his house;
I'd rather not give my parentals false hope
Of pseudo-social interactions,
Plus his family's expressions
When I arrive--too delightful to miss.
It's a short trek to our research site,
Then we look about for the best spot
To perform our grubby census.
He defers to my determination--
I can spot decomp
From a quarter mile away.
Sure enough, our little piece of nature
Yields the sad remnants
Of a family of racoons
No doubt the parents were eaten
Or squashed by an SUV
Too soon for their offspring to survive.
We count the things that call the little corpses home
and I take a few quick digicam pics
While my partner tries hard
Not to look squeamish.
Soon our list is complete
Bugs, grubs and maggots
A veritable city
Just beneath the surface.
As he starts to leave,
I pull out a freezer bag.
He waits awkwardly
While I kidnap the lower life forms.
Monday is a grand success.
I actually meet a deadline
And Tiffany has an unfortunate
But assuredly accidental
Mishap with red ants.
It's quite a scene--she screams and flails about
Before fleeing the room.
Her partner, with his nonchalant good looks
Quietly passes me a note:
"Next time I work with you".
He sits at the back--just like me
Looking bewildered when he hears:
"Just find a partner for the project".
We don't attract partners--
Or any human contact, really.
The difference is,
I work at it,
While his leprosy occurs more naturally.
It's awkward at the end--
The teacher peers over her charges
"Anyone not have a partner?"
We say nothing, but then
A little cheer whore obliges:
"Those two don't have partners"
The teacher smiles and assigns us each other
With no more thought
Than I gave the beetle
I killed before breakfast.
He looks in my direction
Won't meet my eyes.
I'm not going to make it easy
But then the blonde princess titters
So I glance daggers at her
And join my new... friend.
I pull a desk beside his and roll my eyes
We read the lab instructions
In uncomfortable silence.
He picks at his cuticles 'til they bleed;
While I draw portraits of Tiffany with electrodes,
Decorating her skin.
It's mind-numbingly simple
Earth Science is to real science
What podiatry is to neurosurgery.
We are required to meet on the weekend,
Our task: a trek into the park
To number the carbon-based lifeforms
In one square meter of greenspace.
We meet at his house;
I'd rather not give my parentals false hope
Of pseudo-social interactions,
Plus his family's expressions
When I arrive--too delightful to miss.
It's a short trek to our research site,
Then we look about for the best spot
To perform our grubby census.
He defers to my determination--
I can spot decomp
From a quarter mile away.
Sure enough, our little piece of nature
Yields the sad remnants
Of a family of racoons
No doubt the parents were eaten
Or squashed by an SUV
Too soon for their offspring to survive.
We count the things that call the little corpses home
and I take a few quick digicam pics
While my partner tries hard
Not to look squeamish.
Soon our list is complete
Bugs, grubs and maggots
A veritable city
Just beneath the surface.
As he starts to leave,
I pull out a freezer bag.
He waits awkwardly
While I kidnap the lower life forms.
Monday is a grand success.
I actually meet a deadline
And Tiffany has an unfortunate
But assuredly accidental
Mishap with red ants.
It's quite a scene--she screams and flails about
Before fleeing the room.
Her partner, with his nonchalant good looks
Quietly passes me a note:
"Next time I work with you".
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Real Winter
We get smug sometimes when we look at the weather endured by other parts of Canada. I confess to even having used this blog to "educate" some of our southern neighbours (yes, brit. spelling) about the climate of this part of the great white north. At one point I'd even posted a link to a site about the thousands of palm trees growing in our metro area.
Still, every so often--maybe five years or so--we get a little taste of what others take for granted each winter. It tends to show that we're not all that well prepared. Partly it's that we live surrounded by coastal rainforest, and that means very large trees with limbs that break when the snow and ice get too heavy, or which simply fall down entirely.
These can smash houses on rare occasions, but more often they bring down power lines and people struggle on without electricity for a while. One girl in my English class yesterday explained that she lives in an outlying area which hasn't had electricity for five days; I heard on the radio this morning that some such affected areas won't be getting any power before Saturday.
One area has also been without phone service for three days. Fortunately for us, we've been pretty much spared power outages.
It was -10 celcius last night, which is 14 on the Fahrenheit scale. It's about 22 right now and we're expecting snow to start within the next couple of hours. Still, they predict it will be rain by tomorrow.
On the bright side, our Australian exchange teacher, who finishes her year with us in a few weeks, is thrilled she got a taste of weather typical of elsewhere in Canada, and it's also very pretty to look at.
Here are a few pics:
Our street
also our street--looking next door
our back yard
my kids enjoying the snow
...and the fountain in our school courtyard yesterday--I wish I'd got the pic when the sun was still shining on it, though
Still, every so often--maybe five years or so--we get a little taste of what others take for granted each winter. It tends to show that we're not all that well prepared. Partly it's that we live surrounded by coastal rainforest, and that means very large trees with limbs that break when the snow and ice get too heavy, or which simply fall down entirely.
These can smash houses on rare occasions, but more often they bring down power lines and people struggle on without electricity for a while. One girl in my English class yesterday explained that she lives in an outlying area which hasn't had electricity for five days; I heard on the radio this morning that some such affected areas won't be getting any power before Saturday.
One area has also been without phone service for three days. Fortunately for us, we've been pretty much spared power outages.
It was -10 celcius last night, which is 14 on the Fahrenheit scale. It's about 22 right now and we're expecting snow to start within the next couple of hours. Still, they predict it will be rain by tomorrow.
On the bright side, our Australian exchange teacher, who finishes her year with us in a few weeks, is thrilled she got a taste of weather typical of elsewhere in Canada, and it's also very pretty to look at.
Here are a few pics:
Our street
also our street--looking next door
our back yard
my kids enjoying the snow
...and the fountain in our school courtyard yesterday--I wish I'd got the pic when the sun was still shining on it, though
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Poetry by Dythandra
Field Trip Stowaway
It's an odd sensation--something's afoot
Yet I'm out of the loop.
My usual detachment seems insufficient
For somehow it's about me.
At lunch I hear them talking--my name
That name--I won't speak it--
and muffled phrases:
"She'd love that"
"Maybe she'd find a boyfriend there"
"It would be like christmas--or should
I say Halloween for her"
I glare at them but cannot allow myself
the luxury of asking.
Superior is as superior does
And my mystique is what shields me
From the "prepulent" rabble
Still, something is up, and I must know.
I take my usual approach--
Long smoke breaks in the girl's washroom
Hidden in the stall, I listen
But to no avail.
Then I stand behind the foyer pillar
But no one reveals anything more interesting
Than the identity of the narc
Old news--we spotted his wedding ring tanline
Even before we cringed at his
1997 ghetto slang.
Then a clue--a too-loud jock
No doubt compensating for steroidal shrinking
Sees fit to yell towards me as I pass:
"Hey Morticia--gonna find a prom date on that field trip?"
Now I have something to work with
And soon discover a notice
I'd passed by dozens of times
Without regard:
GRADE 12 BIOLOGY FIELD TRIP:
"Bodies in Motion" I am intrigued.
"...featuring almost 200 authentic human specimens
preserved using the extraordinary method of Plastination"
I gasp. This is school--a class--
They will see this, experience
What has been only fodder
For my fevered dreams.
I must go. I move at a pace faster
Than my usual apathy allows.
The biology teacher is eating lunch
As I blurt my wish to "take advantage
of this amazing learning opportunity".
He looks at me coldly.
"I remember you. The fetal pig kid."
I am horrified--it hadn't occurred to me
That last year's liberation of my pickled pet
Would still rankle in his formaldehyde-damaged brain.
"Uhm, yeah--but that wasn't me," I stammer.
He shakes his head. "It's for the senior biology class--only."
I am not beyond begging, but his eyes make it clear
So I go elsewhere to plot my strategy.
Our town is too small, and the chance to see the exhibit
Miles away in the city
Shrinks with the waning fall daylight--
It's scheduled to move on
Like a rare comet--passing this close once
In our tedious lifetimes.
I turn to my old standby--the counselling department.
They all fear me, and I know their secrets.
My typical requests--excused from P.E.,
early dismissal, free cafeteria food--are always granted
Without a moment's hesitation.
Still, this one requires all my wiles,
And after hinting at recordings and photos
That might exist--they comply.
I have an "independent biology study" class
And the field trip is now curricular.
The biology teacher scowls--tells me the cost.
I hand him twenty bucks--my share of the bus.
He glances at his list and then a wicked smile...
"Sorry, kid--the bus is full."
I leave the money--deposit for my place
On the "waiting list"--then wait for him
To go to answer the call I make to the office.
During his absence, I scan the class list.
I see my targets--it's survival of the fittest.
And even if I hadn't called the tip line
About the stash that somehow ended up in his locker
The drug-addled loser would have likely skipped
The opportunity of my lifetime.
My father raises an eyebrow as he glances at my mother
While she signs the travel form.
They know not to ask too many questions.
I have my camera safely hidden in my boot.
It will come in handy today.
I need a picture
For this year's Christmas cards.
It's an odd sensation--something's afoot
Yet I'm out of the loop.
My usual detachment seems insufficient
For somehow it's about me.
At lunch I hear them talking--my name
That name--I won't speak it--
and muffled phrases:
"She'd love that"
"Maybe she'd find a boyfriend there"
"It would be like christmas--or should
I say Halloween for her"
I glare at them but cannot allow myself
the luxury of asking.
Superior is as superior does
And my mystique is what shields me
From the "prepulent" rabble
Still, something is up, and I must know.
I take my usual approach--
Long smoke breaks in the girl's washroom
Hidden in the stall, I listen
But to no avail.
Then I stand behind the foyer pillar
But no one reveals anything more interesting
Than the identity of the narc
Old news--we spotted his wedding ring tanline
Even before we cringed at his
1997 ghetto slang.
Then a clue--a too-loud jock
No doubt compensating for steroidal shrinking
Sees fit to yell towards me as I pass:
"Hey Morticia--gonna find a prom date on that field trip?"
Now I have something to work with
And soon discover a notice
I'd passed by dozens of times
Without regard:
GRADE 12 BIOLOGY FIELD TRIP:
"Bodies in Motion" I am intrigued.
"...featuring almost 200 authentic human specimens
preserved using the extraordinary method of Plastination"
I gasp. This is school--a class--
They will see this, experience
What has been only fodder
For my fevered dreams.
I must go. I move at a pace faster
Than my usual apathy allows.
The biology teacher is eating lunch
As I blurt my wish to "take advantage
of this amazing learning opportunity".
He looks at me coldly.
"I remember you. The fetal pig kid."
I am horrified--it hadn't occurred to me
That last year's liberation of my pickled pet
Would still rankle in his formaldehyde-damaged brain.
"Uhm, yeah--but that wasn't me," I stammer.
He shakes his head. "It's for the senior biology class--only."
I am not beyond begging, but his eyes make it clear
So I go elsewhere to plot my strategy.
Our town is too small, and the chance to see the exhibit
Miles away in the city
Shrinks with the waning fall daylight--
It's scheduled to move on
Like a rare comet--passing this close once
In our tedious lifetimes.
I turn to my old standby--the counselling department.
They all fear me, and I know their secrets.
My typical requests--excused from P.E.,
early dismissal, free cafeteria food--are always granted
Without a moment's hesitation.
Still, this one requires all my wiles,
And after hinting at recordings and photos
That might exist--they comply.
I have an "independent biology study" class
And the field trip is now curricular.
The biology teacher scowls--tells me the cost.
I hand him twenty bucks--my share of the bus.
He glances at his list and then a wicked smile...
"Sorry, kid--the bus is full."
I leave the money--deposit for my place
On the "waiting list"--then wait for him
To go to answer the call I make to the office.
During his absence, I scan the class list.
I see my targets--it's survival of the fittest.
And even if I hadn't called the tip line
About the stash that somehow ended up in his locker
The drug-addled loser would have likely skipped
The opportunity of my lifetime.
My father raises an eyebrow as he glances at my mother
While she signs the travel form.
They know not to ask too many questions.
I have my camera safely hidden in my boot.
It will come in handy today.
I need a picture
For this year's Christmas cards.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Poetry by Dythandra
Unsafe at Any Speed
I
After the second "practice", visibly shaking
My mater called the driving school.
I was getting Mrs. Archibald--one of the good ones.
Good=unflappable.
She was, as I expected, formidable.
A cold glare assessed me--dismissed me
But she was paid to fulfill their promise:
"Creating safe drivers since 1992".
How exactly do you... create them?
An unfriendly eye regarded me; disregarded me.
"Keep your eyes on the road".
I pulled out the ones I stole from biology class
And tossed them out the window.
She started to say something, then,
Thinking better of it, shook her head
And scribbled some notes on her clipboard.
We parted--Will you be my instructor next week?She snorted, then walked away.
II
Two instructors and 17 lessons later,
They deemed me done.
Roy, the one who "survived" scribbled out a certificate.
"Show them this--it might help."
But Roy--you still haven't answered my question
Do you "create" them in test tubes,
Or the... old fashioned way?
He never answered.
III
Waiting at the DMV for my road test.
I know how to read people--there are three
Who can grant me the freedom of the streets.
The first--I know her kind.
All business. Everyone should fail the first time
I slip one place back in line.
The second--buzz cut bodybuilder.
Should be a football coach.
My fashion sense will sink me
Before we leave the parking lot.
Third time lucky--I slip one more place in line.
He's younger, awkward--
His voice cracks,
As I stare directly into his eyes.
He stammers directions as we leave the parking lot
Too overwhelmed to ask me to turn down the music
Meatloaf is way before my time
But "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" is still a classic
And torture for a 28 year old still trying
To complete his adolescence.
Nonchalance is my specialty,
And I sing along with the words and sounds
That flush his pockmarked skin crimson.
He seems not to notice when I miss the shoulder check
He comments not on my rolling stop,
My parallel park--5 minutes to perfect
Earns no critique.
We roll to a stop, back at the DMV.
So--how was I? He quickly hands me the affirmation
Of my driving expertise.
Dampened by his anxiety-moistened hand.
My first trip--the discount used lot
I have to hurry--
The hearse won't last long.
I
After the second "practice", visibly shaking
My mater called the driving school.
I was getting Mrs. Archibald--one of the good ones.
Good=unflappable.
She was, as I expected, formidable.
A cold glare assessed me--dismissed me
But she was paid to fulfill their promise:
"Creating safe drivers since 1992".
How exactly do you... create them?
An unfriendly eye regarded me; disregarded me.
"Keep your eyes on the road".
I pulled out the ones I stole from biology class
And tossed them out the window.
She started to say something, then,
Thinking better of it, shook her head
And scribbled some notes on her clipboard.
We parted--Will you be my instructor next week?She snorted, then walked away.
II
Two instructors and 17 lessons later,
They deemed me done.
Roy, the one who "survived" scribbled out a certificate.
"Show them this--it might help."
But Roy--you still haven't answered my question
Do you "create" them in test tubes,
Or the... old fashioned way?
He never answered.
III
Waiting at the DMV for my road test.
I know how to read people--there are three
Who can grant me the freedom of the streets.
The first--I know her kind.
All business. Everyone should fail the first time
I slip one place back in line.
The second--buzz cut bodybuilder.
Should be a football coach.
My fashion sense will sink me
Before we leave the parking lot.
Third time lucky--I slip one more place in line.
He's younger, awkward--
His voice cracks,
As I stare directly into his eyes.
He stammers directions as we leave the parking lot
Too overwhelmed to ask me to turn down the music
Meatloaf is way before my time
But "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" is still a classic
And torture for a 28 year old still trying
To complete his adolescence.
Nonchalance is my specialty,
And I sing along with the words and sounds
That flush his pockmarked skin crimson.
He seems not to notice when I miss the shoulder check
He comments not on my rolling stop,
My parallel park--5 minutes to perfect
Earns no critique.
We roll to a stop, back at the DMV.
So--how was I? He quickly hands me the affirmation
Of my driving expertise.
Dampened by his anxiety-moistened hand.
My first trip--the discount used lot
I have to hurry--
The hearse won't last long.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Real Autumn
It always seemed, growing up, that the time change from Daylight Savings to Standard was more a seasonal marker than either the first day of fall--since it could often be beach weather, or close to it, after that--or the first day of winter--since we could easily have snow before then.
The time change was often a better divider between the mild, warm days of tennis and playgrounds, and the frosty, short days of fireplaces and fading gardens.
Today we spent a little time driving about with my parents, admiring the fall colours. It's been an amazingly relaxing and wonderful weekend. Here are some pics from today:
If you want to see all the pics from today--including ones of the family--go to this photobucket:
http://s9.photobucket.com/albums/a94/homeandfamily1/
Follow the submenus to get to today's pics, or just browse, if you prefer. You'll need a password if you don't have it already, and if you email me (jpurple01@hotmail.com) I'll be happy to send it to you. If it's been a while since you visited my photobucket, the password has changed so I'll need to send you the new one.
The time change was often a better divider between the mild, warm days of tennis and playgrounds, and the frosty, short days of fireplaces and fading gardens.
Today we spent a little time driving about with my parents, admiring the fall colours. It's been an amazingly relaxing and wonderful weekend. Here are some pics from today:
If you want to see all the pics from today--including ones of the family--go to this photobucket:
http://s9.photobucket.com/albums/a94/homeandfamily1/
Follow the submenus to get to today's pics, or just browse, if you prefer. You'll need a password if you don't have it already, and if you email me (jpurple01@hotmail.com) I'll be happy to send it to you. If it's been a while since you visited my photobucket, the password has changed so I'll need to send you the new one.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Quotes without context
Quotes from today: (I might have said a few)
"Maybe if the bishop hadn't spent all the money on racehorses you'd have a theatre"
"So when he woke up after the vasectomy he said his wife wasn't there but this student was standing by his side, so it was a sign from god"
"He cries. That's his shtick--he cries"
"Then they had sex in front of all the other kids at the party"
"Dude, your student teacher is hot"
"Which of your friends haven't you made out with?" (awkward pause) "That's what I figured."
"Then she asked me why I put the sewage in my classroom"
"Yeah--that's the guy who was the cop on that Beachcombers show. You don't? You're so young"
"They're just jealous of me 'cause I have a tiara"
"Not like just you're gay--she's sincerely gay"
"You know what my entire drama supply inventory is? Three lights and two hammers."
"Who hasn't seen her naked?" "Not anyone in this room, now"
"Maybe if the bishop hadn't spent all the money on racehorses you'd have a theatre"
"So when he woke up after the vasectomy he said his wife wasn't there but this student was standing by his side, so it was a sign from god"
"He cries. That's his shtick--he cries"
"Then they had sex in front of all the other kids at the party"
"Dude, your student teacher is hot"
"Which of your friends haven't you made out with?" (awkward pause) "That's what I figured."
"Then she asked me why I put the sewage in my classroom"
"Yeah--that's the guy who was the cop on that Beachcombers show. You don't? You're so young"
"They're just jealous of me 'cause I have a tiara"
"Not like just you're gay--she's sincerely gay"
"You know what my entire drama supply inventory is? Three lights and two hammers."
"Who hasn't seen her naked?" "Not anyone in this room, now"
Thursday, October 19, 2006
The Cynical Career Counselor Predicts Your Future as a
Magazine Editor
Hey--you're the kid who won that photo contest last month, right? Well, I've got some photo brochures that... Oh? Magazine editor, huh?
You'll graduate high school and go on to hone your photography skills--you need to start somewhere, and that's what you know. You become skilled at both getting the perfect shot, and digital image manipulation on the computer. Once you're finished, you have an impressive portfolio and it isn't long before you're hired by a trendy publication which targets 20-somethings with disposable income.
Your job isn't boring, at least not at first. One week you're doing a travel feature in Pamplona during the running of the bulls, the next you're shooting artsy pics of the latest in high definition t.v. in Tokyo. Along the way you meet a variety of interesting people, but most of them see you as hired help, even if you get the invites to the trendy parties where the elite create fodder for scandal sheets--stories your magazine would never stoop to publish.
You are careful with your money, and although you save as much as you are able, you still can't quite cobble together the startup cash to get your own publication of the ground. You're too young for any of the established publications to consider hiring you, at least without more suitable experience garnishing your resume, so you escape the frustration of your situation by sharing the various illicit mind-altering delights available at the gatherings you attend.
It's a downhill spiral, but before you become a pathetic shell, you encounter the semi-attractive daughter of a magazine publisher who clearly finds you interesting. While she's not of the intellectual caliber of the writers you've met, and she doesn't have the physical qualities of models you've dated, she does have the potential to get you back on the road to realizing your dream.
Her father is a pragmatic man, and he realizes his daughter's happiness hinges on the man she soon calls her fiance, so he promises you a post as assistant editorship of a relatively new and edgy fashion/lifestyle magazine. You aren't surprised, though, when he makes it clear you'll get the job after you get back from your honeymoon. It's a dowry, plain and simple.
You throw yourself into your job, and you're only slightly annoyed at the occasional orders your boss gives you to take a night off and take your wife to a show--clearly he's doing your father-in-law's bidding. Your wife knows better than to demand your attention when she can use her stranglehold over your career to get her way.
Still, the marriage detiorates, and you sense that you'd best be working on your resume--your job is tied to your status as husband and son-in-law. You're eventually summoned to your father-in-law's office one day, where he explains that his daughter still loves you and you had best shape up. You find the intestinal fortitude to stand up to him for once, and when you leave, you also suggest that any attempt to fire you for your shortcomings as a husband will result in an lawsuit that will be at the least, very embarassing for him and his family.
He mutters some threats, but you leave, convinced your job is still safe, and that weekend you move into your own apartment. Your heartbroken bride calls so frequently you change your number and make sure you avoid any social events she might attend. You sense a change in your editor's attitude, at first, but then things seem to gradually return to normal, and you are lulled into a false sense of security.
Your downfall begins, ironically, with what seems like a major kudo for you. PETA is planning a new campaign to have celebrities and models who support their cause pose provocatively in front of uncooperative politicians' offices, often covered by nothing more than a stuffed baby seal toy, or a photo of a mountain gorilla. Normally, they'd go to a bigger publication, but when their P.R. director lets news of the campaign "slip" to you at a cocktail party, you convince him to let your magazine be the means to share their message.
The shoots go well--the P.R. guy insisted that you not only supervise the feature, but also shoot all the photographs. When you get to the last location, though, the model hasn't shown up. You panic and call your office--there's a tight deadline on this and blowing this story will mean irreparably damaging your reputation. Miraculously, though, a model had just stopped by the office on other business, and she is whisked out to your location.
You finish on time and you're pleased with the final product, although it meant a couple of very late nights for your staff to make the deadline. You are allowed two weeks after the magazine hits the stands to bask in your success.
Then it happens. The investigative journalist for a muckraking tabloid who gets a mysterious tip about an underage model in your shoot. It turns out your last model, the one who came fortuitiously to your rescue, is only 14--despite the fact she could pass for 19 anywhere. It's unfortunate that hers was one of the more provocative of the poses, and although it's no more than Janet Jackson showed to millions of football fans, it's enough to violate the recently passed strict laws about child exploitation.
You realize you have been set up, and pull the same maneuvre as Roman Polanski decades earlier--you flee to Europe. France refuses an extradition request, but it's clear that if you set foot on American soil you'll quickly find yourself in prison.
Your wife is cast as wronged spouse of the worst kind of pornographer, and the judge awards her all of your marital assets--not that you brought much to the union anyway.
You go back to photography, and are hired by Paris-Match. You spend the rest of your professional career going from one horrific auto accident to another, where you take graphic photos of charred corpses--a staple of all french newsmagazines.
Hey--you're the kid who won that photo contest last month, right? Well, I've got some photo brochures that... Oh? Magazine editor, huh?
You'll graduate high school and go on to hone your photography skills--you need to start somewhere, and that's what you know. You become skilled at both getting the perfect shot, and digital image manipulation on the computer. Once you're finished, you have an impressive portfolio and it isn't long before you're hired by a trendy publication which targets 20-somethings with disposable income.
Your job isn't boring, at least not at first. One week you're doing a travel feature in Pamplona during the running of the bulls, the next you're shooting artsy pics of the latest in high definition t.v. in Tokyo. Along the way you meet a variety of interesting people, but most of them see you as hired help, even if you get the invites to the trendy parties where the elite create fodder for scandal sheets--stories your magazine would never stoop to publish.
You are careful with your money, and although you save as much as you are able, you still can't quite cobble together the startup cash to get your own publication of the ground. You're too young for any of the established publications to consider hiring you, at least without more suitable experience garnishing your resume, so you escape the frustration of your situation by sharing the various illicit mind-altering delights available at the gatherings you attend.
It's a downhill spiral, but before you become a pathetic shell, you encounter the semi-attractive daughter of a magazine publisher who clearly finds you interesting. While she's not of the intellectual caliber of the writers you've met, and she doesn't have the physical qualities of models you've dated, she does have the potential to get you back on the road to realizing your dream.
Her father is a pragmatic man, and he realizes his daughter's happiness hinges on the man she soon calls her fiance, so he promises you a post as assistant editorship of a relatively new and edgy fashion/lifestyle magazine. You aren't surprised, though, when he makes it clear you'll get the job after you get back from your honeymoon. It's a dowry, plain and simple.
You throw yourself into your job, and you're only slightly annoyed at the occasional orders your boss gives you to take a night off and take your wife to a show--clearly he's doing your father-in-law's bidding. Your wife knows better than to demand your attention when she can use her stranglehold over your career to get her way.
Still, the marriage detiorates, and you sense that you'd best be working on your resume--your job is tied to your status as husband and son-in-law. You're eventually summoned to your father-in-law's office one day, where he explains that his daughter still loves you and you had best shape up. You find the intestinal fortitude to stand up to him for once, and when you leave, you also suggest that any attempt to fire you for your shortcomings as a husband will result in an lawsuit that will be at the least, very embarassing for him and his family.
He mutters some threats, but you leave, convinced your job is still safe, and that weekend you move into your own apartment. Your heartbroken bride calls so frequently you change your number and make sure you avoid any social events she might attend. You sense a change in your editor's attitude, at first, but then things seem to gradually return to normal, and you are lulled into a false sense of security.
Your downfall begins, ironically, with what seems like a major kudo for you. PETA is planning a new campaign to have celebrities and models who support their cause pose provocatively in front of uncooperative politicians' offices, often covered by nothing more than a stuffed baby seal toy, or a photo of a mountain gorilla. Normally, they'd go to a bigger publication, but when their P.R. director lets news of the campaign "slip" to you at a cocktail party, you convince him to let your magazine be the means to share their message.
The shoots go well--the P.R. guy insisted that you not only supervise the feature, but also shoot all the photographs. When you get to the last location, though, the model hasn't shown up. You panic and call your office--there's a tight deadline on this and blowing this story will mean irreparably damaging your reputation. Miraculously, though, a model had just stopped by the office on other business, and she is whisked out to your location.
You finish on time and you're pleased with the final product, although it meant a couple of very late nights for your staff to make the deadline. You are allowed two weeks after the magazine hits the stands to bask in your success.
Then it happens. The investigative journalist for a muckraking tabloid who gets a mysterious tip about an underage model in your shoot. It turns out your last model, the one who came fortuitiously to your rescue, is only 14--despite the fact she could pass for 19 anywhere. It's unfortunate that hers was one of the more provocative of the poses, and although it's no more than Janet Jackson showed to millions of football fans, it's enough to violate the recently passed strict laws about child exploitation.
You realize you have been set up, and pull the same maneuvre as Roman Polanski decades earlier--you flee to Europe. France refuses an extradition request, but it's clear that if you set foot on American soil you'll quickly find yourself in prison.
Your wife is cast as wronged spouse of the worst kind of pornographer, and the judge awards her all of your marital assets--not that you brought much to the union anyway.
You go back to photography, and are hired by Paris-Match. You spend the rest of your professional career going from one horrific auto accident to another, where you take graphic photos of charred corpses--a staple of all french newsmagazines.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Rapification
Yesterday: the Thursday morning before work dissonance that is the dance class in my theatre (yeah, I said "my"--sue me) with their ginormous boom box blaring the B.A.M.A. version of "Sweet Home Alabama". Meanwhile, through the wall on the other side, I am treated to the band playing "Hello Dolly". Not a pleasant combination of tunes torturing me in between, but far from the worst, trust me. (The Missy Elliott-Christmas/Hannukah songs duels were legendary last year.)
Today: Discussed with a couple folks the annoying "rapification" of so many songs. If something has any merit, or has had any success, there will be some no-talent ready to mumble some generic line that sounds like all other lines and it will be mixed in with the original. Somehow, this is now "their" song. Yeah right.
Using that premise, I could take a print of the Mona Lisa, and draw a moustache on it, and try to sell it. Then I could draw the same moustache on prints of a variety of other works--They wouldn't even need to have faces, since my fans love that reliable moustache. Imagine it hanging in the air over one the Monet's seven hundred different versions of "Water Lillies".
Does that make those works mine? I guess, if doing something relatively talentless and hitchhiking onto something famous confers ownership in our society.
It's this generation's version of the ubiquitous "elevatorization" of songs back in the 70s and 80s. I still shudder when I recall hearing the symphony orchestra version of "Karma Chameleon" playing in Safeway one day.
The rapification, though, doesn't require much skill, or as many people as "elevatorization" did. Just a mixing system and the ability to rhyme a little. Voila--thousands of songs have been raped this way. Some are surprising--"Rock Around the Clock" for instance.
This isn't a racist rant, either. B.A.M.A., who gave the world their own "Sweet Home Alabama", are a couple of white guys, from what I see of their album cover on Last.fm
(I don't think it's actually an album, since all their songs listed are really just one--Sweet Home Alabama.)
I posited that I could come up with the same sort of thing for virtually any song. I offered the example of "The Song that Doesn't End":
This is the song that doesn’t end
Not like life in the hood, I buried all my friends
Yes it goes on and on my friend
My friend, how I miss you my best friend,
I'm cryin' every night, bout how the good times had to end
Some people started singing it not knowing what it was,
Like choirs in heaven, just because, not knowin' what it wuz
And they’ll continue singing it forever just because
Until the day I see your face, I'm prayin
You're in a better place
I'm not sure where the original would be sung and additional line mumbled, but play around on your garage band yourself and figure it out.
Folks--a microphone and a turntable don't make you a musician any more than a library card makes you a writer.
Sorry if you think I drank the hatorade--it just rankles sometimes, is all.
Today: Discussed with a couple folks the annoying "rapification" of so many songs. If something has any merit, or has had any success, there will be some no-talent ready to mumble some generic line that sounds like all other lines and it will be mixed in with the original. Somehow, this is now "their" song. Yeah right.
Using that premise, I could take a print of the Mona Lisa, and draw a moustache on it, and try to sell it. Then I could draw the same moustache on prints of a variety of other works--They wouldn't even need to have faces, since my fans love that reliable moustache. Imagine it hanging in the air over one the Monet's seven hundred different versions of "Water Lillies".
Does that make those works mine? I guess, if doing something relatively talentless and hitchhiking onto something famous confers ownership in our society.
It's this generation's version of the ubiquitous "elevatorization" of songs back in the 70s and 80s. I still shudder when I recall hearing the symphony orchestra version of "Karma Chameleon" playing in Safeway one day.
The rapification, though, doesn't require much skill, or as many people as "elevatorization" did. Just a mixing system and the ability to rhyme a little. Voila--thousands of songs have been raped this way. Some are surprising--"Rock Around the Clock" for instance.
This isn't a racist rant, either. B.A.M.A., who gave the world their own "Sweet Home Alabama", are a couple of white guys, from what I see of their album cover on Last.fm
(I don't think it's actually an album, since all their songs listed are really just one--Sweet Home Alabama.)
I posited that I could come up with the same sort of thing for virtually any song. I offered the example of "The Song that Doesn't End":
This is the song that doesn’t end
Not like life in the hood, I buried all my friends
Yes it goes on and on my friend
My friend, how I miss you my best friend,
I'm cryin' every night, bout how the good times had to end
Some people started singing it not knowing what it was,
Like choirs in heaven, just because, not knowin' what it wuz
And they’ll continue singing it forever just because
Until the day I see your face, I'm prayin
You're in a better place
I'm not sure where the original would be sung and additional line mumbled, but play around on your garage band yourself and figure it out.
Folks--a microphone and a turntable don't make you a musician any more than a library card makes you a writer.
Sorry if you think I drank the hatorade--it just rankles sometimes, is all.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Just a little maple leaf waving...
...and if you're not at all aware of sports you likely won't care.
NHL Most Valuable player for 2005-06 - Joe Thornton, Canadian from Ontario.
NBA Most Valuable player for 2005-06 - Steve Nash, Canadian from right here in Victoria
Now--according to a number of articles like this, the frontrunner for MVP in the American League (baseball, if you're not aware) - Justin Morneau, Canadian from New Westminster (right across the water)
The NHL one isn't a big surprise; Canadian players have won more MVPs than any other nationality, but for major league baseball and for the NBA, well, it's not typical, let's say.
NHL Most Valuable player for 2005-06 - Joe Thornton, Canadian from Ontario.
NBA Most Valuable player for 2005-06 - Steve Nash, Canadian from right here in Victoria
Now--according to a number of articles like this, the frontrunner for MVP in the American League (baseball, if you're not aware) - Justin Morneau, Canadian from New Westminster (right across the water)
The NHL one isn't a big surprise; Canadian players have won more MVPs than any other nationality, but for major league baseball and for the NBA, well, it's not typical, let's say.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a
Cook
Hey kid--you're lookin' a little tired. Close up the pizza place again last night? That sucks. Yeah--I do hear you're pretty good at it. Still, there's a difference between a high school job for gas money, and a life sentence.
You'll stick at the pizza place--or go to another similar dive--once you're finished here. Once you no longer have to go to school, you can take the day shifts that keep your evenings free. Of course, you understand by "day shift" they mean 11:00 a.m. 'til whenever the hell the tyrannical manager tells you you're free to drag your grease-coated carcass home. Most likely it will be just after the girl you promised to see has given up and gone out dancing with some other guy.
Probably just as well--as you can already tell, until you outgrow your teenage skin, the greasy kitchen air helps make your pores a fertile home for acne.
You'll work hard--it's hot, constant work--and you hate the fact that when your food is quick and well-prepared, the waiters get the tips, but when something screws up, you're the one who wears it. Like all cooks, you become master of the "hidden lugee"--that blog of saliva and plegm that hides so well in most cream sauces. It's only for the truly difficult customers, of course. Unfortunately for your restaurant's clientele, as you become increasingly bitter, more and more customers bear the brunt of your frustration, even if they are unaware of the bonus DNA you include with the daily special.
You decide to take some college courses--your grades here are pathetic due to the brutal work schedule you already keep, so you'll only be able to get into those overpriced private business and computer colleges--don't be surprised when you're the only one in the class who actually has a good command of the English language.
The "diploma" they give you doesn't make anyone more convinced you'd make a good restaurant manager, so you quit your job and go to work on a cruise ship. It's a big change--when they're in the U.S. or Canada, there is a qualified, conscientious kitchen staff working in completely hygenic surroundings--once they get your first foreign port, however, the "show staff" hops a plane to another ship that might be subject to inspection back home, while you find yourself surrounded by a motley collection of dubiously-qualified refugees from a variety of nations.
You soon tire of the constant pressure of your day--unlike the greasy dives you worked before, the clientele of the cruise ship is used to haute cuisine and won't hesitate to complain if they feel your pretentious preparations aren't up to their standards.
Meanwhile, you learn to look the other way as the staff around you neglects the basic practices of safe food handling and personal hygiene. It is only a matter of time before another one of those "mysterious" outbreaks of disease spreads through the cruise ship population like wildfire, and unlike the baffled passengers and media, you are fully aware of the source of the intestinal plague.
The virus forces the ship back to port where a number of passengers are sent to hospital, and you resign your post as soon as the three-day quarantine is lifted. You head back here, to your home town, and empty your bank account to make a down payment on a hot dog stand. The annual permit costs twice what the stand is worth, but you figure it's mindless, simple work compared to your other cooking jobs, and soon you're pulling in a sizeable weekly income.
Unfortunately, your lungs were damaged by the cruise ship virus, and the constant exposure to damp, exhaust-filled downtown air gives you a nagging cough that eventually develops into pneumonia. When you are released from the hospital, you sell the cart and go looking for a cooking job that includes health and prescription coverage.
Such jobs, for those without actual chef's papers, are few and far between. You are offered a job at the hospital, but you know enough about the "superbugs" that strike every year or so in the wards which house the most weakened to turn that opporunity down. Then, you receive another offer--you are recruited to cook for the state prison down the highway.
It's a job that includes full benefits, and you work relatively normal hours and even get decent holiday breaks. You begin relaxing into the job after a few months, and aside from the sometimes awkward interactions you have with the few inmates assigned to kitchen duty, you rarely come into contact with any of the prisoners.
You even buy an engagement ring for your girlfriend and feel secure enough to put a down payment on a new condo development under construction a mere 15 minute drive from the prison.
Then, in a bid to save money, the government contracts out the food service operation of the prison. You fear you will lose your benefits and see your pay cut in half, but fortunately your union negotiates a deal that grandfathers your old wages and benefits into your new contract--it's only the newly hired staff who will be paid poorly and denied the benefit package.
The new regime cuts corners wherever possible, and their first act is to impose a new set of rules regarding food purchase. Soon the prisoners become agitated as the quality of their meals begins to suffer from the shoddy meat and overripe vegetables you are forced use in all your recipes. Some of the prisoners who work with you begin passing along death threats from the angry cons.
The riot is unexpected, and it takes place when liver is substituted for a planned sparerib dinner. The prisoners take you hostage, along with two guards, but when the swat team storms the building, it is only you who are found dead--a sprig of parsley covering each eye.
Hey kid--you're lookin' a little tired. Close up the pizza place again last night? That sucks. Yeah--I do hear you're pretty good at it. Still, there's a difference between a high school job for gas money, and a life sentence.
You'll stick at the pizza place--or go to another similar dive--once you're finished here. Once you no longer have to go to school, you can take the day shifts that keep your evenings free. Of course, you understand by "day shift" they mean 11:00 a.m. 'til whenever the hell the tyrannical manager tells you you're free to drag your grease-coated carcass home. Most likely it will be just after the girl you promised to see has given up and gone out dancing with some other guy.
Probably just as well--as you can already tell, until you outgrow your teenage skin, the greasy kitchen air helps make your pores a fertile home for acne.
You'll work hard--it's hot, constant work--and you hate the fact that when your food is quick and well-prepared, the waiters get the tips, but when something screws up, you're the one who wears it. Like all cooks, you become master of the "hidden lugee"--that blog of saliva and plegm that hides so well in most cream sauces. It's only for the truly difficult customers, of course. Unfortunately for your restaurant's clientele, as you become increasingly bitter, more and more customers bear the brunt of your frustration, even if they are unaware of the bonus DNA you include with the daily special.
You decide to take some college courses--your grades here are pathetic due to the brutal work schedule you already keep, so you'll only be able to get into those overpriced private business and computer colleges--don't be surprised when you're the only one in the class who actually has a good command of the English language.
The "diploma" they give you doesn't make anyone more convinced you'd make a good restaurant manager, so you quit your job and go to work on a cruise ship. It's a big change--when they're in the U.S. or Canada, there is a qualified, conscientious kitchen staff working in completely hygenic surroundings--once they get your first foreign port, however, the "show staff" hops a plane to another ship that might be subject to inspection back home, while you find yourself surrounded by a motley collection of dubiously-qualified refugees from a variety of nations.
You soon tire of the constant pressure of your day--unlike the greasy dives you worked before, the clientele of the cruise ship is used to haute cuisine and won't hesitate to complain if they feel your pretentious preparations aren't up to their standards.
Meanwhile, you learn to look the other way as the staff around you neglects the basic practices of safe food handling and personal hygiene. It is only a matter of time before another one of those "mysterious" outbreaks of disease spreads through the cruise ship population like wildfire, and unlike the baffled passengers and media, you are fully aware of the source of the intestinal plague.
The virus forces the ship back to port where a number of passengers are sent to hospital, and you resign your post as soon as the three-day quarantine is lifted. You head back here, to your home town, and empty your bank account to make a down payment on a hot dog stand. The annual permit costs twice what the stand is worth, but you figure it's mindless, simple work compared to your other cooking jobs, and soon you're pulling in a sizeable weekly income.
Unfortunately, your lungs were damaged by the cruise ship virus, and the constant exposure to damp, exhaust-filled downtown air gives you a nagging cough that eventually develops into pneumonia. When you are released from the hospital, you sell the cart and go looking for a cooking job that includes health and prescription coverage.
Such jobs, for those without actual chef's papers, are few and far between. You are offered a job at the hospital, but you know enough about the "superbugs" that strike every year or so in the wards which house the most weakened to turn that opporunity down. Then, you receive another offer--you are recruited to cook for the state prison down the highway.
It's a job that includes full benefits, and you work relatively normal hours and even get decent holiday breaks. You begin relaxing into the job after a few months, and aside from the sometimes awkward interactions you have with the few inmates assigned to kitchen duty, you rarely come into contact with any of the prisoners.
You even buy an engagement ring for your girlfriend and feel secure enough to put a down payment on a new condo development under construction a mere 15 minute drive from the prison.
Then, in a bid to save money, the government contracts out the food service operation of the prison. You fear you will lose your benefits and see your pay cut in half, but fortunately your union negotiates a deal that grandfathers your old wages and benefits into your new contract--it's only the newly hired staff who will be paid poorly and denied the benefit package.
The new regime cuts corners wherever possible, and their first act is to impose a new set of rules regarding food purchase. Soon the prisoners become agitated as the quality of their meals begins to suffer from the shoddy meat and overripe vegetables you are forced use in all your recipes. Some of the prisoners who work with you begin passing along death threats from the angry cons.
The riot is unexpected, and it takes place when liver is substituted for a planned sparerib dinner. The prisoners take you hostage, along with two guards, but when the swat team storms the building, it is only you who are found dead--a sprig of parsley covering each eye.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Sunday, September 24, 2006
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a
Dental Assistant
Hey--Almost forgot your appointment, didn't you--good thing you got back; I was just leaving. You do that sort of thing a lot, don't you?
No--I'm never here after hours; the evening custodian just says that everytime he's about to light up the bong... er, I mean, he says there's this annoying kid--nevermind. Just have a seat.
Dental assistant? There are some pitfalls ahead, I fear.
You'll go to a technical school of some sort, and learn all about dental instruments, suction and chair operation. You'll learn the tricky art of staying out of the dentist's way while providing him or her with instant help. You'll even learn to translate the garbled articulation of those whose mouths are frozen and filled with gauze.
You're a good student, even if you forget stuff, so you'll get a good job working with one of the more successful dental offices in town. There you'll truly experience all that is disgusting about the human mouth. The mask and glasses don't save you from the stench of fetid rotting teeth, and the water rinse nozzle or the drill just bounce bits of that decay off whatever parts of your skin aren't protected by your gear.
It will take some pretty long showers to make you feel clean after work.
Your boss specializes in "painfree" dental work--he has a particular clientele who are rather phobic about such things--and he has more work than he can handle. Though you get off work at five, he begins scheduling some patients for after hours appointments. He explains that it's the only way he can keep up with the demand for his services, but assures you he's able to handle those extra clients on his own.
You notice that most of these after hours patients are attractive women, but you don't really think about it. Then, one day, you come back because you've once again forgotten something at work. He won't notice you until it's too late--the whole creepy situation now suddenly makes sense, and he rushes after you as you run from the office.
He pleads with you not to reveal his crime, and informs you that your salary and holiday time have both been immediately doubled. You just push him away and drive home.
You don't report for work the next day as you decide what to do. He sends you an email promising it will never happen again, and offering you a share of the business. That afternoon, as you're taking your dog for a walk and trying to clear your head, a car comes out of nowhere and almost runs you down. The driver speeds off, but you instantly know it was no accident.
Fearing for your safety, you rush to the police station and swear out a statement detailing what you saw back in the office. Soon there's a major media circus with you and your boss as featured players. At first, his lawyers try to spin it that you are simply vindictively making up the story because he rejected your romantic overtures, but when two patients come forward to verify your boss's crimes, you become a sort of hero.
It's an election year, and the rights of women in the workplace had already been simmering as an election issue. Soon, candidates from both sides are dropping by to ask your opinion on proposed legislation, and the eventual winner celebrates your courage by inviting you to walk next to her in the "take back the night" march.
There's a great deal of goodwill you can capitalize on--you are offered a variety of jobs with various committees and agencies designed to stop workplace sexual harassment, but you tell everyone you just want to do what you trained to do. The powers that be grant your wish--you are offered a job in Washington at one of the preeminent dental clinics in the world. Some of the top politicians and their high-level staff become your clientele, and you make more money working for your new boss than you would have made even if you'd accepted the bribe offer at your previous office.
It all sounds pretty good, doesn't it. Unfortunately, it doesn't last. There's a revolution in some third world country--their dictator had been a staunch supporter and ally of the current administration--and when he flees for his life, he is whisked away to Washington. Instead of calming the folks back in his home nation, there are daily protests and riots as citizens demand he be returned to face trial for his crimes against his homeland.
Suddenly, conveniently, he is killed in a car accident--the body badly burned. There are some who wonder if the body really was that of the dictator, but the press releases assure the public it was him.
That night, you once again forget something at work, so after dinner, you drive back to the clinic to pick it up. The men in the black ski masks had already replaced the dictator's dental records--seemed some were nervous about a potential invesitigation--and it's just tragically bad timing that you've seen them.
They can't kill you in the office--too suspicious--but you do get many positive mentions in the press when your "suicide" is announced the next day.
I've got to go now--I'm late for happy hour.
Hey--Almost forgot your appointment, didn't you--good thing you got back; I was just leaving. You do that sort of thing a lot, don't you?
No--I'm never here after hours; the evening custodian just says that everytime he's about to light up the bong... er, I mean, he says there's this annoying kid--nevermind. Just have a seat.
Dental assistant? There are some pitfalls ahead, I fear.
You'll go to a technical school of some sort, and learn all about dental instruments, suction and chair operation. You'll learn the tricky art of staying out of the dentist's way while providing him or her with instant help. You'll even learn to translate the garbled articulation of those whose mouths are frozen and filled with gauze.
You're a good student, even if you forget stuff, so you'll get a good job working with one of the more successful dental offices in town. There you'll truly experience all that is disgusting about the human mouth. The mask and glasses don't save you from the stench of fetid rotting teeth, and the water rinse nozzle or the drill just bounce bits of that decay off whatever parts of your skin aren't protected by your gear.
It will take some pretty long showers to make you feel clean after work.
Your boss specializes in "painfree" dental work--he has a particular clientele who are rather phobic about such things--and he has more work than he can handle. Though you get off work at five, he begins scheduling some patients for after hours appointments. He explains that it's the only way he can keep up with the demand for his services, but assures you he's able to handle those extra clients on his own.
You notice that most of these after hours patients are attractive women, but you don't really think about it. Then, one day, you come back because you've once again forgotten something at work. He won't notice you until it's too late--the whole creepy situation now suddenly makes sense, and he rushes after you as you run from the office.
He pleads with you not to reveal his crime, and informs you that your salary and holiday time have both been immediately doubled. You just push him away and drive home.
You don't report for work the next day as you decide what to do. He sends you an email promising it will never happen again, and offering you a share of the business. That afternoon, as you're taking your dog for a walk and trying to clear your head, a car comes out of nowhere and almost runs you down. The driver speeds off, but you instantly know it was no accident.
Fearing for your safety, you rush to the police station and swear out a statement detailing what you saw back in the office. Soon there's a major media circus with you and your boss as featured players. At first, his lawyers try to spin it that you are simply vindictively making up the story because he rejected your romantic overtures, but when two patients come forward to verify your boss's crimes, you become a sort of hero.
It's an election year, and the rights of women in the workplace had already been simmering as an election issue. Soon, candidates from both sides are dropping by to ask your opinion on proposed legislation, and the eventual winner celebrates your courage by inviting you to walk next to her in the "take back the night" march.
There's a great deal of goodwill you can capitalize on--you are offered a variety of jobs with various committees and agencies designed to stop workplace sexual harassment, but you tell everyone you just want to do what you trained to do. The powers that be grant your wish--you are offered a job in Washington at one of the preeminent dental clinics in the world. Some of the top politicians and their high-level staff become your clientele, and you make more money working for your new boss than you would have made even if you'd accepted the bribe offer at your previous office.
It all sounds pretty good, doesn't it. Unfortunately, it doesn't last. There's a revolution in some third world country--their dictator had been a staunch supporter and ally of the current administration--and when he flees for his life, he is whisked away to Washington. Instead of calming the folks back in his home nation, there are daily protests and riots as citizens demand he be returned to face trial for his crimes against his homeland.
Suddenly, conveniently, he is killed in a car accident--the body badly burned. There are some who wonder if the body really was that of the dictator, but the press releases assure the public it was him.
That night, you once again forget something at work, so after dinner, you drive back to the clinic to pick it up. The men in the black ski masks had already replaced the dictator's dental records--seemed some were nervous about a potential invesitigation--and it's just tragically bad timing that you've seen them.
They can't kill you in the office--too suspicious--but you do get many positive mentions in the press when your "suicide" is announced the next day.
I've got to go now--I'm late for happy hour.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Poetry by Dythandra
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.
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.
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.
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