It's been over two decades since I called Vancouver home, and staying downtown this weekend and traveling about has been interesting.
The lines one could draw on the map between affluent and disadvantaged areas seem just as clear and the contrasts as stark as I recall, but in some of the sketchier areas you can see signs of improvement. I suppose that started in the mid-80s with the Expo renewal and the recent Olympic development has continued that, though the conversion of Olympic athlete residences to provide some lower-income housing hasn't proceeded as smoothly as was promised.
Gentrification has its victims--folks who call the skid row neighborhood home have nowhere to go when upscale condo residents organize to legislate them away from their new homes. Unless a concurrent increase in emergency shelter beds accompanies such development, the folks in the direst situations simple are forced to congregate in increasing numbers in smaller and smaller areas--and the contrast between rich and poor neighborhoods becomes even more dramatic.
Closer to home, I have watched my brother-in-law as the process of building a shelter next to his auto repair shop goes forward. While some others in the area have fought to block what they see as a potential disaster which will bring in all sorts of social problems and drive away customers, he's chosen to engage in the process, and been part of the committee which is working to make this new facility a success.
What has yet to be determined, now that this new building is becoming operational, is how many of the street people will choose to take advantage of what is offered. It is a great facility, but like any of its kind, it has to have basic rules and expectations, and folks who are suffering from addictions or mental illnesses may feel that the freedom of the street, while more dangerous and uncomfortable, is still preferable for them.
We'll know soon.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Goin' to the chapel...
I just made my hotel reservation and I've booked the Friday off for traveling. I'm going to my first gay wedding November 6.
It will make for interesting conversation with a few of my relatives at Christmas time, I bet.
Maybe I'll even post some pics.
It will make for interesting conversation with a few of my relatives at Christmas time, I bet.
Maybe I'll even post some pics.
Friday, October 15, 2010
The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as a
Dermatologist
Hi kid, I see by the appointment card you're thinking about a dermatology career. Seems like a growth industry, what with all the boomers becoming senior citizens, but you might want to consider the big picture.
You'll do a hellishly long stint in college, med school and then training in your specialty. The student loan debts will haunt your every moment for the first years of your career. A ridiculous amount of overtime at the clinic where you set up your first practice, coupled with filling it at various clinics on weekends will get you solvent quickly, though.
Unfortunately, the money stress becomes imprinted on your subconscious, and the drive to earn ever more will be your undoing. More and more you supplement your already-successful practice with unnecessary cosmetic procedures. The acne-scarred teenager and the burned pre-schooler sit waiting in an office decorated with posters pushing vanity services, while Mrs. Barrington-Smythe gets yet another botox or collagen injection.
Soon you're suggesting these procedures to everyone you encounter--they're simply too quick and lucrative for you to resist. Many of your clients can't really afford these services, but your ad campaigns panic them into debt in pursuit of eternal youth. Fortunately your toxins keep all expression from their paralyzed facial muscles, and you learn not to notice the desperation in their eyes.
Eventually you become a fixture at the cocktail parties of the elite, and it's at one of these events a dowager whispers the latest breakthrough offered surreptitiously by one of your rivals--a special skin treatment which features the crushed pineal gland of a rare species of South American fresh-water turtle.
You're unable to sleep for several nights afterward as you obssessively research everything you can find out about this illegal treatment. Soon you've discovered a local underworld connection who offers to supply you with the requisite turtle glands for an outrageous price. Your quick calculations prove that you'll be unable to make a significant profit on the illicit procedure, but you fear losing some of your wealthiest regulars, so desperation guides your faustian bargain.
A scant four months later FBI agents, working as part of an international sting operation, arrest you. You refuse to rat out your criminal suppliers, so you're given a hefty fine and sentenced to five years in prison.
Prison terrifies you; it's not just the other inmates you're worried about--you're also convinced the mob will put out a contract on your life to make sure you won't change your mind and snitch. Eventually, though, you manage to make the terror less intense by first bargaining away the assets left after your fine to get the mafia to cancel the contract, and making yourself invaluable to the other inmates through your expert after-care for prison tattoos.
Good behaviour gets you out in three years, but you're broke and with your reputation, no dermatology clinics will hire you, and no reputable physician will refer anyone to you. Eventually you take a job at a free clinic in the worst part of town--your nights consist of stitching up the victims of domestic abuse to the soundtrack of cynical cops unsuccesfully trying to coerce cooperation in pressing charges.
Prison rearranged your priorities, which makes your new life in a modest condo and driving a domestic sedan a little easier to bear. It will a decent life for a year or two until a radical offshoot of PETA discovers your whereabouts and kidnaps you.
They'll kill you slowly, injecting massive doses of botox into various parts of your body. On the bright side, most who attend your funeral will gush about how peaceful you look.
Hi kid, I see by the appointment card you're thinking about a dermatology career. Seems like a growth industry, what with all the boomers becoming senior citizens, but you might want to consider the big picture.
You'll do a hellishly long stint in college, med school and then training in your specialty. The student loan debts will haunt your every moment for the first years of your career. A ridiculous amount of overtime at the clinic where you set up your first practice, coupled with filling it at various clinics on weekends will get you solvent quickly, though.
Unfortunately, the money stress becomes imprinted on your subconscious, and the drive to earn ever more will be your undoing. More and more you supplement your already-successful practice with unnecessary cosmetic procedures. The acne-scarred teenager and the burned pre-schooler sit waiting in an office decorated with posters pushing vanity services, while Mrs. Barrington-Smythe gets yet another botox or collagen injection.
Soon you're suggesting these procedures to everyone you encounter--they're simply too quick and lucrative for you to resist. Many of your clients can't really afford these services, but your ad campaigns panic them into debt in pursuit of eternal youth. Fortunately your toxins keep all expression from their paralyzed facial muscles, and you learn not to notice the desperation in their eyes.
Eventually you become a fixture at the cocktail parties of the elite, and it's at one of these events a dowager whispers the latest breakthrough offered surreptitiously by one of your rivals--a special skin treatment which features the crushed pineal gland of a rare species of South American fresh-water turtle.
You're unable to sleep for several nights afterward as you obssessively research everything you can find out about this illegal treatment. Soon you've discovered a local underworld connection who offers to supply you with the requisite turtle glands for an outrageous price. Your quick calculations prove that you'll be unable to make a significant profit on the illicit procedure, but you fear losing some of your wealthiest regulars, so desperation guides your faustian bargain.
A scant four months later FBI agents, working as part of an international sting operation, arrest you. You refuse to rat out your criminal suppliers, so you're given a hefty fine and sentenced to five years in prison.
Prison terrifies you; it's not just the other inmates you're worried about--you're also convinced the mob will put out a contract on your life to make sure you won't change your mind and snitch. Eventually, though, you manage to make the terror less intense by first bargaining away the assets left after your fine to get the mafia to cancel the contract, and making yourself invaluable to the other inmates through your expert after-care for prison tattoos.
Good behaviour gets you out in three years, but you're broke and with your reputation, no dermatology clinics will hire you, and no reputable physician will refer anyone to you. Eventually you take a job at a free clinic in the worst part of town--your nights consist of stitching up the victims of domestic abuse to the soundtrack of cynical cops unsuccesfully trying to coerce cooperation in pressing charges.
Prison rearranged your priorities, which makes your new life in a modest condo and driving a domestic sedan a little easier to bear. It will a decent life for a year or two until a radical offshoot of PETA discovers your whereabouts and kidnaps you.
They'll kill you slowly, injecting massive doses of botox into various parts of your body. On the bright side, most who attend your funeral will gush about how peaceful you look.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
From the archives - 15-minute Hamlet
I wonder if this video clip is too long for blogger to let me post it here?
Anyway, it's from an "Evening of Theatre" in June, 2007. I've been clearing files off hard drives and cleaning up old tapes and things lately, and when I ran across this it reminded me of why I like the piece.
I think they needed a little more guidance/rehearsal, but at least the mispronunciations show they really did put this together on their own. It's actually supposed to be a 14-minute Hamlet with a one-minute reprise of the whole show; and it comes in pretty close to those times.
Anyway, it's from an "Evening of Theatre" in June, 2007. I've been clearing files off hard drives and cleaning up old tapes and things lately, and when I ran across this it reminded me of why I like the piece.
I think they needed a little more guidance/rehearsal, but at least the mispronunciations show they really did put this together on their own. It's actually supposed to be a 14-minute Hamlet with a one-minute reprise of the whole show; and it comes in pretty close to those times.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains High School Literature
Of Mice and Men
So there's these two dudes, George and Lenny, and George is kinda this smaller smart guy, while Lenny's the big stupid guy. At the beginning they're runnin' away from some town called Weed, which is kinda funny, cause on account of when I was reading that part I... well, it was just funny.
Anyway, George kinda babysits Lenny, cause Lenny's pretty stupid and mostly harmless 'cept when he goes all spazzy about rabbits or slutty chicks.
Then there's this guy Curly, I think, and he lost a glove so he only wears one or something and he's a jerk and his wife is kinda the skank of the camp and Lenny thinks she's a rabbit and pets her hair and then, oops.
I totally give this book five stars 'cause the teacher said we could read this or Grapes of Wrath and this one was like 80 pages or something and that one was hella long.
Oh, and later after George was on his own he fought in Vietnam with Forrest Gump and had his legs cut off and had to get surgery so he could walk again and be a CSI in New York.
So there's these two dudes, George and Lenny, and George is kinda this smaller smart guy, while Lenny's the big stupid guy. At the beginning they're runnin' away from some town called Weed, which is kinda funny, cause on account of when I was reading that part I... well, it was just funny.
Anyway, George kinda babysits Lenny, cause Lenny's pretty stupid and mostly harmless 'cept when he goes all spazzy about rabbits or slutty chicks.
Then there's this guy Curly, I think, and he lost a glove so he only wears one or something and he's a jerk and his wife is kinda the skank of the camp and Lenny thinks she's a rabbit and pets her hair and then, oops.
I totally give this book five stars 'cause the teacher said we could read this or Grapes of Wrath and this one was like 80 pages or something and that one was hella long.
Oh, and later after George was on his own he fought in Vietnam with Forrest Gump and had his legs cut off and had to get surgery so he could walk again and be a CSI in New York.
Friday, September 10, 2010
The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as a
Movie Critic
Hey, I remember you--you're the one who wrote that great review for No Country for Old Men. You could've saved me some time if you had mentioned they don't bother to finish the damn movie.
Oh really? I guess practicing on the school paper is a natural starting point for a movie reviewer. Your professional career will probably be pretty straightforward.
You'll hit up little community newspapers, looking for an opportunity to share your film thoughts, and perhaps you'll find some who are receptive. It will be a tough road, though--most of those won't really pay anything, and you'll have to work a real job for years.
Maybe you'll review movies for a college paper if you choose to go that route, or maybe one of your pieces will impress just the right editor who decides your writing is good enough to replace the previous guy who killed himself because he was tired of living on dog food.
When you finally reach the pinnacle of your dreams--and I'm being generous in thinking it might happen--you'll get to review for a major national paper. Problem is, you'll be stuck writing about the crap movies most of the populace loves, not the art films you feel are worth the effort of watching. Soon you'll grow to despise your generation's version of Jennifer Aniston as that actress sleeps through one template-produced romantic comedy after another.
Eventually you can't take it any more, and an alternative, independent magazine hires you to write about more avant garde films. Problem is, they go broke after six months and you find yourself unemployed. Your first piece for that paper was a scathing repudiation of the tripe you'd been forced to review for your previous employer, so now you're unemployed, you've little chance of mending that bridge.
Just as you're about to become desperate and take that Walmart greeter job, you get an offer from an on-line company--Netflix have ventured into alternative films, and they want you to give authentic reviews for the fans of cutting edge cinema. You love it, and the next four months are the best of your life.
Then it happens. You're invited to adjudicate a film festival in Brazil, but on the way there, your plane is forced to land in remote mountain country in Venezuela. Before you and the other survivors can make it to the cockpit to try to radio for help, you're surrounded by machine-gun wielding guerrilla forces who take six of you captive. You're later separated from the others and accompanied to a base where you meet a few other kidnap victims.
One of them explains that this particular rebel group finances most of their operations through the kidnap of wealthy foreigners. Many of your fellow prisoners have been held by the rebels for over a year--a couple for over two. Then you're dragged away from that compound and marched to another one even higher in the mountains. There you're kept on a length of chain in a tiny shack.
Hey, I remember you--you're the one who wrote that great review for No Country for Old Men. You could've saved me some time if you had mentioned they don't bother to finish the damn movie.
Oh really? I guess practicing on the school paper is a natural starting point for a movie reviewer. Your professional career will probably be pretty straightforward.
You'll hit up little community newspapers, looking for an opportunity to share your film thoughts, and perhaps you'll find some who are receptive. It will be a tough road, though--most of those won't really pay anything, and you'll have to work a real job for years.
Maybe you'll review movies for a college paper if you choose to go that route, or maybe one of your pieces will impress just the right editor who decides your writing is good enough to replace the previous guy who killed himself because he was tired of living on dog food.
When you finally reach the pinnacle of your dreams--and I'm being generous in thinking it might happen--you'll get to review for a major national paper. Problem is, you'll be stuck writing about the crap movies most of the populace loves, not the art films you feel are worth the effort of watching. Soon you'll grow to despise your generation's version of Jennifer Aniston as that actress sleeps through one template-produced romantic comedy after another.
Eventually you can't take it any more, and an alternative, independent magazine hires you to write about more avant garde films. Problem is, they go broke after six months and you find yourself unemployed. Your first piece for that paper was a scathing repudiation of the tripe you'd been forced to review for your previous employer, so now you're unemployed, you've little chance of mending that bridge.
Just as you're about to become desperate and take that Walmart greeter job, you get an offer from an on-line company--Netflix have ventured into alternative films, and they want you to give authentic reviews for the fans of cutting edge cinema. You love it, and the next four months are the best of your life.
Then it happens. You're invited to adjudicate a film festival in Brazil, but on the way there, your plane is forced to land in remote mountain country in Venezuela. Before you and the other survivors can make it to the cockpit to try to radio for help, you're surrounded by machine-gun wielding guerrilla forces who take six of you captive. You're later separated from the others and accompanied to a base where you meet a few other kidnap victims.
One of them explains that this particular rebel group finances most of their operations through the kidnap of wealthy foreigners. Many of your fellow prisoners have been held by the rebels for over a year--a couple for over two. Then you're dragged away from that compound and marched to another one even higher in the mountains. There you're kept on a length of chain in a tiny shack.
Your captors know that foreigners accustomed to creature comforts can lose the will to live if deprived of everything familiar for too long, so they've equipped this remote little prison with an old VHS player that runs on a diesel generator. There you get to spend every evening watching one of the only three tapes in the shack--all from the "Jennifer Lopez Cinema Collection". After six weeks of Maid in Manhattan, Gigli and Jersey Girl, one of your guards falls asleep just long enough to let you hang yourself.
Hey, maybe they'll make a movie about it!
Sunday, August 22, 2010
The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as a
Firefighter
Hi kid - so what'll it be? Computer programmer? Comic book store manager? Firefighter? Really? You just don't, er, seem the type.
Well, it won't be easy--every would-be calendar hunk who doesn't want to be stuck in a classroom through four years of college sees it as the ticket to a decent income and hot chicks.
Aww, look--you're blushing.
Anyway, going straight to the city fire department will be futile. They get hundreds of applications from football-player types and when those spots are filled, the rest go to suitable females and minorities--you don't qualify for any of those categories.
So you'll need to go the "volunteer fireman" route to get much-needed experience before they'll even consider you. You'll have to move to some god-forsaken podunk farm community and take a horrible job at the feed store or radio station to make ends meet--I could tell you all about that sometime if you like--and then you'll sign up with the volunteer fire department.
You see, towns like that can't afford paid firefighters, so for the cost of a CB radio for your obligatory pickup truck, you can become one of the volunteers.
They won't exactly welcome you with open arms--city types are viewed suspiciously in places like that, and I don't see you blending in with the country farm boys. Still, you'll study the theory of firefighting in all your spare time and so when some sort of challenging situation involving a tanker truck overturning on the highway arises, or a grain elevator explodes, you'll know just what to do.
If you're lucky you'll avoid being crushed by the roof of a burning barn, or trampled by the frightened horses that run out of said barns, and you'll survive two of the loneliest years of your life living over the garage at "Widder Jenkins" place.
You can't just quit, but you'll start arranging your days off to allow you to get to nearby towns with real fire departments where you show your resumé that includes a variety of glowing reference letters and even a couple of newspaper clippings that mention your firefighting acumen.
One town has an opening, and you grab it, but it's only part-time, so now you have to find another job, while still putting in hours at the fire station washing the trucks and testing hoses for your small monthly stipend.
Here you find your first real romance - The local girl who walks her dog by the fire hall each day and who isn't quite attractive enough for the hunky firemen to be interested. You've worked hard getting fit for your job, and the long, lonely hours with little to do but work out in your last town helped. The two of you hit it off and before long you're engaged.
Her folks oppose the marriage as you haven't much income and the two of you agree to postpone the marriage until you've got a real firefighting job. It takes another year but you get a job in a slightly larger town that can afford full timers.
You're so excited you try too hard at the new job, and soon alienate most of your colleagues. Your fiancee is annoyed by having to move to a town where she doesn't know anyone, and rebuffs your attempts to set a wedding date. You get depressed and frustrated and begin working all the overtime you can get to avoid being alone in your drab apartment. It gets so bad that you even set a couple of fires to create more work.
Then it happens; you're in a warehouse that's been torched for the insurance money and a beam falls and traps you. By the time you're rescued, your left leg and arm have been seriously burned, and your employment compensation agency sends you off to the firefighter's rehab center in Chicago.
Look I need to get going, so here's the quick finish: Your girlfriend comes to visit, meets some other guy who's been much more disfigured than you, but still has the charm and personality he had before his accident. She dumps you, marries him, and you realize it wasn't just your looks that were the problem. Your personality sucks too.
Sorry, but look on the bright side--when you get back to work you can take the dalmatian for walks in the park. I hear that can be a really good ice breaker with the ladies. Good luck!
Hi kid - so what'll it be? Computer programmer? Comic book store manager? Firefighter? Really? You just don't, er, seem the type.
Well, it won't be easy--every would-be calendar hunk who doesn't want to be stuck in a classroom through four years of college sees it as the ticket to a decent income and hot chicks.
Aww, look--you're blushing.
Anyway, going straight to the city fire department will be futile. They get hundreds of applications from football-player types and when those spots are filled, the rest go to suitable females and minorities--you don't qualify for any of those categories.
So you'll need to go the "volunteer fireman" route to get much-needed experience before they'll even consider you. You'll have to move to some god-forsaken podunk farm community and take a horrible job at the feed store or radio station to make ends meet--I could tell you all about that sometime if you like--and then you'll sign up with the volunteer fire department.
You see, towns like that can't afford paid firefighters, so for the cost of a CB radio for your obligatory pickup truck, you can become one of the volunteers.
They won't exactly welcome you with open arms--city types are viewed suspiciously in places like that, and I don't see you blending in with the country farm boys. Still, you'll study the theory of firefighting in all your spare time and so when some sort of challenging situation involving a tanker truck overturning on the highway arises, or a grain elevator explodes, you'll know just what to do.
If you're lucky you'll avoid being crushed by the roof of a burning barn, or trampled by the frightened horses that run out of said barns, and you'll survive two of the loneliest years of your life living over the garage at "Widder Jenkins" place.
You can't just quit, but you'll start arranging your days off to allow you to get to nearby towns with real fire departments where you show your resumé that includes a variety of glowing reference letters and even a couple of newspaper clippings that mention your firefighting acumen.
One town has an opening, and you grab it, but it's only part-time, so now you have to find another job, while still putting in hours at the fire station washing the trucks and testing hoses for your small monthly stipend.
Here you find your first real romance - The local girl who walks her dog by the fire hall each day and who isn't quite attractive enough for the hunky firemen to be interested. You've worked hard getting fit for your job, and the long, lonely hours with little to do but work out in your last town helped. The two of you hit it off and before long you're engaged.
Her folks oppose the marriage as you haven't much income and the two of you agree to postpone the marriage until you've got a real firefighting job. It takes another year but you get a job in a slightly larger town that can afford full timers.
You're so excited you try too hard at the new job, and soon alienate most of your colleagues. Your fiancee is annoyed by having to move to a town where she doesn't know anyone, and rebuffs your attempts to set a wedding date. You get depressed and frustrated and begin working all the overtime you can get to avoid being alone in your drab apartment. It gets so bad that you even set a couple of fires to create more work.
Then it happens; you're in a warehouse that's been torched for the insurance money and a beam falls and traps you. By the time you're rescued, your left leg and arm have been seriously burned, and your employment compensation agency sends you off to the firefighter's rehab center in Chicago.
Look I need to get going, so here's the quick finish: Your girlfriend comes to visit, meets some other guy who's been much more disfigured than you, but still has the charm and personality he had before his accident. She dumps you, marries him, and you realize it wasn't just your looks that were the problem. Your personality sucks too.
Sorry, but look on the bright side--when you get back to work you can take the dalmatian for walks in the park. I hear that can be a really good ice breaker with the ladies. Good luck!
Monday, July 19, 2010
The Kid Who Sits Behind You Explains High School Literature
The Good Earth
So there's this Chinese farmer dude named Wang Chung who is all poor but he marries some chick who's a slave in a rich house and he's all "good, she's not hot" and she's all "my feet are too big" 'cause on account of back then they used to bind up their feet to save money since they don't have to keep buying shoes.
Then Wang Chung starts an 80s rock band and names it after himself and then gets himself a hooker to come live in his house and later he becomes an old perv and keeps buying people coffins like it's some sort of cool gift.
Oh, and he really liked his farmland, I think.
So there's this Chinese farmer dude named Wang Chung who is all poor but he marries some chick who's a slave in a rich house and he's all "good, she's not hot" and she's all "my feet are too big" 'cause on account of back then they used to bind up their feet to save money since they don't have to keep buying shoes.
Then Wang Chung starts an 80s rock band and names it after himself and then gets himself a hooker to come live in his house and later he becomes an old perv and keeps buying people coffins like it's some sort of cool gift.
Oh, and he really liked his farmland, I think.
Monday, July 05, 2010
The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as a
Chauffeur
Oh thanks for getting the door--not everybody around here's been taught basic courtesy; nice to see your folks brought you up right. You're my 9 a.m., right? Sorry, I got caught up in traffic on 20th and... anyway, I'm here now. Let's see, what's on the menu for this morning... Chauffeur? Okay, here's what that road will look like.
First, you need to make sure you've got pretty much the same training as a journeyman mechanic. You don't see it much in the movies, but when that touring car breaks down in the middle of nowhere, Mr. or Mrs. Big Bucks ain't gonna want to sit around waiting to ride in the cab of some smelly tow truck. You need to be able to spot problems before they happen--replace every belt, hose or anything else every year so they just can't wear out.
If something does go wrong, you'll need some long gloves and an apron, or maybe those disposable coveralls. It sounds stupid, but rich folk don't forgive you looking dirty--even if you got that way making sure they can get to their meeting or flight.
It's a ridiculously hard field to break into, but if you're completely ruthless, your best bet is to hire some goons to attempt to carjack the limo you want to drive, then you jump in with your martial arts training (did I mention you need that) and save the day. The limo driver will be hurt just enough to need to go to the hospital, and you'll offer to drive. In the brief conversation you have with the rich person you want to work for, you mention that you are a trained mechanic and you currently drive for a limo service. (Did I mention you'd need to get that job first?)
You'll be hired and the guy you got beat up will be paid off to go quietly. Your job will be as much about polishing the car and waiting around playing solitaire as it will be about driving. Even more boring will be the waits downtown while your employer is in meetings.
You'll wish for boring, though, at times. Like when your boss's son or daughter commandeer the limo (and you with it) for partying with their friends. It will take particular skill to clean up vomit and still keep your uniform pristine. More stressful yet are the times your discretion is most needed.
Your powerful employer seems happily married, but you will see the depths of his depravity as you cruise the seedier hooker drives, finding him willing partners for his disturbing personal preferences. The privacy window and your headphones will become your best friends on those days.
You never really know how your boss earns his money, but there are certain "meetings" that don't take place in any boardroom. You pick up a number of rather sketchy-looking types every week or two and they spend an hour or two in the limo as you drive around aimlessly. You hear bits of conversation when they yell at each other, and you soon realize that they're operating some businesses on the shady side of legal. You are paid to be discrete, though, and would never think of mentioning anything to your employer.
One day it goes further than yelling, though, and you are ordered by your boss to drive up to an old gravel pit. He informs you there's a shovel in the trunk and you are to start digging a hole. One of his less fortunate associates is soon tossed in, and you try not to let the others see your hands shaking as you shovel the dirt onto the grave.
The trauma of this experience makes you more agreeable when, a few days later, federal agents come calling and ask you to spy on your boss. You wear a wire and even plant a microphone in the back of the limo. It only takes a week for the authorities to gather enough evidence to put your employer away for a long time.
You worry that there may be repercussions, but you suffer nothing more serious than temporary unemployment in the months after the arrest. Eventually you find a job driving one of those airport-hotel shuttle vans. One morning you recognize one of your passengers coming in on flight from New York. He pretends not to know you, and agrees to wait in the van when an emergency call comes in from your kid's school--seems your child was late coming in from recess, and although it seems like something terrible may have happened, before the call is over your kid's safely back in class.
You thank your passenger for waiting, and he says nothing. When you drop him at the hotel, you don't notice the small remote he pulls out of his pocket. The explosion closes the downtown core for three hours--mostly so they can pick up as many pieces of you as possible.
Have fun.
Oh thanks for getting the door--not everybody around here's been taught basic courtesy; nice to see your folks brought you up right. You're my 9 a.m., right? Sorry, I got caught up in traffic on 20th and... anyway, I'm here now. Let's see, what's on the menu for this morning... Chauffeur? Okay, here's what that road will look like.
First, you need to make sure you've got pretty much the same training as a journeyman mechanic. You don't see it much in the movies, but when that touring car breaks down in the middle of nowhere, Mr. or Mrs. Big Bucks ain't gonna want to sit around waiting to ride in the cab of some smelly tow truck. You need to be able to spot problems before they happen--replace every belt, hose or anything else every year so they just can't wear out.
If something does go wrong, you'll need some long gloves and an apron, or maybe those disposable coveralls. It sounds stupid, but rich folk don't forgive you looking dirty--even if you got that way making sure they can get to their meeting or flight.
It's a ridiculously hard field to break into, but if you're completely ruthless, your best bet is to hire some goons to attempt to carjack the limo you want to drive, then you jump in with your martial arts training (did I mention you need that) and save the day. The limo driver will be hurt just enough to need to go to the hospital, and you'll offer to drive. In the brief conversation you have with the rich person you want to work for, you mention that you are a trained mechanic and you currently drive for a limo service. (Did I mention you'd need to get that job first?)
You'll be hired and the guy you got beat up will be paid off to go quietly. Your job will be as much about polishing the car and waiting around playing solitaire as it will be about driving. Even more boring will be the waits downtown while your employer is in meetings.
You'll wish for boring, though, at times. Like when your boss's son or daughter commandeer the limo (and you with it) for partying with their friends. It will take particular skill to clean up vomit and still keep your uniform pristine. More stressful yet are the times your discretion is most needed.
Your powerful employer seems happily married, but you will see the depths of his depravity as you cruise the seedier hooker drives, finding him willing partners for his disturbing personal preferences. The privacy window and your headphones will become your best friends on those days.
You never really know how your boss earns his money, but there are certain "meetings" that don't take place in any boardroom. You pick up a number of rather sketchy-looking types every week or two and they spend an hour or two in the limo as you drive around aimlessly. You hear bits of conversation when they yell at each other, and you soon realize that they're operating some businesses on the shady side of legal. You are paid to be discrete, though, and would never think of mentioning anything to your employer.
One day it goes further than yelling, though, and you are ordered by your boss to drive up to an old gravel pit. He informs you there's a shovel in the trunk and you are to start digging a hole. One of his less fortunate associates is soon tossed in, and you try not to let the others see your hands shaking as you shovel the dirt onto the grave.
The trauma of this experience makes you more agreeable when, a few days later, federal agents come calling and ask you to spy on your boss. You wear a wire and even plant a microphone in the back of the limo. It only takes a week for the authorities to gather enough evidence to put your employer away for a long time.
You worry that there may be repercussions, but you suffer nothing more serious than temporary unemployment in the months after the arrest. Eventually you find a job driving one of those airport-hotel shuttle vans. One morning you recognize one of your passengers coming in on flight from New York. He pretends not to know you, and agrees to wait in the van when an emergency call comes in from your kid's school--seems your child was late coming in from recess, and although it seems like something terrible may have happened, before the call is over your kid's safely back in class.
You thank your passenger for waiting, and he says nothing. When you drop him at the hotel, you don't notice the small remote he pulls out of his pocket. The explosion closes the downtown core for three hours--mostly so they can pick up as many pieces of you as possible.
Have fun.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
More recent video
This was from a couple of my grade 10s. I won't post it on my theatre youtube because it will get nailed for copyright no doubt.
I liked the greenscreen work and their Snape in particular.
I liked the greenscreen work and their Snape in particular.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Friday, June 04, 2010
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Paris
More pics (click to view full size):
We ran into a bit of wet weather our first day, but didn't really get rained on. It was cold for May, though.
Louvre
Notre Dame
Champs Elysées
Arc de Triomphe
View from the Eiffel Tower
We ran into a bit of wet weather our first day, but didn't really get rained on. It was cold for May, though.
Louvre
Notre Dame
Champs Elysées
Arc de Triomphe
View from the Eiffel Tower
Monday, May 10, 2010
Trip Photos #1
I won't be posting many "people" photos here; I may post them on the other blog or just put the link there with password to the photobucket where I posted all the pics if anyone is interested.
Westminster Abbey
Near Buckingham Palace
The Thames from the London Eye
Thames and Houses of Parliament from the London Eye
Oxford
Room in the Divinity School where the Harry Potter infirmary scenes and the practicing for the dance scenes were filmed.
Some of the more fanatical Potter fans in our group re-enacted some scenes from the movie where they took place, such as the dance rehearsal above, or the scene where Mad-eye Moody turned Malfoy into a ferret.
Oh, those college kids.
House where Shakespeare was born in Stratford
This is the restored Roman Bath, located of course, in Bath. Photo below is also from Bath.
St. Paul's Cathedral
View from St. Paul's, for those willing to climb the 400+ stairs to get up there.
Our second show, We Will Rock You, which we saw on the Friday night. It was okay, but I wouldn't really recommend it, unlike Wicked, which was, well, wicked. If you are thinking of seeing it, I can give you specific details.
Camden Market (only one tiny bit of it--the market covers a large area with hundreds of shops and stalls) It was crazy there on the Saturday as the "Camden Crawl" was going on. More than 100,000 participants buy passes and can go into any of 21 pubs featuring live music from 11:00 a.m. to 4:00 a.m. over the long weekend.
I'll post the Paris photos later.
Westminster Abbey
Near Buckingham Palace
The Thames from the London Eye
Thames and Houses of Parliament from the London Eye
Oxford
Room in the Divinity School where the Harry Potter infirmary scenes and the practicing for the dance scenes were filmed.
Some of the more fanatical Potter fans in our group re-enacted some scenes from the movie where they took place, such as the dance rehearsal above, or the scene where Mad-eye Moody turned Malfoy into a ferret.
Oh, those college kids.
House where Shakespeare was born in Stratford
This is the restored Roman Bath, located of course, in Bath. Photo below is also from Bath.
St. Paul's Cathedral
View from St. Paul's, for those willing to climb the 400+ stairs to get up there.
Our second show, We Will Rock You, which we saw on the Friday night. It was okay, but I wouldn't really recommend it, unlike Wicked, which was, well, wicked. If you are thinking of seeing it, I can give you specific details.
Camden Market (only one tiny bit of it--the market covers a large area with hundreds of shops and stalls) It was crazy there on the Saturday as the "Camden Crawl" was going on. More than 100,000 participants buy passes and can go into any of 21 pubs featuring live music from 11:00 a.m. to 4:00 a.m. over the long weekend.
I'll post the Paris photos later.
Friday, April 23, 2010
It's On!
Yep, we're going.
We'll hope that the warnings about the neighbouring volcano which always erupts when the currently active one does are premature. (That sentence would be a lot better if I would bother to find the unpronounceable name of the one that's been in the news.)
Unlike the previous school trips to NY and London, this one won't have a local guide with us most of the time. I've got the directions and maps and there's a lot of self-navigating. The trick will be not to lose any of our 30 young charges in either city. Fortunately, the majority of the kids with us are French immersion types, so that will be helpful in Paris. Unfortunately, I'm pretty much useless except for comedic value when I try the language.
Now that we're definitely going, the Canucks will probably start winning. My dad and I have been following the team since it came into the league when I was in 3rd grade, and they've never one the cup--haven't done anything significant in the playoffs since '94.
Dad doesn't likely have too many years left, so it would be nice if they were still playing when I get home so we can watch some more playoff games together. With sucky goaltending and a defense corps riddled with injuries, it's not that likely.
Neuroticmom, looks like your son will get to see Ovechkin for another round despite some early worries--not sure about the Red Wings though. Jen--both your state's teams will likely be in the next round (one already is)--who do you cheer for again? (No, besides the Bears.)
Maybe I'll need to set the alarm for 4 a.m. to see some hockey online while I'm there...
(probably not)
Thursday, April 08, 2010
Poetry by Dythandra
Let Freedom Ring
(sequel to this poem--read it first)
He hands me the cheque--one month rent, plus damage deposit
Who'd have guessed a dead body could be so animated,
But that's what he swore he'd be
Sooner than help me flee the nest.
But that was a few weeks ago,
And his Maginot Line meant little
When my mother is Belgium.
Five months into her sobriety,
She's a little... intense.
I get nervous just watching her pour tea,
But at least she's still awake at sundown.
She finds things to keep her busy,
Keep her mind occupied with anything other
Than the 1.4 mile drive to Liquor Depot.
Wouldn't she want to shed me, the hellchild
To extinguish the daily challenge I offer
To her continued sober state of mind?
No, she hangs on like grim death
(Is life alone with Pater a scarier proposition?)
And bleats to him that I'm not ready.
She doesn't know how to clean, or cook, or budget
Maybe not, but if the neighbor's cat slept the hood of MY new Jetta every night,
My vengeance would be quick, and final.
Father is less shrill, but just as obstinate
He doesn't work all day to waste his money
On the debauchery he imagines
My new home will host.
I dare not even hint at my goal:
The small apartment over the tattoo place where I used to work.
Instead, I take advantage of Mother's natural curiosity
Which, coupled with her boredom,
Assures she'll go check the computer
When I swear at it and run out the door.
I'd "forgotten" to completely close my facebook
There's the message exchange for her to see:
"Snake" the scary-looking biker and I
Working out the details--me moving into the loft of their clubhouse,
His assurance that though I may lack the cash for rent
There are other ways to work off that debt.
I'm away a few hours, and as expected,
There are two of them waiting when I return.
They won't admit to reading my facebook,
Instead speaking of second thoughts,
And keeping open lines of communication.
They ask if I've got any places in mind,
I allude to the biker loft, reluctantly admit there's another choice;
They agree to check it out.
A lovely Mormon girl opens the door--Beatrice
She's the dream of what they wish I'd be,
She owes me for ghostwriting the essay on DH Lawrence
That was impossible for one paralyzed
By a fear of all things carnal.
My real future roommate is away
Courtesy of a judge
Who frowns on parole violations.
I'll share her with the parents
After the lease is signed.
No surprises--their relief is palpable,
And a cheque for two months rent, with more postdated,
Wins my escape from suburban bliss.
That night Snake vanishes from facebook,
He served me well, a photo harvested from a Harley site
A few lines of info
That painted my parents' worst nightmare
My young faux roommate shudders before she leaves,
Watching me trash the half-dozen traps I inherited
From the previous tenant.
Tonight when the furry denizens of my walls
Come searching for their scaps and crumbs,
They'll meet a kinder welcome,
And I'll have all those pets
My childhood was denied.
(sequel to this poem--read it first)
He hands me the cheque--one month rent, plus damage deposit
Who'd have guessed a dead body could be so animated,
But that's what he swore he'd be
Sooner than help me flee the nest.
But that was a few weeks ago,
And his Maginot Line meant little
When my mother is Belgium.
Five months into her sobriety,
She's a little... intense.
I get nervous just watching her pour tea,
But at least she's still awake at sundown.
She finds things to keep her busy,
Keep her mind occupied with anything other
Than the 1.4 mile drive to Liquor Depot.
Wouldn't she want to shed me, the hellchild
To extinguish the daily challenge I offer
To her continued sober state of mind?
No, she hangs on like grim death
(Is life alone with Pater a scarier proposition?)
And bleats to him that I'm not ready.
She doesn't know how to clean, or cook, or budget
Maybe not, but if the neighbor's cat slept the hood of MY new Jetta every night,
My vengeance would be quick, and final.
Father is less shrill, but just as obstinate
He doesn't work all day to waste his money
On the debauchery he imagines
My new home will host.
I dare not even hint at my goal:
The small apartment over the tattoo place where I used to work.
Instead, I take advantage of Mother's natural curiosity
Which, coupled with her boredom,
Assures she'll go check the computer
When I swear at it and run out the door.
I'd "forgotten" to completely close my facebook
There's the message exchange for her to see:
"Snake" the scary-looking biker and I
Working out the details--me moving into the loft of their clubhouse,
His assurance that though I may lack the cash for rent
There are other ways to work off that debt.
I'm away a few hours, and as expected,
There are two of them waiting when I return.
They won't admit to reading my facebook,
Instead speaking of second thoughts,
And keeping open lines of communication.
They ask if I've got any places in mind,
I allude to the biker loft, reluctantly admit there's another choice;
They agree to check it out.
A lovely Mormon girl opens the door--Beatrice
She's the dream of what they wish I'd be,
She owes me for ghostwriting the essay on DH Lawrence
That was impossible for one paralyzed
By a fear of all things carnal.
My real future roommate is away
Courtesy of a judge
Who frowns on parole violations.
I'll share her with the parents
After the lease is signed.
No surprises--their relief is palpable,
And a cheque for two months rent, with more postdated,
Wins my escape from suburban bliss.
That night Snake vanishes from facebook,
He served me well, a photo harvested from a Harley site
A few lines of info
That painted my parents' worst nightmare
My young faux roommate shudders before she leaves,
Watching me trash the half-dozen traps I inherited
From the previous tenant.
Tonight when the furry denizens of my walls
Come searching for their scaps and crumbs,
They'll meet a kinder welcome,
And I'll have all those pets
My childhood was denied.
Monday, March 22, 2010
A Few Questions I'd like to ask
Dear City Council of La Quinta, CA,
Why don't you seem to have restrictions about watering? Surely there in the desert you might want to conserve water a bit? What's with the very green lawns and people watering at noon and much of it running down the street? Seriously, we have tougher restrictions up here on the 'wet coast'.
Dear American Restaurants,
Why so much food? I mean, I have a decent appetite, and I rarely don't clean my plate when I go out for a meal here, but down there--I never managed to finish a meal once. I gained three pounds over those 9 days, and we ate at least half our meals back at the house. Seriously, do you all need to eat that much?
Dear Disability Fakers,
Yes, I know the lineups at Disneyland are long, but really, don't you feel like scumbags jumping in a wheelchair and pretending you are disabled? Here's a clue--when you giggle and screw around like you've never been in a wheelchair before, and you're wearing your basketball camp t-shirt, I'm guessing you're full of shit. See that lady rushing out of the park because there's a crisis with the oxygen tank attached to her kid's wheelchair? There the ones the policy is there for--not for stupid selfish a-holes like yourselves.
Dear Air Canada,
You might want to let us know that your "partner" airline, United, charges 23 bucks a pop for checked bags. We didn't have to pay anything on the way down, but surprise, surprise, we can't check in without getting dinged. Plus, United, your non-existent meal service on that 40 year old 757 sucks.
Dear Disneyland,
Forgetting the troubling racial stereotypes in Small World (which still seems like something you'd only want to ride if you're seriously high), is it necessary for the Pirates of the Carribean to have a "wench auction" as part of the ride? I didn't notice the "ravage and pillage" line in the song this time, but I see the women chained together in a line at the auction of wives and the voiceover telling the one on display to turn around to show her stern side or whatever, and wonder if that's the sort of enlightened 21st century thinking we want to share with the little kids who experience this.
Dear Attendees of the BNP Paribas Open Tennis Tournament at Indian Wells,
Yeah, I saw you all there at Las Casuelas--they warned us even with a reservation, there might be a bit of a wait because of the tennis tournament. Big deal, this tennis tourney--saw it on lots of TVs around in restaurants and even on TSN here at home yesterday. So, seeing you all standing around the bar, being noisy and groping each other, here's my question: Was it father-daughter half-price day at the tourney, or are there really that many trophy wives/girlfriends who accompany their sugar daddies to this sort of event? Seriously, maybe the designer tennis shorts look good on those long legs and the tan sets off that huge rock on your finger, but he's probably closer to your granddad's age than your father's. Yuk.
Why don't you seem to have restrictions about watering? Surely there in the desert you might want to conserve water a bit? What's with the very green lawns and people watering at noon and much of it running down the street? Seriously, we have tougher restrictions up here on the 'wet coast'.
Dear American Restaurants,
Why so much food? I mean, I have a decent appetite, and I rarely don't clean my plate when I go out for a meal here, but down there--I never managed to finish a meal once. I gained three pounds over those 9 days, and we ate at least half our meals back at the house. Seriously, do you all need to eat that much?
Dear Disability Fakers,
Yes, I know the lineups at Disneyland are long, but really, don't you feel like scumbags jumping in a wheelchair and pretending you are disabled? Here's a clue--when you giggle and screw around like you've never been in a wheelchair before, and you're wearing your basketball camp t-shirt, I'm guessing you're full of shit. See that lady rushing out of the park because there's a crisis with the oxygen tank attached to her kid's wheelchair? There the ones the policy is there for--not for stupid selfish a-holes like yourselves.
Dear Air Canada,
You might want to let us know that your "partner" airline, United, charges 23 bucks a pop for checked bags. We didn't have to pay anything on the way down, but surprise, surprise, we can't check in without getting dinged. Plus, United, your non-existent meal service on that 40 year old 757 sucks.
Dear Disneyland,
Forgetting the troubling racial stereotypes in Small World (which still seems like something you'd only want to ride if you're seriously high), is it necessary for the Pirates of the Carribean to have a "wench auction" as part of the ride? I didn't notice the "ravage and pillage" line in the song this time, but I see the women chained together in a line at the auction of wives and the voiceover telling the one on display to turn around to show her stern side or whatever, and wonder if that's the sort of enlightened 21st century thinking we want to share with the little kids who experience this.
Dear Attendees of the BNP Paribas Open Tennis Tournament at Indian Wells,
Yeah, I saw you all there at Las Casuelas--they warned us even with a reservation, there might be a bit of a wait because of the tennis tournament. Big deal, this tennis tourney--saw it on lots of TVs around in restaurants and even on TSN here at home yesterday. So, seeing you all standing around the bar, being noisy and groping each other, here's my question: Was it father-daughter half-price day at the tourney, or are there really that many trophy wives/girlfriends who accompany their sugar daddies to this sort of event? Seriously, maybe the designer tennis shorts look good on those long legs and the tan sets off that huge rock on your finger, but he's probably closer to your granddad's age than your father's. Yuk.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
Poetry by Dythandra
My Nation, Apart
What time did you get in last night?
Was there somebody in the upstairs shower this morning?
Do you even know what the floor of that room looks like?
Questions. I assume they’re all rhetorical.
Strange, I haven’t grown an inch since I was 15
But the house is too tight a fit lately.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way
High school done, college underway
And yet,
Stuck here still, in the prison of my youth.
It’s not that I crave dorm life,
No doubt it would simply prove Sartre’s contention
That hell is other people.
No, a place of my own is the limit of my ambition,
But that too, rendered impossible,
As my part time prep cook wages
Barely pay for cigarettes,
And blond bitches never share their tips.
Rushing home on days I know my grades might arrive,
Thwarting the parentals’ inquisitive steps
To acquire another bludgeon in their ongoing plan
To pummel my spirit
Into acquiescence.
There is a better option, I try to explain
A little financial support
For their only offspring
And we’d all be free from this mundane purgatory.
But deep-down, they feel just the two of them might be even worse
Than reliving out the daily, disdain-driven dialogues
That suck the marrow from my soul.
As always, though, I have a plan
And I am never the lesser of two evils.
What time did you get in last night?
Was there somebody in the upstairs shower this morning?
Do you even know what the floor of that room looks like?
Questions. I assume they’re all rhetorical.
Strange, I haven’t grown an inch since I was 15
But the house is too tight a fit lately.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way
High school done, college underway
And yet,
Stuck here still, in the prison of my youth.
It’s not that I crave dorm life,
No doubt it would simply prove Sartre’s contention
That hell is other people.
No, a place of my own is the limit of my ambition,
But that too, rendered impossible,
As my part time prep cook wages
Barely pay for cigarettes,
And blond bitches never share their tips.
Rushing home on days I know my grades might arrive,
Thwarting the parentals’ inquisitive steps
To acquire another bludgeon in their ongoing plan
To pummel my spirit
Into acquiescence.
There is a better option, I try to explain
A little financial support
For their only offspring
And we’d all be free from this mundane purgatory.
But deep-down, they feel just the two of them might be even worse
Than reliving out the daily, disdain-driven dialogues
That suck the marrow from my soul.
As always, though, I have a plan
And I am never the lesser of two evils.
Friday, February 05, 2010
The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as a
Parole Officer
Hi kid--I remember you; you ratted out the taggers after all that graffiti from grad night last year, right? Still walking home the long way?
So, parole officer, huh? I think your path might be something like this:
You’ll take one of those criminal justice programs because they promise great jobs but really, it’s a scam. When you strike out job hunting afterwards, you’ll realize you shouldn’t make your college choices based on ads that pop up on facebook.
Then you’ll suck it up and get a degree in social work with some law courses thrown in. You’ll be accepted into a internship program job shadowing a 20-year veteran of the parole gig, and you’ll quickly volunteer to drive, since going from appointment to appointment in his 15 year old Jetta filled with the detritus of a pathetic, lonely life is an assault to too many of your senses.
Your mentor lives on coffee and cigarettes, and revels in sharing horror stories that make you shudder. By this time he’s lost any ideals he may have once had about the job and his goal is to put in the last six years before his pension while making as few waves as possible.
You swear to yourself you’ll never be like him. You steel yourself against the nervousness that comes from daily exposure to hardened criminals who see parole officers as snitches for the state, and wonder about taking karate lessons.
You graduate from the program; then look for work. The problem with your chosen profession is that it doesn’t pay enough to live in a larger city, and most small towns don’t have full time parole jobs. It means that you’ll either end up living in a crappy studio apartment in a sketchy part of the city, or commuting for 90 minutes each way to your home in the distant suburbs.
Starting out is even worse; you settle for the only work you can find--you go on call as a substitute parole officer. There is plenty of work, since you are replacing people who call in sick as often as they can get away with it. That will be fun--cold calling felons and never knowing which are the truly dangerous psychos.
There are a few scary moments, and your nose is broken once or twice, but you survive. Your lucky break comes when your former mentor is killed by friends of an irate con who was sent back to prison for parole violations, and you get the dead guy's job.
You throw yourself into your assignment with the best of intentions, but soon the constant frustration of trying to talk employers out of firing irresponsible, dysfunctional ex-cons wears you down. You dread checking your voicemail when every day there’s another call from an irate landlord wanting to know what you’re going to do about the latest outrage committed by one of your charges.
After five years you’re ready to quit when you meet Miranda. Up to this time, you hadn’t had much success dating--seems your crappy home and income didn’t impress, and your job-induced depression wasn’t attractive, either. Miranda, though, is something different. You’re struck by her simple beauty and charmed by her British accent. She’s so different from all the other cons you’ve worked with, and you can hardly believe this refined, delicate girl could be a criminal.
You remember to shave and wear a tie on days you’re meeting with her, and you work extra hard to find her a decent apartment; in fact, you get the manager of your building to let her have the suite above yours. She repays you by cooking you the occasional dinner, or dropping by with tea after you’ve had a bad day.
During one of these visits she tells you her life story, filling in the details not recorded in her file. Swept up in a romance with an older man shortly after she finished high school, she was already in love with him before she realized he was a con man. Soon she became his partner, and the two of them fleeced seniors of their savings across half the continent. When, after three years, they were caught, the twenty-four year old Miranda agreed to testify against her lover for a reduced sentence.
Somehow you rationalize crossing the line in your relationship with her, and feel no shame as you write her one great report after another. Her parole ends, and you give her a glowing reference that helps her land a job as a personal care attendant. It’s not the most pleasant work, but the job market for ex-cons isn’t very forgiving.
Her work schedule keeps her out many evenings, you tell yourself, and totally smitten, you don’t notice she’s pulling back. She seems grateful for your help, though, like when you arrange to fast track her application to have her criminal record expunged. Still, eventually you realize things aren’t right; you are hurt when she’s never answers your calls or messages, and you get angry when you see her bring home the attractive son of her personal care client.
You throw yourself back into your work and try to ignore your broken heart. Six months later, she calls you. You’re elated when she asks you out for a drink, and then admits to her affair with the wealthy young man you spotted her with. It’s over, she promises, and she wants to reconnect with you. You don’t think to question her motives, and she waits a couple of weeks before springing her special request.
She wants you to help free Neville, her old boyfriend. He’s facing a parole hearing and hasn’t been an ideal inmate. You're shocked at first, but she explains that she feels guilty because his sick father is dying alone back in England, and since she helped put Neville behind bars, she’d like to help make sure he’s there for his father’s final moments.
You’re still too in love to use good judgment, and you arrange to be on Neville’s parole review panel. You cross the line even further; you sneak into the office late one evening and remove all the negative reports from Neville’s file. It works like a charm, and he’s freed. The next night he joins you and Miranda for dinner--his “going away party”, she explains. You are uncomfortable, and you notice they seem to be looking at each other more often than you’d like. You end up drinking too much, and wake up the next morning in your apartment, alone.
You discover your wallet has been emptied of your credit cards, and your cell phone is missing. You convince the landlord to let you into Miranda’s apartment, only to discover she’s bolted. You do bit more investigating and find that Neville’s parents are both living happily in England, and he has not boarded any flights--at least not using his own name.
The next three months are miserable, but only a prologue to the real tragedy. Neville and Miranda are identified as the perpetrators of a scam that swindled several hundred thousand dollars from an Atlanta-based charity for terminally ill children. Authorities begin digging into their histories, and before long your collusion in Neville’s premature release is revealed.
Your conspiracy conviction results in a sentence of three years. Hopefully, your former clients won’t be waiting with scores to settle, and with luck, you’ll one day have a parole officer of your very own.
Hi kid--I remember you; you ratted out the taggers after all that graffiti from grad night last year, right? Still walking home the long way?
So, parole officer, huh? I think your path might be something like this:
You’ll take one of those criminal justice programs because they promise great jobs but really, it’s a scam. When you strike out job hunting afterwards, you’ll realize you shouldn’t make your college choices based on ads that pop up on facebook.
Then you’ll suck it up and get a degree in social work with some law courses thrown in. You’ll be accepted into a internship program job shadowing a 20-year veteran of the parole gig, and you’ll quickly volunteer to drive, since going from appointment to appointment in his 15 year old Jetta filled with the detritus of a pathetic, lonely life is an assault to too many of your senses.
Your mentor lives on coffee and cigarettes, and revels in sharing horror stories that make you shudder. By this time he’s lost any ideals he may have once had about the job and his goal is to put in the last six years before his pension while making as few waves as possible.
You swear to yourself you’ll never be like him. You steel yourself against the nervousness that comes from daily exposure to hardened criminals who see parole officers as snitches for the state, and wonder about taking karate lessons.
You graduate from the program; then look for work. The problem with your chosen profession is that it doesn’t pay enough to live in a larger city, and most small towns don’t have full time parole jobs. It means that you’ll either end up living in a crappy studio apartment in a sketchy part of the city, or commuting for 90 minutes each way to your home in the distant suburbs.
Starting out is even worse; you settle for the only work you can find--you go on call as a substitute parole officer. There is plenty of work, since you are replacing people who call in sick as often as they can get away with it. That will be fun--cold calling felons and never knowing which are the truly dangerous psychos.
There are a few scary moments, and your nose is broken once or twice, but you survive. Your lucky break comes when your former mentor is killed by friends of an irate con who was sent back to prison for parole violations, and you get the dead guy's job.
You throw yourself into your assignment with the best of intentions, but soon the constant frustration of trying to talk employers out of firing irresponsible, dysfunctional ex-cons wears you down. You dread checking your voicemail when every day there’s another call from an irate landlord wanting to know what you’re going to do about the latest outrage committed by one of your charges.
After five years you’re ready to quit when you meet Miranda. Up to this time, you hadn’t had much success dating--seems your crappy home and income didn’t impress, and your job-induced depression wasn’t attractive, either. Miranda, though, is something different. You’re struck by her simple beauty and charmed by her British accent. She’s so different from all the other cons you’ve worked with, and you can hardly believe this refined, delicate girl could be a criminal.
You remember to shave and wear a tie on days you’re meeting with her, and you work extra hard to find her a decent apartment; in fact, you get the manager of your building to let her have the suite above yours. She repays you by cooking you the occasional dinner, or dropping by with tea after you’ve had a bad day.
During one of these visits she tells you her life story, filling in the details not recorded in her file. Swept up in a romance with an older man shortly after she finished high school, she was already in love with him before she realized he was a con man. Soon she became his partner, and the two of them fleeced seniors of their savings across half the continent. When, after three years, they were caught, the twenty-four year old Miranda agreed to testify against her lover for a reduced sentence.
Somehow you rationalize crossing the line in your relationship with her, and feel no shame as you write her one great report after another. Her parole ends, and you give her a glowing reference that helps her land a job as a personal care attendant. It’s not the most pleasant work, but the job market for ex-cons isn’t very forgiving.
Her work schedule keeps her out many evenings, you tell yourself, and totally smitten, you don’t notice she’s pulling back. She seems grateful for your help, though, like when you arrange to fast track her application to have her criminal record expunged. Still, eventually you realize things aren’t right; you are hurt when she’s never answers your calls or messages, and you get angry when you see her bring home the attractive son of her personal care client.
You throw yourself back into your work and try to ignore your broken heart. Six months later, she calls you. You’re elated when she asks you out for a drink, and then admits to her affair with the wealthy young man you spotted her with. It’s over, she promises, and she wants to reconnect with you. You don’t think to question her motives, and she waits a couple of weeks before springing her special request.
She wants you to help free Neville, her old boyfriend. He’s facing a parole hearing and hasn’t been an ideal inmate. You're shocked at first, but she explains that she feels guilty because his sick father is dying alone back in England, and since she helped put Neville behind bars, she’d like to help make sure he’s there for his father’s final moments.
You’re still too in love to use good judgment, and you arrange to be on Neville’s parole review panel. You cross the line even further; you sneak into the office late one evening and remove all the negative reports from Neville’s file. It works like a charm, and he’s freed. The next night he joins you and Miranda for dinner--his “going away party”, she explains. You are uncomfortable, and you notice they seem to be looking at each other more often than you’d like. You end up drinking too much, and wake up the next morning in your apartment, alone.
You discover your wallet has been emptied of your credit cards, and your cell phone is missing. You convince the landlord to let you into Miranda’s apartment, only to discover she’s bolted. You do bit more investigating and find that Neville’s parents are both living happily in England, and he has not boarded any flights--at least not using his own name.
The next three months are miserable, but only a prologue to the real tragedy. Neville and Miranda are identified as the perpetrators of a scam that swindled several hundred thousand dollars from an Atlanta-based charity for terminally ill children. Authorities begin digging into their histories, and before long your collusion in Neville’s premature release is revealed.
Your conspiracy conviction results in a sentence of three years. Hopefully, your former clients won’t be waiting with scores to settle, and with luck, you’ll one day have a parole officer of your very own.
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