Pizza

I once dated a woman whose last name was “Bartlett”, now I can’t eat pears. I will never date a woman named “Pizza”.

Animal Farm

I’m still training for the Saskatchewan Marathon on May 25; it’s going well, now on to something more interesting.  Well maybe not something more interesting, but definitely something more “something”.  I firmly believe I’m well on my way to defining my own literary genre…”verbose rubbish” (often with a staggeringly thin plot)…

How can I put this delicately.  I hate my mothers birds.  I’m sorry Pat (i.e. “Mom”).  I like you and “Step Daddy” Brian just fine.  I am; however, unable to co-exist with your Budgies. When they chirp, my ears cry.

I spent the entirety of my formative years growing up on a farm two kilometers west of Wilkie.  That acreage was nothing if it wasn’t picturesque.  A row of 12 foot high shrubbery lined the half-mile lane-way that wandered up to the yard.  An oval drive-way in front of the house served two important purposes.

First, it allowed a 700 passenger school bus to enter/exit the residence with great ease.  My brother Todd lived and breathed to shout “the bus is here!” when in fact, it wasn’t.  He was ADD and I was OCD. He had to shout it and I had to check.  We were nearly the last pick-up for our bus, so I usually had a spectacularly terrible seat near the front and beside the smelly kid whose mother made him wear a helmet. Our usual bus driver operated under a veil of safety. He never (and I mean never), plunged our bus headlong into snow drifts, mud puddles, or antelope. Our substitute bus driver operated under a mantra of efficiency. He drove into (and over) everything. One time it rained during hunting season. The alternate bus driver picked us up with all manner of venison stuck in the grill, the trip out of our yard was like a NASCAR race, and it didn’t matter where we’d sat since by the time we got to school we were jumbled up like a box of Animal Crackers. Our bus also had the dubious honor of being the last to arrive at school…every damn day. I hardly had time enough to garner an appropriate ass kicking before the bell sounded.

Second, that oval lane-way provided a challenging section of grass to cut. Upon Todd and my reaching an age of appropriate strength our legal guardians sold our riding mower in favor of a single push mower. Bit of a logistical oversight considering there were two of us.  The white bi level house at the farm was surrounded by a minimum of three acres of Kentucky Blue Grass at all times. It took around eight days to finish the job and father demanded it be done once a week.  That’s the only time my brother requested I mow his lawn.

One did not look very far, on our farm, in order to find life.  And death.

We “went through” a lot of dogs.  The first I remember was a German Shepherd name Bucky.  One day Bucky became very hungry and ate a goat.  I know not what purpose this goat served.  He was never blamed for anything, thus, he wasn’t of the ”scaped” variety.  I was three at the time and quite delicious in my own right.  Bucky “ran away” immediately thereafter.  Rusty was an Irish Setter that was struck violently by a vehicle on the adjacent highway despite being told repeatedly that vehicles are apt to travel there.  Cody was a drowsy looking English Springer Spaniel and clearly Todds favourite.  They ate together…seriously.  Fate dealt a cruel hand in delivering Cody to the same Darwinian destiny as Rusty.  Mic was a mean bastard of a Chesapeake Bay Retriever who had his face completely runned over by Naides gold Mercury Topaz.  Mic shook it off and, to my knowledge, protects the farm still.  Jersey was a female Chesapeake Bay Retreiver.  Mics’ bitch if you will.  I suppose she remains on the farm so long as she hasn’t opted for divorce.  Lastly, and most famously, there was Goldie.  Goldie was a mutt that I would pick up to carry outside to pee, only to have her jump out of my arms and immediately pee in my bed.  The vet gave Goldie a needle in order that she discontinue peeing…and breathing.

Many children want a pony.  We had one!!!  They’re not that great.  You can ride them, but at the particular age at which you’ll enjoy it you’re actually small enough to ride an entire host of other things (i.e. that plastic horse that was fastened to a metal frame via 56 metal springs).  Our pony was named June and when we weren’t riding her she stood around, ate hay, and made horse poop.  I fed June too many oats and she got sick.  I spent three weeks watering her legs while she bloated and died.  My plastic horse ate every oat I fed it and never skipped a beat.  I also remember a Palomino named Spook.  Spook was excitable and difficult to mount (I’ve dated girls like that).

I’ve talked about our farm cats.  They were incredibly expendable and my silly sisters insisted (say that three times) that they all be given the blatently ridiculous feline names that are all too typical (fluffy, snowball, mittens, creampuff).  Maybe if they had tougher names a few more of them would have survived the cold season.  Winter isn’t claiming a cat named “Iron Pussy”.

Father bought a Tarantula. It escaped. When you lose a lethal spider in your familys home your wife will get angry. Your family also behaves themselves as though the entire home as been taken hostage by a hundred serbian militia men.  I slept with a fly swatter for months thereafter.

My father should have been named Noah since we also had an entire host of pets having not enough lines to warrant a full credit.  Rabbits, Ferrets, Snakes, Lizards, and Turtles.  None of these pets required names since they were often dead before we really got to know them.

So basically, over the years I’ve had pets put down, eaten, struck by vehicles, bloated, frozen, lost, and starved.  As a matter of fact, I cannot remember a single pet incurring a death resulting solely from longevity.  That fills me with great hope when considering the tandem beasts that terrorize Pats’ (i.e. “Moms’) home.

Car-ma

I believe in Karma (defined as effects of all deeds actively creating past, present, and future experiences, thus making one responsible for one’s own life, and the pain and joy it brings to him/her and others). When I hold the door open for an elderly lady, it improves my chances of winning the lottery (that I never purchase tickets for). When a degenerate breaks into my boss’ car and steals her purse, the villain is improving his chances of being crushed by a falling piano. And so forth. Sometimes, however, it can be difficult to recollect what you have done that is presently attacking you like the unshakeable snot-ball on your index finger. Ashley believes in Karma, even though it plainly does not extend to her world of automobiles. In order to provoke this series of unfortunate events, she would have needed to spend years kicking tiny puppies.

Ashley’s car will be known as “G5″. Winks’ truck will be known as “Ford”. My car will be known as “Purples”. My car is actually a Dodge Shadow; however, its defining quality is clearly that it is purple. The trailing “s” just makes it better.

When Ashley and I began dating, she brought baggage in the form of two vehicular mishaps. Both incidents were minor in nature and (really) only caused a limited amount of hassle in dealing with paperwork, insurance, deductibles, and repair shops. Now, I read a lot of Men’s Health and a recent issue stated very clearly that a woman appreciates a man who is able to keep her motor running. Interpretting that literally gives me the greatest chance of success. I offered what assistance I could (which isn’t much) in arranging to repair the G5.

Sometime after those two accidents, and before our arranging to get her car fixed, Ashley and I were on our way to an Ice Festival in Kindersley. Prior to this I had only attended one Ice Festival. I was four years old and dressed in the likeness of Mickey Mouse. Ironically, this past Easter weekend I had to elbow smash Pat (i.e. Mom) to prevent her from giving Ashley a private viewing of the video. I digress; Ashley and I were on our way to an Ice Festival. We took liberties with a yield sign in favor of attending the opening ceremonies. The G5 became quite T-boned by a beige four-door sedan. I leapt out of the car and apologized profusely enough to stifle the T-boner’s attempts to gouge our eyes out.

Sometime after those two accidents, and after the Ice Festival T-boner, and before our getting the car fixed, Ashley ran into a guy at the oil change place. She did not hit another car at the oil change place, she ran into an actual person at the oil change place…and knocked him down. The way the story was told to me, she bumped the oil change technician with the front end of her car, he fell into a puddle of oil, all of the other service technicians burst into laughter, and the old man in the next bay almost had a heart attack.

Ashley had all the paperwork (for the two accidents prior) in order and we booked her car into Scribbners’ Auto-Body (in Kindersley). Her uncle is the manager at that establishment, thereby providing elements of comfort, trust, and reassurance. Ashley and I exchanged vehicles last Sunday.

A quick note on our barbecue situation. I attempted to start our old barbecue a week ago, it wouldn’t start. Winks went out and tried to start the barbecue. Winks swore a lot and through some shit across the yard, over the hedge, and into the back alley. Now we need a new barbecue. There’s a free one in the alley if anyone wants it. I (cleverly) struck a deal with Winks that he who purchases said barbecue would not have to assemble it (with me being the purchaser). Winks was good enough to let me use Ford (since I didn’t have a car) to go pick up the new gas grill, which I did without initial incident on Monday. That evening, I received this text message from my roommate: “You left the [expletive] key in my truck, now the battery is dead.” I winced at my phone, and then apologized profusely.

Late Tuesday afternoon, Scribbners’ called me at work. They were having some unfortunate (yet understandable) staffing issues and G5 would not be available until sometime next week. While this isn’t the end of the world, it is cause for logistical reconsideration. Ashley and I had planned to meet in Unity Friday night (each bringing the other’s car), then travel to Saskatoon Saturday. As it stood, with G5 not being ready until after the weekend, I had no transport to Unity (to meet Ashley and Purples).

A quick note on our barbecue situation. On Tuesday night Winks began the assembly process. In two and a half hours he invented three curse words, threw two screwdrivers across the garage, and assembled three-quarters of a stainless steel barbecue.

On Wednesday I received this text message from Ashley: “I need to phone you when you get a sec.” She never explained why. Later that afternoon I received this text message from Ashley: “I will talk to you about it after.” I still didn’t know what “it” was. Ashley and I have just started dating; we’re still in that disgusting sticky place where everything is fantastic. As such, the list of topics that are reserved for highly strategic communication channels such as the telephone are very short. In this instance, the only three I could think of were a) our relationship b) this weekend or c) Purples. Having supreme confidence in Purples’ ability (to both not fail Ashley and solidify her attraction to me), I figured her work schedule had changed and she would likely decline from the forthcoming weekend.

The group we were to meet represents my closest childhood friends. The people whom you know will always be a part of your life regardless of where you end up. They are, quite simply, people she needs to meet and who need to meet her. Furthermore, nearly all were attending and (by all indications) Trashley’s inclusion had something to do with that. Yes…”Trashley”. My “closest and dearest” childhood friends like to assign monikers to those of us that are presently dating (a la Bennifer). Jason and Cheryl are sometimes known as “Chason”. Gord and Courtenay were, for a time, “Gortney”. Naidu and Michelle can be thought of as “Maidu”. Inevitably, Travis and Ashley would become…”Trashley”. Cheryl has, since the inception of this childishness, indicated that she does not condone the assignment and she wishes to remain all that is Cheryl. I have a feeling Ashley strongly agrees.

I’m off track. Ashley called me Wednesday evening and informed me that, in fact…drumroll…Purples would not start that morning. I was astonished and relieved. Purples had never failed anyone, but I was glad Ashley could still come to Saskatoon (a minor detail being that neither of us had any way of getting there).

Wednesday evening I was standing at our kitchen sink, doing dishes, and feverishly trying to assemble an automotive plan for the next few days. Winks walked passed the kitchen window while giving me a very Ray Lewis like throat slash gesture with his thumb. He doesn’t usually greet me in this manner. I stepped into the garage to see him holding a battery charger. The Ford would not boost and needed to be charged overnight; hopefully it would start in the morning.

A quick note on our barbecue situation. Winks hauled me out of bed at 9:30 pm last night to survey his masterpiece. It looked like a barbecue. We are going to use it for the first time tonight (Thursday). Hopefully it starts. It looks pretty heavy; Winks is one tough bastard but I think even he’d have a tough time tossing this one over the hedge.

So, here’s where we’re at. G5 T-boned on way to Ice Festival. G5 hits oil change guy. G5 in repair shop and will not be available until next week. Purples won’t start. Ford won’t start. Barbecue a pain in the ass. Ashley and I both need to be in Unity Friday (Saskatoon Saturday). On initial revision it is difficult to evaluate all of this in terms of Karma; however…

T-boned Ice Festival woman was very understanding and had only minor damage, it is likely her vehicle can be repaired at a marginal cost and outside the channels of insurance (and its premiums). Ashley received a 50% discount at the Oil Change place for her trouble. Ashley’s uncle was very accommodating in providing a loaner car for the weekend. Daddy Brian and Pat (i.e. Mom) were kind enough to arrange to “swing by” Ashley’s Thursday night and evaluate Purples (Pat [i.e. Mom] will probably take a photo album). Winks was in an incredibly good mood all week and (at worst) his truck requires a new battery. He did get the barbecue set-up, and was really just joking about cutting me to death. My always understanding boss even offered me Friday off in order to try and get things arranged for the weekend. It doesn’t read that badly when you look at it from the brighter side.

Lastly, Ashley has been unflappable. What I’ve described above has (for the most part) caused people to conclude that she is a bad driver. Ashley is not a bad driver. I know for certain that at least one of the preceding two accidents was not her fault, and the other was very minor. The woman who T-boned us on the way to the Ice Festival hit us while travelling approximately five miles an hour; a better driver could have avoided us altogether. The guy at the oil change place had to be really slow, really uncoordinated, or really blind (or all three). Purples is fourteen years old and has a quarter million kilometres on it, the fact that my date was sitting in it when it chose not to start has nothing to do with why it won’t start. Besides all that, she’s walking all week in Lloydminster, which is quite a bit larger than Kindersley. Also, consider this, since I’ve gotten my drivers license I’ve parked cars in flower gardens, ditches, sloughs, and on their roofs (X2). I even locked the keys in Pats (i.e. Moms) car with it running once…and in gear.

I’ve caught enough good turns and kind favors this week that I’m in no position to complain. If anyone should be pissy about the vehicle situation, Ashley should, and she’s been nothing but agreeable.

Mr. I’m Soooo Gooood Looooking

A former roommate and friend named Tricia once called me a “friggin’ gypsy.” Even though she meant it in jest I spread a margin of offense and dismissed her claim. I think I mostly objected to the term “gypsy.”  The universally accepted depiction paints them as roamers selling stray dogs and stealing people’s diamonds.  They are bums with nothing better to do than live in their caravan’s and cause problems for unlicensed boxing promoters.  I don’t think that’s me at all, but I do like periwinkle blue.

After minutes of insomnia I began to carefully review the places I’d lived.  Since I was 18 years old I’ve established residence at (in chronological order) the farm in Wilkie, Saskatoon, Wilkie, North Battleford, Wilkie, Unity*, Swift Current, Moose Jaw, Regina, Attons’ Lake, Unity, and now Kindersley.  That’s 12 towns in 12 years, never-mind the multiple moves within townships.  It seems that while I do not “live in a caravan” or “promote unlicensed boxing”, I have had a small requirement to roam.

* My stay in Unity came to an abrupt and lively end when my then roommate and brother (he’s still my brother) reduced every item of living room furniture to rubble in an exchange of old-time fist-a-cuffs.  So while I may report that Todd and I Lived in Unity, I cannot claim that he and I lived in unity.

I’d forgotten entirely about Swift Current.  “Speedy Creek”, Saskatchewan is a city of 16,000, is the major population centre for southwest Saskatchewan, and lies midway between Regina and Medicine Hat on the Trans-Canada highway. With one of the highest non-local traffic counts along the Trans-Canada #1 Highway, the city has prioritized tourism in terms of local development.  It’s also full of Hudderites and retirees.  It’s like Florida with polka-dot skirts.  From fall of 1998 through spring of 1999, I lived in Swift Current while attending the “Cypress Hills Regional College.”  This was also where I was known (for a short while) as “Mr. I’m Soooo Gooood Looooking.”

I was in a first year business program at a small regional college.  I studied, I made friends quickly (as I do), and I immediately procured a highly entertaining social life.  During much of this time, I was also somewhat single.  My afore-blogged former girlfriend and I attended geographically disparate colleges, and subsequently, spent a good deal of pre-Y2K in a soggy state of post-educationary drift.  This, from time-to-time, caused each of us to wake up in the arms of another woman (this is only a childish play on words to get a laugh, and is of course untrue.  I never awoke in the arms of another woman).

1998 forces me to have been 21 years old.  Since I was 15 I’d spent four years trying to gain access to licensed clubs.  One time I spent three hours in the coat-check closet of a North Battleford club named “Shooters” while I waited for the only African American bouncer in Saskatchewan to come tell me the police had left (he forgot).  Since turning the age of legality I’d spent two years trying to exist solely within those same licensed clubs (albeit they’d lost some of their mystique).

Whoever first ventured to arrange girls and booze in the same place every Friday and Saturday evening was a marketing genius.  My college friends and I spent a commendable amount of time at a trendy student club called Checkers.  I’m actually not 100% certain of the name of the club.  It “may” have been Checkers.  If you thought I’ve lived in a lot of places, you’d be astonished at the number of clubs I’ve been in; and failed to recollect.  I know I was at this club a fair bit, the staff knew my name and my preferred cocktail; they also kept a close watch over/on me.

I’ve always held a bit of a reservation toward those creatures of the night dubbed “Bouncers”.  Glenn Ford (the North Battleford “Shooters” bouncer) treated me with respect and compassion; however, that may have had something to do with the fact that I was living with the clubs DJ (at the time).  Save Mr. Ford, every other club bouncer I’ve interacted with has marked me as a potential train wreck barreling toward a scantily clad flock of sheep.

Checkers had one lone bouncer and he worked every night I was ever there.  He was the typical doorman.  A single trait provided the atypical quality that spurred the events of the rest of our story.  He was slow.  Now before we get out our wands of righteousness let me just say that I’m not implying that he possessed any particular detriment, ailment, or under-development.  On the contrary, in almost every regard he was Michelangelo’s David.  He was tall and handsome with broad shoulders and a muscular physique.  In almost every detail he was the dominant male, he simply lacked the divine spark that would allow him to explain why pie are squared.

On occasion I would exit Checkers with a woman.  Sometimes she was just a friend I’d arrived with; sometimes she was one of those things that go ‘bump in the night’.  Little did I know that every single time this happened, the lone Checkers bouncer took notice.  One time in particular time, a friend and I left the club only to discover that my car had become trapped.  Somehow, a metal dumpster the size of a pick-up truck had been place directly behind my car, making it impossible for me to escape.  The giant red refuse bin was empty, but still must have weight between 200 and 400 pounds (my powers of approximation are not that good).  The college girl giggled with pre-drop-out glee as I tried to move the dumpster with my pipe-cleaner like appendages.  I breezed back through the club doorway to admonish my friends then beg them for help.  As I did I thought I heard the lone bouncer yammer, “What’s the matter Mr…..”

I stopped involuntarily just long enough to look over at him.  Not wanting to have any interaction with the bouncing breed of employee I began moving forward again only to have him repeat, unmistakabley at my person, and in undeniable clarity, “What’ the matter Mr. I’m Soooo Gooood Looooking?”  That’s how he said it.  He leaned forward on his bar stool, he jutted out his bottom jaw, and he lowered his voice to something approaching baritone.  I sensed sarcasm.

It seemed as though every other night I’d traipsed by this lone bouncer unwittingly flaunting my trophy (that’s putting it generously for the sake of the story).  Over time he’d obviously taken notice and become quite hurt.  I took solace in the fact that he’d chosen to express his frustration with sarcasm rather than a Suplex.  Aware of my lack of control within this situation I politely asked, “Can you please push the dumpster away from behind my car?”  He patronized, “Not Soooo Gooood Looooking now are you?”  I really had no choice, I lowered my shoulders and dropped my arms to my side while self depricating, “No, I am not so good looking now.”

By now my female counterpart had lost interest and wandered off to find a jock she might date until he found it in his heart to cheat on her.  Meanwhile, I reluctantly followed the lone bouncer outside to either a) watch him throw a metallic canister across the parking lot or b) have him injure me to death.  I kept my distance, prepared to sprint across the parking lot and dive into the shrubbery.  I may be a lot of things, but I am not proud.  The lone bouncer gently slid the dumpster out of the way and ushered me into my car.  He exhibited no further semblance of hostility or animosity, he did, however, refer to me as “Mr. I’m Soooo Gooood Looooking” for the duration of my stay in Swift Current.

I’ve settled in Kindersley now, and have been here for about three years (same employer for nearly five).  That’s the longest I’ve resided in one place since the 17 years at the farm.  I’m relieved to say Kindersley hasn’t provided me any questionable nicknames.  My former hockey teammates call me “Webs”, and my slo-pitch team calls me “Nancy” (sigh), but nothing as cheeky as “Mr. I’m Soooo Gooood Looooking.”

Hey Neat, A Snow Globe

Once upon a time my very being existed within the confines of a nauseatingly perfect little relationship. I was young, and despite being fantastically poor, worries were few. I smile each time I read that sentence. I had just quit a University Engineering program. I didn’t know what to do with my life. I was earning minimum wage while paying rent, utilities, and student loans. I didn’t have a car (in fact, I had just smashed Todd’s car). I was young and in a state of loveliness; and so I maintain, worries were few.

I specifically remember an occasion when a female friend of my (then) girlfriend inquired, “How come we can’t be like [them].” Her boyfriend responded in disbelief, “Because nobody’s like [them].” To which he callously added, “They’re a freak of nurture.” Originally I couldn’t figure out why she’d asked; however, in hindsight it’s obvious. My girlfriend and I had spent the better part of our initial eighteen months so wrapped up in each-other that we’d become oblivious. We were quite literally consumed. A point driven home recently by a close personal friend when he noted that I had an especially obsessive personality. I adamantly denied the claim and vowed to spend the rest of my days in a unhealthy pursuit to prove him wrong.

In any case, I make more money now. That relationship has run its course and (I’d like to think) everyone is the better for it. During our time together I was sometimes incorrect in what I thought, I was frequently incorrect in what I meant, I was often incorrect in what I said, and I was habitually incorrect in what I did. One time, I was spectacularly incorrect in all four areas at the same time…

I was approximately 140 pounds. I suppose this causes all sorts of confusion. Those of you who have been unfortunate enough to know me my entire life are thinking, “Ah, yes, he certainly appeared hungry then.” Those of you who have been unfortunate enough to have met me very recently are thinking, “Wow, that trim? I suppose he is a pinnacle of fitness and modesty.” And those of you who have been unfortunate enough to have only known me 3-5 years ago are thinking, “He’s exaggerating. He’s fat.” I’m not exaggerating. It is true that in the summer of 2005 I weighed 262 pounds; however, in 1977 I weighed 7 pounds. Presumably, at some point between 1977 and 2005, I weighed 140 pounds.

In the summer of 1998, when the bulk of our story takes place, I was 21 years old and 140 pounds…and entirely enamored with my girlfriend. I spent the majority of my time with her, and when required, with her friends. It’s worth noting that (then and now) I liked her friends; which (I have learned since) may not always be the case. Subsequently, we spent a good deal of time at her neighbors house.

On one such occasion we went over to the neighbours house for a casual holiday afternoon of merriment and spirits. It’s worth noting here that I was permitted to bring along a personal friend name Curtis. Curtis would provide both clarity and comfort to my impending confusion and calamity.

My girlfriends neighbour lived in a big house and he was a “stereo guy”. This was before the times of High Definition, High Fidelity, and Surround Sound packages. Back when you needed that Engineering degree just to change the CD. His stereo resembled something you might find in a wiring closet at NORAD (with a price tag to match). I work in a technical capacity, have a framed technical diploma, and posses a moderate technical aptitude; however, I had absolutely no idea how any of this shiny equipment worked. All I knew was that these boxes provided the Dance Mix that served as the baseline to the social gathering in which I was attempting to make an excellent impression on my girlfriends friends. Friends whom I desperately needed the approval of in order that our relationship persist through an additional seven years of turmoil before ending violently.

For the better part of a couple hours I visited, and I socialized, and I visited. I was nervous, so I also drank. Now, remember, I was 140 pounds. I was not the beacon of tolerance and moderation that I am now. After curiosity had sufficiently taunted me, I introduced myself to the stereo. I approached it with great caution. I didn’t want to fall into the control panel and accidentally elevate the volume to an ear drum bursting decibel. Upon surveying the rows and columns of blinking lights and indicators, I thought better of trying to melt Vanilla’s Ice in favour of the trinket I’d spied sitting on top. The trinket was full of water, it was cylindrical, and it had what seemed like a million floating particles mingling throughout its viscosity. I (incorrectly) thought to myself, “Hey neat, a Snow Globe.” At this point I (incorrectly) tipped the trinket top over bottom and shook it.

The lid of the trinket flew off while its entire contents poured directly into the top of the stereos Receiver Unit, which had been strategically perforated in order to cool the plethora of expensive components that were housed below. At this point many things happened at once. The smell of irritated electrical circuitry traversed the room. A willowy trail of smoke seeped from the perforations and off into the kitchen. The stereo’s owner lunged toward the power outlet and dislocated the energy source. Curtis grabbed me by the arm and pulled me out of the way.

I was astonished. All I could tell for sure is that everyone except me held some common understanding of the preceding events. Scanning the entire crowd I bawled out the rationalization for my actions like a sheep that’s been split from the herd. I continued to incorrectly think, “It was a Snow Globe” as I incorrectly bleated, “I thought it was a Lava Lamp.”

This didn’t help. My mind scrambled to put together a ten piece puzzle minus five pieces. The surprisingly empathetic group simply looked at me in bewilderment as I heart-breakingly repeated my defense. Curtis stared at me as I continued to incorrectly think, “It was a Snow Globe” as I incorrectly repeated, “I thought it was a Lava Lamp.” Curtis simply countered, “You don’t shake a Lava Lamp.”

Curtis and the stereos owner focused on first-aid for stereo equipment. They dried electrical parts with blow-dryers, turned components upside down, and lay all of the mechanisms out to dry. All the while I continued to circle the room trying to prove the innocence that would ensure the disgusting blissfulness of my new relationship could continue unfettered. My girlfriend approached me with a look comprised of the purest pity. I continued to incorrectly think, “It was a Snow Globe” as I incorrectly professed, “I thought it was a Lava Lamp.” My girlfriend simultaneously corrected and reassured, “I know. You thought it was a Snow Globe.”

The relief of a woman’s understanding filled me with the happiness that had rushed out of me in the preceding minutes. I hugged her as she leaned in and whispered, “Those were Sea Monkeys.” The realization of my ineptitude forced me to exhale every last ounce of air from my lungs. I’d attended a social event as a guest of my girlfriend. Two hours into that social event I poured our hosts pet into his home stereo.  That probably appeared disingenuous.

Sometimes it’s amazing how wrong you can be.

My Not So Secret Identity

Foyers, Living Rooms, and other service areas having a genuine requirement to impose a particular impression, I believe, need to be kept tidy since cleanliness can be an instant and accurate reflection of ones morale fiber.  For that reason I try very hard to help my roommates keep those areas clean, or at the very least, I try not to contribute significantly to the areas disarray. In contrast, I believe that certain areas of the house need not be toiled over when they receive no frequent visitor other than the houses permanent residents. If it were the case throughout history that every establishment were cleaned endlessly top to bottom regardless of functional requirement I dare speculate we’d incur houses without crack, shows without peep, and brothels without….well…broth. I doubt I’d make it without broth.

I cleaned the downstairs bathroom. It was quite terrible. The facility was filthy. To say that it doesn’t get cleaned often enough is akin to saying that I (Travis) could probably stand to date a little more selectively (which I’ll have you duly note I’ve been marginally better at of late). The procedure lasted approximately 3 hours, the entirety of which I adorned blue rubber gloves and gigantic U of S Husky sweatpants. These I’d rolled up to my knees to prevent the toxic swell of corrosive cleanser from dissolving my feet. I spent three-quarters of that time perfectly high from the fumes. That part was nice. I even had to make a trip to WalMart to purchase a more flammable cleaning product. I walked around the store pretending not to be high….it was like 2:00 a.m. 1999 at the Swift Current 7-Eleven. Good times.

I once owned a see through plastic case that was just large enough to hold my bank card, driver’s license, social insurance number, and a small amount of cash. It flipped open and clipped shut just like a compact disc case (compact discs existed before MP3 players). The clip formerly served as the packaging for a Personal Computer Memory Card International Association (PCMCIA) Ethernet adaptor for a laptop computer (snort, nerd laugh). It has served me well in housing my ID until I could sufficiently lose it.

In July of 2006 I left that plastic case at the Red Lion pub in Kindersley. I’m not sure exactly how it happened, but I can accurately summarize by saying that I am an idiot. Two days later I found the clip in my post office mail box. Incidentally, the post office is the only institution where you pick-up your product (your mail) then stop by a garbage bin on the way out of the establishment to discard most of it (flyers). They could just empty that bin back into my mail box each week, I wouldn’t know. My returned clip carried no note and its contents were all accounted for.  A wonderful gesture when you consider the individual would have had to visit the post office and ask the staff if they had any knowledge of the stunningly handsome man in the driver’s license photo. Luckily they had. I never found out who did this, so in lieu of a warm inappropriate hug, thank-you less condescending version of Michael Landon type angel.

In December of 2006 I complained away a Friday afternoon for having to spend the forthcoming weekend in Saskatoon without my clip. I jumped in my car and drove toward the city prepared to charge all manner of debauchery to the admissible record of my credit card (which, by now, I’d learned not to keep in my clip). An hour out of town my cell phone rang and Amanda informed me that she’d found my clip lodged in a snow bank in the gutter outside of our office building. That was lucky.

In August of 2007 I awoke at Regina’s Quality Inn Hotel looking like I’d lost a fight to an angry kangaroo. Little did I remember that I’d been ejected from a Rider game. The power had gone out and my friends and I had become split up. In a burst of speed but lapse in judgment I wheeled around one of the beer kiosks to grab myself a drink, at which point the best damn cop in Saskatchewan asked me to leave. I ran ten blocks back to the hotel while the Riders rallied to win. My friends showed up an hour later shortly after which we were falsely incarcerated.  We were pruported to have vaulted a beer bottle from our hotel room window onto the roof of a car containing a woman who’s mood suggested she had no business behind the wheel in the first place. I returned home after the weekend minus one clip. I suspect I dared the best damn cop to confiscate it, at which point, the best damn cop bested me. I replaced the drivers license and bank card; however I couldn’t procure a replacement PCMCIA clip.

In September 2007 I spent the night with a friend in Saskatoon. Waking up with a super-nova like hangover I gathered my dignity and sprinted out the door, down the steps, and into Todd’s Volkswagen of freedom. Returning to Todd’s barren apartment I soon deduced I’d made my escape while leaving behind a trail of fiscal bread crumbs.  I replaced the bank card.

After cleaning the bathroom I cleaned my bedroom. I have this neurotic tendency to seamlessly transform the act of cleaning one single room into an uncontrollable requirement to clean every adjacent area until the entirety of west central Saskatchewan is nothing more than an endless expanse of Glen Scrimshaw prints. While cleaning my bedroom I found two photo drivers licenses, three bank cards of varying algorithms, and one social insurance card. Each had my name on it.

With that I suppose I should end this post so that those of you with full time jobs can get back to Facebook.

An Institute of Fire Learning

Fire is a rapid oxidation process that creates light and smoke while releasing energy in varying intensities. It’s also very, very hot (and not in an Elisha Cuthbert kind of way). The discovery of how to make fire is considered one of humankind’s most important advances (as was the discovery of Ms. Cuthbert); allowing higher hominids to ward off wild animals, cook food, and control their own source of light and warmth. This definition implies that lower hominids lacked the aptitude to safely harness fires’ workings. We proofed this concept in its entirety Saturday evening.

It was a nice day, not beautiful, just nice. The sun teased you by spending the entirety of its journey intermittently concealing itself among the fair weather clouds that littered the sky like floating pillows of cotton. The days temperature demanded you sheer your wool sweater yet forced the portly yard-worker to keep his shirt on. The wind, while not severe, beckoned you purchase a kite and tempt your fate among the power lines. Mother nature’s inquisition aside, it was a perfectly suitable day for golf.

Three associates and I golfed that day. The quality of the individual rounds varied from pretty good to very average (I was more the latter). Five years ago I invested too much money in a set of golf clubs that would catapult me to the PGA tour. It became evident after a single round that this was not a standard feature of my new equipment. After a few summers of score sheets overrun by snowmen I`d resorted to the fact that I`d need to learn to enjoy golf despite the fact that I`m simply not very good at it. At first I thought this would be difficult; until I realized I do precisely the same thing with sex (and I’ve no plans to discontinue that pastime).

Immediately after golf Grazer went home demonstrating every admirable quality of a responsible friend, devoted husband, and dedicated father. This was unfortunate. Later in the evening an individual of such high rationale would have come in handy.

Winks insisted that he was, in fact, destined to take an immediate nap. And, as is the case with anything Winks insists, that’s precisely what he did. Each day he retires to his sofa and drifts into a slumber that leaves him still coherent enough that he may glance up and call me a “queer” each time I glide into the kitchen. I’ve never been able to effectively implement “nap-time”. I come home after a particularly difficult day, spray my belongings across the kitchen floor and lay down for a minute only to wake up 14 hours later having missed a pair of meals, a handful of phone calls, and 731 text messages (non of which are from my secret admonisher…*sigh*).

Deek and I decided to sit on Winks’ deck and enjoy the weather while feeding our Facebook addictions via finger-tip injections. I don’t pretend to know a lot about computers or the Internet, but those Facebook people are on to something. The digital version of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon on steroids has quickly become the standard for socially acceptable stalking. I currently employ 49 friends and to that end I am (err…was) very proud. Imagine my instant feeling of loserdness when I added Paula and her 493 friends to my network. By the time Winks woke up I had sent a “request” to every acquaintance I had ever met, Deek had pruned every shrubbery in the yard to his likeness, and all of the beer was gone.

At this point Winks insisted we eat. And, as is the case with anything Winks insists, that’s precisely what we did. We BBQ’d steak and retired to watch the Medicine Hat Tigers play the Vancouver Giants in the WHL Finals. I’m not one hundred percent clear who won the game (I dozed through a good deal of it); however, I clearly remember waking up, throwing both arms in the air and involuntarily shouting at the moment of an outstanding goal. It’s really too bad the wrong team had scored. Congratulations to the Tigers who recently won those WHL Finals and are headed to the Memorial Cup next week. Good luck.

At 10:30 pm Winks insisted we burn the outputs from Deeks extensive pruning session. And, as is the case with anything Winks insists, that’s precisely what we did. In standard Boy Scout fashion we piled all manner of lumber on top of too little paper. Igniting that bit of paper at the base served to produce a space shuttles’ burn for the short duration of that papers lifespan. After three similar attempts, Winks went to get the jerrycan.

The jerrycan was invented by the Germans during a secret project ordered by Hitler (is it just me or do my updates have an inordinate amount of facist references?). The Germans called it the Wehrmachtskanister. The Germans had thousands of jerrycans stockpiled by 1939 in anticipation of war. We only had one. Winks quickly marched back toward the fire pit careful to set the Wehrmachtskanister down a safe distance from the now dwindling fire. He filled a plastic cup to the brim with the dry sharp liquid and too quickly marched toward the fire. His arm swung back initiating a pendulum motion in preparation for the strategically targeted splash. Entirely too late Deek and I noticed the reflective blue trail of liquid streaming up to Winks elbow, down to the ground….and back to Hitlers’ invention. Deek yelled, I ran, and Winks threw…I was surprised at how quickly it travelled, even after having seen endless fire premised movies. Like a baby on speed it crawled predictabley along the path of the spill and enveloped our gas-can in a fireball of German History.

Winks laughed. Not a hilarious joking laugh, but a tiny split seconds nervous chuckle. Then he slapped out his burning arm and ran for the garden hose. Deek adopted an appropriate level of worry and searched for an item with which to smother the blaze. I, being the managerial type, took three giant steps backward and stood there in awe (half considering running downtown for marshmallows).

Winks sprayed an arching stream of modestness onto Jerry’s now towering inferno. He might as well have been peeing on a Kuwaiti oil fire. Deek, in a fit of pure manliness, ripped a twelve foot Evergreen out of the ground and began beating the fire relentlessly. I continued to stand there clutching my cell phone completely prepared to engage the emergency call feature which I’d only recently upgraded my opinion of from useless to heart-wrenchingly mandatory.

After what seemed like days of amateur firefighting the only embers that remained were enclosed in a quaint backyard fire pit made from an old washing machine basin. You wouldnt even know anything had been amiss; except for the three men covered in soot sitting around a half hector of scorched deck, patio furniture, and blue grass.

House of Land and Sod.

You won’t believe this. That’s a lie. You’re going to believe this. Because you believe it when your doctor tells you that the unsightly thing on your neck needs to be lanced and you cannot have a local anaesthetic because it’s too close to your displaced thyroid gland. You believe doctors when they spew intelligence; you believe me when I spew belligerence…

When I was young I had a bicycle that was loosely based on the premise of motocross. It stood about waste high and was painted entirely in black giving you the impression it might be the sort of thing that Ichabod Crane would encounter if the Headless Horsemen had decided to trade in the pony. My bike also sported comely shock absorbers made entirely of iron-ore making the unit similar in weight to that of “Fat Travis”. In hindsight this may have just been a veiled safety feature in that no child who did not have the strength of Astro Boy could possibly “jump” the bike more than a few pathetic inches. This made it hard for me to impress ladies….and that’s the story of the origin of my dating inadequacies. Follow me back to my bike. Finally, it had a highly ineffective fake plastic gas tank that would later serve as the bicycles utter demise when I (in a quick visit to the hamlet of Simpleton) actually poured gas into the tank and went for a ride with a cap-gun wedged into the front of my dungarees….and that’s the story of the origin of the term “Fire Crotch”.

As a child I clearly remember driving this bike down the desolate back roads which blanket Wilkie in a seemingly endless expanse of transparent graph paper. Hours on end I’d pedal as I surveyed the drab yellow fields of stubble-fallow that only a few weeks prior proudly sported chest high shoots of bright golden Wheat. Almost predictably every couple hundred of acres would produce a barren homestead only recognizable by a spotted row of dead Siberian Peashrub and a two story farmhouse that I noted as “abandoned” at the time, “nightmarish” before bed, and “story book” in its passed.

As a teenager I clearly remember having a drivers license new enough that it still reeked of the odour laden elderly man (yodel that three times) who had snapped the picture of me the day before. Too many pubescent young men (my friends and I bloomed late) would dive in as if momentum of occupant had a positive impact on the quantity of people you could fit in the cab of a truck. We’d drive for hours literally broadening our horizons and figuratively adding boxes, even pages, to each of our own personal pieces of graph paper. Delirious with disingenuous courage born of peer pressure and low self-esteem we’d venture closer, and even into the former homes unintentionally appreciating history….and possibly shooting a pigeon or two in the face with a 12-Guage shotgun. We did this a lot. Not once do I remember my mother suggesting Todd and I visit the museum without my suffixed laughter and Todds instantaneous presentation of complete and blatant disgust. Museums should have pigeons. Irony can be so delicious.

I suppose it’s only perfectly reasonable then, that last night around midnight I ended up standing at the base of a fifteen foot rock wall in the yard of a sod house yelling to a friend that I was alone and frightened while I cupped my hand under my chin to deflect the blood that ran down my bottom lip away from my dress shirt. Perfectly reasonable.

I’ll skip the frivolous pre-amble. Thursday night Kaiser with the workmates began at 5:00 pm. At 11:30 pm two girlfriends, a coworker, and Travis went for a drive. Not “my”….”girlfriends” but I’m sure they could be someone’s, if not presently hopefully someday as their both quite pleasing to converse upon (that’s not a metaphor). The male coworker (we’ll call “Ken”) and I leapt (you could substitute “fell”) from the tiny automobile into the dirt laneway that would lead us the 300 or so yards to the tiny little sod house. I deliberately stood up straight and pivoted intending to chivalrously hold the door open for one of the girls just in time to taste that sweet Saskatchewan gravel road dirt as the girls sped off in an orgy of practical jokedness. One thing those clever sons of bitches failed to consider was the particular commandment that applied in this instance. Fear shall have no dominion over he who is hammered. Ken and I began walking toward the sod house. In the absolute worst case scenario we could simply live out our lives in a comfortable state of mouse infested manliness.

I’m going to describe for you now a gigantic rock wall. I won’t describe for you the sod house for no other reason than I simply do not remember it. I’m certain I got a very close look at the rock wall. Very close. The wall ran the entire length of the laneway right up to within thirty feet of the house. The top of the wall reached at least six feet above my own head. Ken and I walked close enough to it that I had to crane my neck upwards in order to survey the trailmix of dirt, weeds, and rocks that comprised the walls ingredients. We plodded along discussing coherently our authentic state of impressedness by, what I deemed to be, an insanely inappropriately located battlement. Thermopylaes….pffft.

Roughly half-way to the sod house I heard the high pitched whirring of either a smaller compact vehicle or someone making a smoothie in a blender. The sound came from the other side of the rock wall. I hurried to study the face of the wall for openings as I cursed the walls builder and jeered his logic for having no available means to advance his army, should he even manage to effectively drive back Xerxes with an army of, presumably, a half dozen pitchfork wielding offspring and a wife admirabley swinging a frying pan. Having myself completely disgarded the commandment I ran toward the rock wall amid Kens shouts of “Travis No!”

I used my hands as I scampered up the craggy face of the rock wall in my short sleeve collared shirt, grey khaki shorts, and boating sandals. I looked like an Old Navy employee rifling through a pile of jeans for some jerk who’s not going to buy them anyway. An abysmal one-third of the way up the side of the wall it happened. Quickly. I offered my right hand toward what I thought was a suitable handle only to have it find a round rock and slip. My balance bailed, my flip flops failed, and my teeth tasted that hard candy that is granites Hershey kiss. Not wanting to be embarrassed, I sprung to me feet instantly, because losing four teeth is much better than being embarrassed. Luckily Ken couldn’t see me blush since my face was covered in blood. Silver lining people, silver lining.

Ken ran to my side and immediately tried to use it as an excuse to perform artificial resuscitation. Queer. Ok, that didn’t happen. Ken did rush to my side, and judging from the look on his face he had either left the stove on or I looked rough. I used a much too dirty index finger to feel around the inside of my face while Ken unhelpfully regurgitated every bit of dental jibberish he’d ever heard, “Incisors ok? Need to borrow a Canine? Might need a cap on E41? If you flossed more this wouldn’t have happened.” Luckily, I’m experienced in the art of self-medication. After a quick yet thorough medical I determined two things. First and foremost, I had a significant port on the inside of the left side of my mouth that continued to bleed profusely. Second, I had overcome a mentionable bout of constipation.

In the middle of a spirited game of “what the hell do we do now” Pen and Teller came careening around the other end of the rock wall like some sort of motorized vehicle used for transporting injured people. Ken, overcome by his devotion to me as a true and dear friend sprinted to the car in order to tell the tale of how I heroically kicked that rock walls ass. Lo did he realize that I was still quite drunk, disoriented, and unable to view or find my way to the car. “What the hell do we do now” was easy, I yelled things like “I’m alone!”, “I’m scared!”, and “We should get some Dairy Queen after this!” After a good deal of giggling I heard Ken doubling back in my direction with the jokesters in tow. I fell into the car and we did our best to clean up my face and stop the bleeding.

This morning I checked and it was actually little more than a bump and a minor cut that bled like a bastard and stung like a bitch.

Freudian Sleep

At first mention I was pretty sure I had Penis Envy, then I thought maybe I didn’t…after much thought….I have no idea.

I had just finished my coffee and was waste deep in the raging waters of that two hours of the morning that see me accomplish 75% of my output for any particular work day. In a swirling whirl-pool of action I burst into a coworkers office to gain answers to questions that I wasn’t able to deduce of my own jittery accord:

Travis: Hey, can you tell me which union one of my employees works for?
Coworker: Sure, what’s the employees’ name?
Travis: Beth Templeton.
Coworker: Beth works for the Provincial Employees Union.
Travis: Does your computer system tell you what job classification she is?
Coworker: Yep, says right here she’s an Administrative Assistant.
Travis: I’m trying to Budget Projects for next fiscal year, do you have her salary information?
Coworker: Beth is currently making $15.00 per hour.
Travis: That’s weird, my files show a different….I dreamt you and I had sex last night.

If I wasn’t full to the brim with Tim Horton’s finest the next five minutes may have been awkward. Luckily, I was so hopped up on the fiendish brew that I was able to pause and survey the hysterical office staff as if they were the ones exhibiting the odd behaviour. After what seemed like a lifetime of cackling I produced a genuine, “What?”, then returned to my desk and worked off the remnants of my caffeine bender.

I began to consider the previous conversation as (ironically) it approached the actual portion of the day designated as the first of two coffee “times”. Coffee is one of those functions important enough to have a small part of the day permanently apportioned to its purpose. That places coffee in a genre similar to that of all three meals, tea (coffees useless British brother), and bed. I personally feel quite strongly that some other daily functions are deserving of that designation. Namely “gym”, “sex”, and “deuce”. I’ll understand if some of you can’t relate to the appeal of a routine Gymtime, but you can’t deny that you would smile in the morning at the thought of your impending daily Sextime and Deucetime. Imagine the satisfaction you could take in demanding your wife proceed directly to the bedroom because it’s way passed your sextime.

I considered this as I drank another cup of coffee that I really didn’t need. I replayed the conversation in my head. I wasn’t pained by the notion that I’d had this particular dream. Dreams are perfectly involuntary and if my brain wants me to dream about dancing a waltz in an undersized pair of tighty-whities with David Hasselhoff, there isn’t much I can do about it. I did; however, remain increasingly intrigued by the reaction of the staff members which led me to become curious as to the meaning of dreams in general. I love the Internet.

There once was a man named Sigmund Freud. According to Freud almost everyone is “doing it” in dreamland. Think about that next time you hug your grandma. I’ll presume that since nearly everyone can relate to some minor degree of nocturnal promiscuity, that no reader shall lean back and shake their judgment finger at the screen as they read. According to the good doctor each of you (at some point) has dreamt of spending time with the cute pool-boy, the delicious baker, or the power wielding Queen Mother of England (..what).

Now Sigmund, while a brilliant psychiatric doctor having studied extensively in the areas of the human psyche, it seems was also a bit of an eccentric degenerate (aka. A dirty old man). Freud studied and documented the areas of human interpretation and specifically investigated the meaning of the following symbols (above others) within sexual dreams: Aerosol Cans, Cannons, Fishing Poles, Fountains, French Bread, Golf Clubs, Gophers, Knives, Lances, Laser Beams, Moles, Pistols, Revolvers, Rockets, Snakes, Spears, Swords, Tall Buildings, Telescopes, Tractors, Woodchucks, Wrenches and Zippers.

I’ve thought a lot about these symbols. I can understand how an investigation concerning sexual dreams may invariably lead to a tiny footnote regarding Fountains, Fishing Poles, Laser Beams, Rockets, and Tall Buildings (especially in my case). I would feel pretty bad about myself if I were regularly demonstrating sexual dreams that required I employ a telescope. If I were having sleeping-sexcapades often enough I suppose it’s only a matter of time before I found myself mixed up in a late night rodent-orgy with a voluptuous Gopher and a handsome Woodchuck (you could toss an outgoing Mole in their if the Gopher is open-minded). Try as I may I simply can’t relate sexually to the likes of Wrenches, French Bread, or Aerosol Cans. No particular instrument that which Freud had examined was used in my own nocturnal romp, subsequently, none of this was any help.

Upon more reading I did discover that sexual dreams are not about sex exclusively. Often they are about how we perceive people and how we think others are perceiving us. Since this was really the only bit of Freud’s research that afforded me a non-creepy explanation, I’ve adopted it. It seems my co-worker and I perceive eachother enthusiastically, which is nice.

I thought no more on it until a completely unrelated conversation with the very same co-worker took me by the hand and led me directly back to the comfort of Freud’s sofa:

Travis: I approved a staff member for a cell phone today and they asked if they could have a Motorola Razor.
Coworker: Why are you telling me this?
Travis: Because. I explained that they would get the standard cell phone we issue to everyone.
Coworker: Wow, that’s amazing.
Travis: A discussion ensued and I tried to explain about the dangers of setting a precedent.
Coworker: Still quite uninterested.
Travis: A staff member will see another staff members’ new phone, then begin to deduce that they have the same requirements for similar equipment.
Coworker: Mind if I sleep?
Travis: I read an article on it once, there’s even a name for it. “Equipment Envy”. You think that’s like “Penis Envy”?
Coworker: This conversation has officially become worth my while.
Travis: I think I have Penis Envy, no I don’t.
Coworker: Officially.
Travis: Is it possible for me to have Penis Envy? What’s Penis Envy?
Coworker: I think girls get it.
Travis: Is PMS short for Penis Envy?
Coworker: uhh, No.
Travis: If you need me I’ll be on the Internet.

Luckily, I had bookmarked the website.

Penis Envy in Freudian psychoanalysis typically refers to, in layman’s terms, women who are put out by their not having a penis. There are many wondrous things in this good world that I do not understand, and this qualifies as one of them. Women have many other perfectly satisfying appendages…and I am certain my trousers contain no measure of relevant jealousy. The website did not have an example of said envy; however, I’m compelled to picture the highly successful power CEO who thrives on the opportunity to dismiss underachieving male executives. According to Freud, the parallel reaction in boys to the realisation that girls do not have a penis is Castration anxiety. Again I am lost. I, for one, would be much more anxious if during puberty I were to discover that women have a penis.

The term is also sometimes used inexactly or metaphorically to refer to anxieties between men about the size of their genitals (making my earlier deduction about the condition reasonable). This doesn’t begin to clear up the issue, but it certainly opens the door for a wealth of interesting soul searching. This second definition gave me pause and yet had me wonder if, indeed, I did have a tiny (excuse the pun) case of the envies. Until now I had been quite happy with my own Tall Building. While I probably wouldn’t refer to it as the Empire State Building, it most certainly wasn’t a Garden Shed either. Generally I am quite satisfied with that which my maker has provided.

Even had I been presented the opportunity to specify the dimensions of my own person, I’m not sure that would have worked so well. Having been handed pen and paper I’d quickly discern that the only reasonable drawings of anything that I have ever been able to produce were that of rickety stick men. I am positive the likes of a stick penis would inevitably lead to more disappointments than my current caricature, cartoonesque in its comedy as it were.

It’s A Good Thing I Can Cook

I realize this post is late (about six weeks as the hen pecks); however, as Winks so appropriately put it “Travis has been away at a lot of conferences…and shit.” I never realized that Winks had such a healthy respect for conferences. So much so that he would consider anything other than a conference “and shit”. I’ve made a note to invite him to the next one, even though I’m quite certain he’d rather have his eyes clawed out by a spider-monkey. Anyhow, I do apologize for my tardiness. “And shit” has taken up a good deal of my time. Mother always said, that boy does nothing but eat “and shit”. Evidently mother thought higher of eating than conferences.

I’ve been rereading a few of the earlier updates. I’d like to believe I’ve graduated to some level of higher immaturity from whence I began. All of those updates written in the basement of that quaint California-Split home that played host to the startlingly tidy Italian woman and her handsomely heavyset former husband. One observation I did make while I reread those haphazard efforts was that a great quantity of the writing remained consistently self-effacing. Travis burned by the furnace, Travis experienced by a fifty year old woman, Travis sent packing by Text Messaging. It seems mediocrity makes for good reading.

On February 9 of 2007 I moved into Winks’ home. It’s a relatively large house. An attached garage ushers you into a spacious kitchen that’s furnished by pleasingly white appliances. A master bathroom that needn’t compensate for anything dangles from the edge of that same culinary venue. Beyond the center of the kitchen is yet another spacious area designated as the living room (which is odd since up to this point I have been quite able to remain alive in all of the rooms). The living room and bedrooms are supported by classic hardwood with subtly distinguished paint schemes. The basement plays host to my room as well as a large billiards area. There is also a small area dedicated to home theatre which I can easily picture beating up other home theatres and taking their lunch money. In its entirety, it’s is an exemplary instance of a living establishment, for which I am grateful.

On Friday, February 16, 2007 (a mere seven days after I moved in) the appliance that pries the stench from my soiled clothing stopped working.

My immediate thought was, “Cripes, I have wet clothes in there”. Check that. My immediate thought was actually, “Winks is gonna’ [expletive #1] lose it”. Luckily, my roommate was away at a hockey game (that for some long forgotten reason I did not attend – likely something to do with my inability to neither stick-handle nor skate). I had the entire house to myself for the evening and a minor domestic issue that required domestication.

I unfolded my household fix anything flowchart and began at the very top. “Try it again”. I randomly turned all the dials on the washing machine as if I were some dim-witted burglar trying to break into womens’ gym lockers at the YWCA. No luck. “Try it again”. A second time I cranked each of the wretched knobs with no more purpose than a toddler exploring his Fisher Price automobile dashboard. I finally resorted to standing over the opened washing machine sobbing incessantly while my tears dripped one by one into the stagnant pool of laundry water. This went on for approximately ten minutes. Exhausted from all of the hard work, I thought it best to replenish my fluids. I shuffled around the corner into the kitchen and toward the refrigerator that sat no more than eight feet from the location of the abysmal washer. I opened the door only to be blatantly ignored by the undersized light-bulb that you never have on hand when the time comes that it demands to be replaced. I quickly noted that I could not hear the soothing drone of the Frigidaire electric motor responsible for preventing my grapes from becoming raisins. The fact that I am completely inept at fixing anything is evidence that (as an analogy) my grapes are actually already raisins. Luckily I was speaking literally in this instance.

My immediate thought was, “Cripes, I have perishables in there”. Check that. My immediate thought was actually, “Winks is gonna’ [expletive #1] lose it”. I thought it louder this time. Like a blond roller-girl whose boyfriend has just informed her “she must have caught it from a bicycle seat” I stood there and scratched my head trying to comprehend just how, in the hell, the washing machine and the refrigerator could both morph into paperweights at precisely the same instant.

After ten minutes of testing with the toaster, I determined that it was not, in fact, the appliances that were defunct (whew), it seemed it was the circuitry of the house itself (shite). The fact that the two appliances were in near approximation, and likely on the same electrical circuit dawned on me well after my original unfortunate discovery. Upon this realization I involuntarily produced the facial expression of a man who’s just realized he can garner another three days use out of underwear that’s been turned inside out.

I grew up on a farm. Within that environment (from time to time) a spring storm would roll across the countryside pausing above our farmyard only briefly to rip the electricity out of our home leaving us in a quarter-section of darkness until father found his way to the power-pole and performed whatever magical operation it is that actual handymen employ when incidents of this nature occur. As for myself, being a boy of high sensitivity and low testosterone, I handled the situation in much the same way I still do. I stood rigid adjacent the light switch flicking it incessantly while producing pathetic little sobbing noises that make Richard Simmons seem like Nick Nolte. I clearly remember father advising, “don’t be such a baby, its only the dark, be a man”, then he’d paused in quandary as if I owed him a response. All I could think of was that I was seven years old. I should be able to retain (at least for a couple of years) the right to be afraid of the dark, spiders, mice, the boogeyman, needles, and aunt Francis’ cleavage (may she rest in peace). A grown man reprimanding a seven year old boy for being afraid of the dark is like a Stag scolding a Doe for not squaring off with a Peterbuilt.

It’s not like I was complaining that my father was forcing me to hold a bunny at a petting zoo. It’s the dark for crying out loud. An entire youth movement hangs on it (Goth). Scores of burglars hang their balaclava on its arrival. There’s even an entire movie genre thriving around the notion that the absence of light delivers swift and eminent death. In 1999 the Blair Witch film which cost $35,000 to produce grossed a staggering $248 million globally. I rode forty-five minutes to the nearest theatre to watch the film and spent the entire trip home staring blankly into each and every poplar bluff scouring the tree line for shadows. I haven’t been able to properly frolic in a forest since.

Hmmm. I’ve jack-knifed well away from my original topic. If this update were a horror movie, which its quickly becoming, this would be the part where I had wandered off to have unprotected sex in a shower only to be jabbed to death with an oversized safety pin. I’d better head back.

Armed with the knowledge that I simply had a minor power issue I vaulted into action. I went directly to the furnace room in the basement and scoured the walls for the electrical panel. Over the course of the next thirty minutes I rummaged through every nook, cranny, crevice, fissure, cleft and gap of the cursed house only to be mocked by an elusive curcuit box capable of outmaneuvering that nerdy kid who followed you everywhere in highschool (there’s a chance that may have been me). I soon resorted to the fact that the proprietor of the home needed to become involved. Drat.

I sent Winks the following text message. “Where is the breaker box.” Then I waited uneasily. A few moments later (it seemed like a lifetime) I received the following reply, “In the garage, in a cupboard, WHY?” Now, at first glance this may seem a predictable and unassuming response; however, the last bit gave me pause. Winks may be a lot of things, but he is not one of those definitively slanted individuals who is prone to the use of excessive capitalization. Pressing your CAPS-LOCK key and typing an entire paragraph in the loudest text-based format is akin to sitting across from a dear friend in a cathedral and sharply hollering across the pew the details of your latest sexcapade for all of the western provinces to hear. In all fairness, if my newfound roommate sent me a text message eluding that he may have put events in motion that may have a chance (however small) of burning my home to the ground, I suppose I would be tempted to employ the capitalist variety of punctuation in my response as well.

I needed this fixed. I knew Winks was hovering above his cell phone, waiting for a text message confirming his suspicion that his new home had officially been reduced to a mound of smoldering rubble. Sitting around waiting for Winks to come home angry was not an option. I’ve done it, It’s a bit like being a taxidermists pet cat, you have no idea what’s going to happen to you, but you know it won’t be good. I marched out to the garage and tripped all of the breakers for good measure (they were spectacularly anonymous in their labeling schematic). With the issue resolved I confidently texted Winks and informed him of disaster averted.

It’s a good thing I can cook.