A Tragedy of Errors

I’m rusty…bare with me…

They say writers write (I’ve no idea who “they” is, but they seem to be well-informed). Finding the motivation can be difficult. My “muse” (the inclination to write) comes and goes as she pleases. Like the maid you’re sleeping with who forgets that you’re paying her to scrub your toilet (the maid is the metaphor, not the toilet). When in tune the words can pour down onto the page in a euphoric maelstrom taking no time, consuming little effort. When belabored, the writing experience is akin to that of scrubbing your own toilet (again, not a metaphor) taking considerable time and considerable effort; resulting in a good deal of shit.  I have many such bits stock-piled, which I haven’t the courage to share and you haven’t the constitution to read. Often, I sit and wait for a literary desire, then when context, situation, and theme present, I exploit them…much like I would the maid.

If “Comedy” left a train station at 9:00 am traveling 80 miles and hour and “Tragedy” left an opposing station at 10:30 am traveling 160 miles an hour, they would smash together amongst a poetic heap of squealing metaphors and twisted analogies. The literal carnage would represent my impetus for writing. I am clever and able to view the world with a sense of humor, but I have an understanding of life’s difficulties (which I feel I’ve earned). While I may feign optimism (for practical reasons), I embody pessimism (for ideological ones). That is the reason I write what I write and I read what I read. “Angels and Demons” is blockbuster fiction spurred by creative genius, exceptional foreshadowing, and a dramatic climax. I received it as a gift and finished it as a favor. Vonnegut survived an entire day in a concrete meat-locker while The Allies bombed Dresden killing over 250,000 innocent people. He later wrote a satirical novel about it. Critics dubbed it “Black Satire.” I’ve read it 4 times.

That’s why when a sequence of events so disheartening, so frustrating, and so depressing occurs, I’m forced to acknowledge the absurdity, the melancholy, and the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. That my friend is when my muse barges through my door, punches me squarely in the groin, stomps on my chest…and waves an indignant finger in demanding I put something on paper…

When you’re young you have big birthday parties and when you’re old you have small birthday parties. Kipp’s birthday party on Saturday was “kinda’ small”. My next birthday party will be “kinda’ small” too. A select few of The Team went to the new Boston Pizza on the east end of Saskatoon. I ended my night early, being of tempered demeanor and limited energies (I was tired and boring). On the way home I drove through Tim Horton’s in order to use the two “Roll Up The Rim To Win” tickets I’d amassed. I presented the tokens to which the attendant turned and shouted “We have a winner!” This coerced an orchestrated response from all of her peers, “Haaay!” Had I known they were going to do this I’d have driven through twice (once for each winning ticket). In any case, I sped off to bed not realizing that somewhere, somehow, I’d lost the plastic clip that serves as my wallet…

I’d been here before, measures have been taken, safeguards employed, mechanisms were in place.

I keep only what items I absolutely require in that plastic clip. As such, I hadn’t lost my health or social insurance cards. They are, along with my passport and birth certificate, in a safety deposit box in Kindersley to which Patsy and I each have a key (I’ve subsequently lost mine). Rosetown (where I now work) does not have a CIBC so I would have to wait until Saturday to replace my debit card. I had enough cash at home to get me to the weekend. The one exception was that I didn’t have enough money to fuel my truck for the commute through the week. I explained the situation to Chelsea (my sarcastic carpooler), who cheerfully volunteered, “You’re going to have a hard time getting to work.”

On Sunday, I used what immediate wealth I possessed to put enough fuel in my truck to get me to a community consultation in Biggar on Tuesday.

Monday came and went like the twenty year old drunken tart who calls 25 times in the middle of the night then show’s up at your condo throwing shoes at your bedroom window and ringing random buzzers until you finally escape the Sandmans grip and answer the door.  That is to say, on the drive home from work Monday I realized that I’d left my truck keys in Rosetown.  I informed Chelsea (my sarcastic carpooler) of both the tart and the truck keys, to which she efficiently responded, “You’re living a life of sloppiness.”  I’m quoting.

I’d been here before, measures have been taken, safeguards employed, mechanisms were in place.

I’d always kept a spare key in my office, which was Kindersley, but is now Rosetown. I keep another key in my laptop bag, which I almost always carry on my person, but that day I’d left in my office in Rosetown. My third key (the key I actually use) was on the keychain that was attached to the lanyard that was swinging back and forth from my office doorknob in Rosetown. Chelsea’s (my sarcastic carpooler) voice pitched as she offered through judging eyes and a murderous smile, “Waaaant me to turn around?” Out of morbid curiosity, I leaped into her cauldron of boiling mockery, “Yes, please.” Her voice reached a crescendo as she cheered, “Weellll I’mmmm nottttt gonnnnnna’!!!!” Chelsea (my sarcastic carpooler) is a sadist.

I’d been in tight situations before; poor, lost, over-worked, depressed, belligerent, heartbroken (all at once I think even). I was confident I could problem-solve my way out of this. I’d simply borrow a car for the trip to Biggar on Tuesday. Then I could ride with Chelsea (my sarcastic carpooler) back to Rosetown on Wednesday to get my keys.

While walking through the parking lot I past my (inaccessible -> locked) truck and surveyed the pile of easels, flip-charts, and supplies scattered about the back seat. Supplies that would be very helpful in facilitating a community consultation in Biggar on a Tuesday…

When an individual becomes impoverished, it’s often determined that no single failure was the cause. It’s usually a cascading chain of cause-effect deficiencies the cumulative result of which produces a broken, homeless, spiritless man living in a box near the ally of 441 4th Avenue North, Saskatoon. My future played out in my head. I’d be absent from the community consultation. I’d be unavailable to answer questions concerning the error-ridden information package I’d assembled. My CEO would appear a buffoon. She would fire me. I’d have no choice but to abandon my condo. Depression would set in. I’d become destitute, and so on, and so forth…until I’d eventually be forced to date women my own age.

Perhaps, at this juncture, its worth having a summary look at the situation. It was approaching 7:00 pm Monday evening. I had no wallet. I had no more cash. I had no vehicle. I was in a new job and the materials I required for an important out-of-town meeting the next day were locked in my truck. I called Patsy. Here is the allure that is my mother. She did not judge, nor did she lament. She simply asked a question; a question she didn’t even bother to ask of me. She queried up into the air as if to herself, “How are we going to do this?”

Patsy drove her spare car to the city. I drove Patsy back out to Warmen. Patsy gave me $100.00 which I email transferred back to her (since I could still do that). I paid a locksmith and his sidekick (loosely approximating Bilbo and Gollum) to unlock my truck so I could retrieve my supplies. Interestingly, at no point in Bilbo’s thirty minute visit to my back alley in the dead of night did he stop to consider whether or not this was, in fact, my truck. He simply unlocked it obediently while Gollum held the flashlight and coughed away his remaining lung. This isn’t the Shire anymore. I digress. I had everything I needed to ensure my life didn’t stagger into complete ruin.

The rest of the week transpired in reassuringly typical fashion. I retrieved my truck keys and replaced my wallet. Crisis, severe as it were, averted. My own little Dresden.

We are who we are and to a certain extent the qualities that define us will always be. I’m not saying our faults give us license to act like complete nincompoops. I’m saying that no matter how hard we try to manage away the particulars of our shortcomings, they are still very much a part of who we are. I could consciously acknowledge where I set my money-clip, I could hide spare keys in more opportune places, and I could employ safety deposit boxes to no end; however, from time to time I will still find myself near wretchedness and in need of some assistance. In profoundly more complicated contexts, “near wretchedness” becomes less metaphorical and unsettlingly more real.

Everyone who knows me knows how I am, and those individuals fall squarely into one of three categories. There are those who resent me for it, there are those who tolerate me in spite of it, and then there are a few who accept it willingly in trade for all the other things that make me awesome (ok…debateable).  That’s the measuring stick by which I define my friendships.

It’s Good to Have Goals

Well, that’s it I suppose. I ran the Saskatchewan Marathon last Sunday.  Thank you for all the sentiments and I’m flattered by all the website visits.  There were around 200 hits in the 2 days following the race.  Here are a few appropriate pictures…

In fine form…

You can run faster when a camper is chasing you (and how’d this guy get on the course?)…

This photo accurately relays how I felt after the race…

Following the race, from May 26th through June 3rd I’d been a champion of gluttony and sloth. For those among you who have concerns about my purposely disregarding capital vices, I’ll have you know that I am a model of piousness when it comes to the other five (except maybe lust, but really, we only see each-other on weekends).  On June 4th (Wednesday) I returned to the gym.  Point forward I will adopt the opposing virtues of patience, temperance, and diligence. If you’re waiting for me to earmark chastity, forget it.

During my return to the gym my legs might as well have been flailing octopus tentacles while my wind approximated that of an 80 year old chronic paint huffer. I made it through the hour; however, it represented an awful workout. What I can tell you is that afterward, I felt absolutely incredible. Initially, I found that odd.

I hadn’t realized it until after that workout, but for the 10 days following my race, I hadn’t been quite right. Physically I felt lethargic, managed headaches, and didn’t sleep well. What’s worse, between my ears I’d felt uncertain, inadequate, and lacked confidence. These characteristics, while unnoticeable to those around me, presented themselves quite plainly. I was skittish and non-committal with friends and family while introducing an astounding dose of insecurity into my relationship. Immediately after yesterdays workout these oddities (effectively) dissipated.

It seems I am an individual who requires…rather survives…on goals. I need to set positive ones, I need to allow my disposition to carry me to their end, and I need to quickly set new ones. There is an inherent danger that once I have reached a particular goal I will immediately flounder; thereby failing to sustain any improvement in my four areas of concern (relationships, finance, career, and health). In the past I haven’t always managed my goals appropriately and I believe it has cost me…

I was a brilliant kindergartner. I did not require velcro anything, I didn’t eat chalk, and I hardly ever crapped my pants.  In the second grade I faked a speech impediment so that I could pursue an affair with the buxom guidance counsellor.  Through middle school I fell victim to the garbage that claims many potential students. This culminated in my nearly failing the 6th grade (literally, although I was no mathematician either).  My parents cleverly correlated the absence of a post-secondary education with a life of poverty and despair (I may have read Jean Valjean in there somewhere too). I went from Sweat-Hog to scholarship and remained an honor student until graduation. I was enthusiastically welcomed into the University of Saskatchewans Engineering program.  Having struck my target, I promptly sat back and watched the world go round as I flunked.  This was as much an error in goal setting as it was in anything else (yes, I am well aware that the loose liquor and cheap women didn’t help).

To compound my present issue (an urgency to set new goals), those four areas of my life which I ponder ad naseum have never been better. It seems, or seemed, that those areas were constantly atop a four pronged seesaw that demanded some dive when others rise.  Before college, I was a 19 year old stud, completely in love, had no career, and absolutely no money. In college, I was a 21 year old stud, dated enthusiastically, worked toward a promissory note good for one career, and had absolutely no money. After college, I was a 26 year old coronary, my relationship was held together by a lack of conviction, I had been promoted 3 times in 2 years, and I had some money.  Presently, I’m of reasonable physical stature, I’m with the most wonderful woman in the world, I am very grateful to my employer, and I don’t lack for what I want.  It’s difficult for me not to think of those areas as four plates spinning atop wooden sticks (with history demonstrating that I’ve the capacity to manage only two plates).   There’s an arrogant irony here in that I’m effectively complaining about how happy I am; however, I think it’s really a matter of wanting to do what I have to in order to preserve that state.  I’ll be the first to admit that I spend far (far) too much time trying to be happy and much too little time being happy (but I think we all do that).

So for the last ten days I have been struggling to choose an appropriate goal lest Karma, the cosmos, and/or simply my own self-fulfilling sub-conscious penalize me.

First I spoke to Michael Horbay at Team Diabetes in Saskatoon. We plotted/schemed to have me raise $6100.00 for the diabetics of the world so that I may run Decembers Honolulu Marathon (on that foundations dime). I considered this seriously before declining the invitation. It’s simply too close to my September trip to San Francisco. This was a bit of a downer; however, that marathon isn’t going anywhere and I’ve no plans to discontinue racing.

Yesterday Brian Michasiw called me in response to an email I’d sent him earlier this week. Brian is the owner of Brainsport and winner of the 2007 and 2008 Saskatchewan Marathons. I’ll admit I was significantly enamoured.  I’d asked him for a sense of my ability and any direction he could provide. He gave me plenty of good information and pointed out (multiple) areas in which I could improve my training. One thing he did say was that I, “may improve by as much as an hour on my next marathon time.” Suffice to say his implication (however tempered and unlikely) that I could run a 2:42 marathon, made me feel like racing.

With that in mind I’ve committed to three races of significance prior to the end of 2009. I will run the half marathon in Regina at the Queen City Marathon in September 2008 (in less than 90 minutes). I will “run” the 2009 Spin off Spadina Triathlon one year from now. I will run the full Queen City Marathon in 2009 in an attempt to qualify for the Boston Marathon (3:10). I realize this is all very long range for me, and things can change; however, those are my goals as they stand, and effective immediately I’ll work to that end.  The half marathon in September will afford me some leniency during my busy summer; the triathlon next spring should provide me a more rounded fitness base before a long summer of marathon training in 2009.

An interesting note on the Triathlon idea.   I’d boasted to my friend Krista that a triathlon couldn’t be that hard.  I lobbied that a 1500 meter swim, 40 km bike ride, and 10 km run wouldn’t be that difficult compared to the 42 km marathon I’d just completed.  Yesterday I went for my first swim.  I did 14 lengths representing 350 meters.  I nearly drowned.  The lifeguard hovered in and around my general area at all times.  Today I can barely walk, it seems I have some work to do before next spring.

I feel better already.

When God Kills a Kitten

I got to work at 7:14 am this morning and found a swimming pool the size of a Miata where our watercooler had been.  I moved the spare water jugs, displaced the actual cooler unit, and cleaned up the exccess water using approximately 847 napkins (because that’s what boys do). Mid clean-up I got an e-mail (on my hand-held) from my boss asking if I could come “deal with” a dead cat (in the most literal sense)…

I wasn’t more than nine years old.  Our families esteemed matriarch had demanded I stay in the house until such time as the unchallenged patriarch had completed whatever outdoor task it was that mother had concluded required censorship. Mother used to provide reason for her decisions if reason, in a small boys’ eyes, existed. In this instance I was not given an explanation; subsequently, I concluded that father was wrestling wild bears, breaking unbridled stags, and whatever other manly feats exist in a fathers’ job description. I snuck outside.

My breath was bated by an early November cold spell. I inhaled short icy gasps and exhaled funnels of thick mist as I crept around the east side of our garage. The snow, hard from a week of minus thirty temperatures, crunched under my oversized Sorels. A sharp penetrating crack echoed across the acreage. I paused mid creep, along the north side of the garage, wondering what the noise was. I prepared to run lest I be caught and subjected to the unfavourable end of a willow switch.

A moments consternation concluded that what I’d heard was characteristic of my 0.22 caliber rifle. I knew this because I’d spent the preceeding summer reigning all manner of horror down on every living creature within the walls of the treeline that served as the boundary to our acreage. Prairie Dogs, Barn Swallows, and even Magpies knew me for the nine year old carrion creating machine that I was.  Truth be told, I’d virtually covered the yard in lead; however, hadn’t injured a damn thing. Immediately after being issued my rifle I’d jammed a wire coat-hanger down the barrel in order to dislodge a stuck shell casing. This, in turn, mangled the spiral rifling causing each bullet to vere drastically to the left upon discharge.  In two months of “hunting” the only things I’d killed were the unmentionables that mother had hung perpendicular to my favoured shooting range.

I peeked around to the west from the north side of the garage. I was unprepared for what I saw. There stood my father against the outer corner of his work-shed having my rifle drawn up against his right shoulder as he delivered Spencers’ dictum to our acreages’ kitten population. To say that my summers hunting had hardened me to the cruelties of Darwins’ world would be an overstatement.

I was a bright boy who had been well trained in the safeties of the “weapon of death” that was his rifle. As such, I did not run foolishly out into the crocus laden Felines’ Field that father was quickly making of our back yard. There was little I would have been able to do anyway since father employed a surgeons precision as he merged a single bullet with a single kitten.

The nine year old erupted in me as I ran back around the north and east of the house. I lunged through the front door to do what seemed like the only logical thing a boy could do in that situation…I told on him. I remember it going something like this, “Mom! Come quick dad’s gone crazy, he’s killing everything. Hurry! Call the police we’ve got to stop him. Get grandpa’, he might be stronger! Hurry, he’ll kill us all!” I pulled at moms apron amid the weeps and sobs of a boy who didn’t understand.

My mother remains to this day shrewd and intelligent. She wiped her chocolate laden hands on her apron as she prepared to deliver a life lesson that she had hoped to avoid until a middle school biology teacher was given a chance to explain in full.  She simply stated, “The kittens would have starved or froze through this especially cold winter.” She’d known all along and (I know now) she intended to address the situation with equal measures of logic and distraction. I slammed my hands down on the counter as I yelled factual counterpoints, “They have nine lives, they’d have been fine!”

I stood dejected in an emotional quandry as I married her rationalization to my realization and wondered what she’d done with the electric beaters she’d used to mix the chocolate. I’d almost finished licking the first whisk when father walked in. I calmly inquired, “How could you do it? How could you shoot every single one?” He explained both sternly and softly as he echoed mothers sentiments “The kittens would have starved or froze…” I interrupted through what was now the face of Laura Secord, “Ya’, mom explained that part, but all summer I couldn’t get the gun to shoot straight, how’d you hit every one?”

Having reached a marginal understanding father proceeded to show me the adjustability of my rifles sighting mechanism while I delivered a dissertation on the merits of pet euthanasia. I would have protested less had I known that througout my pubescent years I would inadvertantly kill hundreds of kittens by wielding a very different weapon with an even deadlier accuracy.  In any case, the cats/kittens that father had spared all survived the winter and lived long and happy lives…

My boss has two children of varying middle school ages. For that single reason I spent the next twenty minutes gently extracating the remains of her family pet from her bedroom. I wrapped it neatly in a SpongeBob SquarePants towel and, as per the cats probable wishes, we arranged for a very respectable memorial service somewhere southwest of Kerrobert, Saskatchewan.

Being thirty years old and adequately jaded I have complete faith and understanding in my fathers spree of murderous tyranny.  That’s the way farm life was.  Creatures lived, creatures died, that’s just how it went.  Incidentally, I once killed a pony by feeding it too much oats (we haven’t time here). Now, while understanding the requirement for such an event I would just like to say that I do not have any children.   When I do have children; however, I desperately hope that they are blessed with a moral capacity and compassion for living things that would, upon witness of such an event, compel them to react so significantly that my poor mother could not produce enough chocolate covered whisks to distract the hysterical little bastards.

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.

Two Words I Can’t Say on my Blog

Winks and I walked down the corridor that resides beneath our fans’ bleachers as I lamented the frigidness of our home rink, “[Expletive], it’s [expletive] cold in here”. Winks, whom is himself not verbally faint of heart turned to me and matter-of-factly stated, “[Expletive] Weber you swear a lot.” Ironically, that’s the gist of most of our conversations. I dare speculate that; perhaps, my spicy palette has over seasoned my tongue.

In 1972 George Carlin was arrested for indecency when he performed a comedy segment known as the “Seven Deadly Words”.In 1973, Carlin recorded a (very) similar monologue known as “Filthy Words” containing seven different obscenities. The Pacifica radio station WBAI-FM broadcast it uncensored late that year. A man driving in a car with his son heard the broadcast and complained to the FCC because of his son having heard the broadcast. The decision made with respect to this incident formally established indecency regulation in American broadcasting. In follow-up rulings, the Supreme Court clarified that certain words might be acceptable, particularly when children would not be expected to be in the audience.

While I grew up my mother formally established indecency regulation at our house using a lethal compound of Zest hand soap and Tabasco hot sauce. So long ago are those supervised days of linguistics that I’ve become impervious to these two methods as acts of punishment. I’ve drank enough Caesars that Tabasco cowers in the back of the refridgerator when it sees me coming. As for Zest, I’ve gotten devilishly clever in that (with much practice) I’ve been able to refrain from sticking the cleanser in my mouth, thereby nullifying its power. The soap does; truthfully, provide me a nasty finger rash if used for sanitary purposes, which serves only to prevent me from swearing via sign language. Minor victory for Zest, I suppose.

As far as the actual instant such language was interjected into my vocabulary, I am certain it occurred at an early age. Mother frequently tells the story of a terrible (terrible) two year old wreaking havoc in a library as she studied for an exam. All the while father faithfully tried to curb the exuberance of the little boy who was just old enough that he could run, he could yell, and he could enunciate. The little boy sprinted laps around the towering aisles of classic hardcover books as patrons tried amid the disturbance to discover if Odysseus made it home after the Trojan War (he does get home, only to find a host of noblemen courting his wife…figures). Not long into the race mother and father attempted to trap the speed demon by surrounding him on opposing ends of a narrow aisle of books. An innocent bystander stood in the middle of the aisle, his nose buried deep into the heart of a manuscript entitled “Bad Parents, Bad Children”. The little boy approached the patron at speed while flawlessly demanding….”Out of the way, [expletive]!” Mother and father simultaneously turned and vacated the aisle, leaving the little boy to his racing.

I certainly didn’t use ulterior language in school. The reason being, I was terrified of the principal’s office. In hindsight, this is ridiculous. The principal’s office is one more room in a learning institution that is no more ubiquitous than the women’s bathroom (although I would have then, and presently, still rather be sent to the women’s bathroom). I’ll explain. The period at which I attended school was well after the days when students walked to school barefoot uphill both ways while balancing a bucket of water on their heads. As such, the time had long since passed when a principal would strike said pupil for throwing a dead cat at a pretty girl. There did remain; however, tales and stories of our parents (as students) being sent to the willow patch to cut the switch that would provide the stinging that would promote the discipline. During my school days our principal knew this, and used it to his advantage. While he couldn’t hoarsely pummel me for sneaking in to watch the girls pommel horse, he could certainly threaten to. Given the stories I’d heard from my father, I heartily believed our principal. Having your father tenderize your rump roast with a ping pong paddle in front of an audience of your laughing brother is one thing. Having the principal beat you with his lead hand while holding the intercom button with the other is something else entirely.

Then there is work. As a matter of principle (not principal), I try desperately not to use colorful language at my place of employment (past or present). It makes those whom it offends uncomfortable while inappropriately implying its acceptability to those whom are indifferent. It’s simply not very professional. Now, I am not perfect. Try as I may to refrain I do remember working at an agricultural dealership. There was a steel door in the back of the parts department that did not close very well (something to do with door jam and load bearing hinges). History had proven that the most effective way to shut the door was to slam it like a Tequila shooter a nineteenth birthday party. That fateful day I rushed through the door, yanked it violently with my right hand, then glanced back to acknowledge the middle finger of my left hand stuck in the closed door. What was much worse than the words I said was the manner in which I delivered them. Not more than fifteen feet away customers mingled about the parts area while I absolutely screamed a list of words that would offend my mother, my father, and my former principal. I hate stitches.

The only other environment largely conducive to depravity is a locker room for a mens’ sports team. When full this room serves as a bubbling cauldron of potty-mouth that is capable of causing the most surly lumberjack to blush through his beard. I have spent twenty-nine years developing (what I consider to be) a respectable vocabulary. It is in those years of Hockey, Football, Baseball and Basketball that I have been most often forced to pause, then lean toward the teammate next to me and ask “He did what to her?”

I truly do value my readers. There are certain topics that I do not touch on simply because I know some of my readers may be offended. I dare say the most effective way to reduce readership is to start offending your own readers. This can be challenging, since I have a very wide breadth of readers with varying tastes and tolerances. I mean, it’s easy to write something that won’t offend anyone; however, it’s incredibly difficult to write something that will not offend anyone and will still be entertaining for everyone. I know, I try to do it every week. As a result, I have identified two words that I will never (ever) use in my blog (there is an entire host of other words I “probably” wouldn’t use in my blog; however, I’d like to reserve the right to, should I ever desperately need them).

Word #1.

It’s a Verb, Adverb, Noun, Pronoun, and Proper Name. It can mean to love, leave, represent pain, or just a general feeling of displeasure. It can be prefixed by “stupid” and “dumb” or suffixed by “head” and “face”. There are seemingly endless variations of the word purposely designed to insult everything from an individual’s mother to ones bedroom prowess (and even one that insults both at the same time). Typical deliveries of this word include looking down at the ground then dropping the bottom jaw quickly while producing a very short bursting shout.

I distinctly remember my father attempting to fix a beat up green half-ton truck. Through some misfortune he struck the soft tissue of his hand against hard metal then vaulted a miscellaneous mechanics tool across the yard (not close to my head while seemingly narrowly missing it). At the crescendo of my father’s misfortune he closed his eyes tight as he exclaimed as loud as he could, “[Word #1]!” I’m sure you’ve all been there.

How notorious does a word have to be that it is granted a designated appendage. I’m not talking about obscenities derived from private parts…..those are obvious and there are many. This word was so universally accepted as the quintessential derogatory statement of choice that they (whoever they is) had to correlate a single upturned finger to its meaning. That’s incredible. I doubt we’ll see the day when Bill Gates is so prolific that holding your right leg in the air means you’re running Windows Vista (and holding both legs in the air means its working well).

I also remember the story of a friend’s daughter not more than two years old. She was helping her father draw her a bath. Father held his hand under the running water, then quickly pulled it back relaying to his daughter the pertinent information, “hot.” His daughter, ever the mimic, quickly stuck her hand under the running water being instantly forced to jerk it back as well. She elaborated on her father’s sentiment in relaying the information back to him, “[Word #1]‘n hot.” Two milestones were reached that day. Her first profanity and her first correct usage of a pronoun.

How many other words can an individual (and I’ll be clear, a particularly talented individual) simply blurt and have an auditorium of 10,000 people bellow in genuine hysteria. It’s odd that this word, while possessing so many obviously offensive qualities, is also such a conduit for laughter. In Eddie Murphy’s 70 minute stand up show titled “Delirious”, he used this word 230 times or 3.29 times a minute. Eddie went on to a very successful movie career culminating in a Golden Globe win and an Oscar nomination for his work in “Dream Girls”. Feel free to scratch your head.

As functional as this word is, it’s simply too abrasive. It should be reserved for situations much more applicable than my updates.

Word #2.

Women hate this word. I typed four words and 85% of you know what obscenity I’m talking about.You’re sitting in the living room after a dinner party having just finished off a half pound plate of crab legs. You survey the room and take one minute to internally acknowledge the successfulness with which you’ve managed your social life that you be able to attend an event with so many exquisitely beautiful women and so few eligible men. You glance down at the $160.00 collared shirt you ordered from “GQ” only to discover the tiniest morsel of crab meat surrounded by Saturn’s’ ring of butter. Your mouth reflexively produces a wincing, “[Word #2]“. You glance up to see every gorgeous woman in a black backless cocktail dress staring at you. Not at the crab meat on your shirt, but at you. Every women’s attention focuses directly on your face as disappointed smears across theirs’ like an unsupervised toddler with the Peanut Butter jar.

There is no place in my writing for a word that will effectively terminate any hope I’ll ever have with any particular woman. I simply can’t take that chance.

One thing is for certain, it’s all very much a matter of perception. Consider this, I wrote this entire update without using a single actual expletive, and yet, some of my readers will seriously consider the number of good deeds they’ll need to perform in order to counteract the effects of having read the update. On the other hand, I know one roommate (Winks) for certain is complaining to himself that the update would have been much funnier had it contained the actually verbiage he (and I) employ all too often.

My Secret Admonisher – II

Good day friends…Wordsmiths define a friend as ‘a person whom one knows, likes, and trusts.’ I (personally) find that definition to be a universally generic description possessing qualities of usefulness approaching that of a vegans’ meatloaf.

If Webster’s Dictionary were Weber’s Dictionary (which it should be) the term friends would be defined as ‘a person who can balance the sporadic requirement for compassion with an ability to make you want to frequently punch them in the left nostril’.  At least that’s how I select my friends, and every ounce of their very being seems up to the task….as illustrated below.

Two weeks ago I encountered a mystery Aphrodite who seemed compelled to send amorous messages to one present day Hercules. All mythical analogies aside, to date your humble writer has failed miserably in his quest to meet his goddess of love. I totally said I would put that analogy aside, then didn’t.

As I usually do with anything in my life of particular substance, I blogged the details in perfect factual form (My Secret Admonisher). You are quite right in concluding that it is sad what you read on my blog classifies, within my life, as substance. I wrote how I always write. Hunched over my tiny little Tablet PC. Undersized fingers rapping against the keys like ten tiny woodpeckers as my scatterbrain rushes to link vague idea to irrational thought; then irrational thought to flowing prose. Minutes pass as I abandon blinking in favor of racing against that imaginary hour glass my muse routinely holds over my head. Time ticks and creativity dwindles refusing to grant me more than a forty-five minute window in which to produce unabated textual delirium. The same morning I posted that vignette, I received these…

10:19 am – Did you ever catch the fridge-?
10:26 am – Should I call you in the morning or nudge you-?
10:29 am – Are you accepting applications for your fan club-?
10:32 am – My name isn’t Elmo, but you can tickle me any time you want to-?
10:36 am – I may not be dairy queen but I’ll treat your right!!!-?

Now, the love-in of two weeks prior had adequately prepared me for this series of Text Messages, so I wasn’t taken aback by the content. The only thing that was really different about the Messages were the two instances of copyright infringement (not to mention the soiling of Elmos’ reputation). What did cause me to pause, tilt my head on axis, and scratch the place where a beard will never be was the timing of it all. I received the communiqué no more than five minutes after posting my blog detailing my pursuers vigor. I quickly made the nautical connection between my courtship and my readership. It took approximately sixty seconds for my swimming imagination to position those two boats bow to stern in a veritable sea of accountability. Initiate ever so typical emotionally charged repercussion inducing overreaction by Travis here (good authors despise running adverbs because an author worth his salt would simply choose a more appropriate verb; there is no appropriate verb for the types of reactions Travis is prone to).

The next bit has some tech-speak. it’s not pivotal to the plot, so if you’re not sure what some of it means, please do not despair. Just know that I was very excited so I scrambled to employ every computer “thingy” I know to decipher what individual had visited my site, and then locate that person…

I navigated to the administrators page of my blog (FeedBurner) as quickly as two gigabytes (GB) of random access memory (RAM) would carry me. Then I sorted the site visitor list by date/time. I decided to eliminate the Really Simple Syndication (RSS) subscribers as suspects since most of them are single male Star Trek fans (lord strike me down if it’s one of them). I found an Internet Protocol (IP) address of one visitor at approximately the correct time. I used Trace Route and an Internet based WHOIS provider search to determine that the IP in question was located in……..*drum roll*……Penhold, Alberta.

At this point I was utterly and wholly convinced that my persecutor was using a computer in Penhold to repeatedly poke me in the kidney. Short of telephoning their Internet Service Provider (ISP) and complaining (which simply wasn’t an option), there was really no more I could do to narrow my search. I wish to make it crystal clear that I have lived my life as something of a good sport and did (and still do) not wish to place my counterpart in a state of Internet detainment. I can say first hand that there is nothing worse in the digital world than answering your phone and immediately being forced to deliver a believable (and legal) answer to the question “what is your computer doing right now?” (but that’s another update). This entire ordeal has been a bit of a funky adventure that I really haven’t minded. Actually, in terms of relationships with the opposite sex, this one has gone much better than most.

Amid the hustle and bustle of my technical investigation, I received this second set of night-club drool…

10:39 am – Roses are red, violets are blue, I have needs, so do you-?
10:42 am – Can I borrow 70 cents?? No. Then how about 69. I’m sure you can offer 69-?
10:45 am – I can tell by the way you’re ignoring me that you want me…-?
10:51 am – I’ve just moved you to the top of my ‘to do’ list-?

This series of Messages served me confusion on a silver platter with a side of curiosity. Until now, my friend had never approached anything that could be remotely considered sexual innuendo. That’s not to say I necessarily minded it; I’m sure you are all quite aware of my fondness for innuendo. It just didn’t sound like them. This left me somewhat torn. A piece of me felt a little downcast that our (until now) innocent and harmless wordplay had graduating to foreplay before the fourth act; while the portion of my being wishing to believe that my contactor actually found me sexually appealing remained steadfastly flattered. Somehow, these four posts had managed to both slap me in the face and tickle me pink. The old slap and tickle as it were.

I confirmed that the subject in question did have repeat site visits that corresponded approximately to the timing of the latest Messages. Then I set a course in motion to “best-guess” who could possibly be stalking me from Penhold, Aberta. What was one of the many whistle stops along the Calgary and Edmonton Railway, until 1904 when the village was established.

I travelled to Penhold (no I didn’t) and discovered that it enjoys the advantages of a small town without lacking any of the amenities of a large city. In 1981, the village of Penhold became a town as a result of large population growth in the late 1970s. Penhold, known as “The Home of Future Generations”, now lies on both sides of Highway 2A with future expansion planned on the east side of the highway.

Having grown up in Wilkie (Go Outlaws!!!), Penhold provoked childhood memories in sounding both quaint and picturesque. I enlisted the help of a workmate having expert knowledge in the various social factions operating throughout the area. Together we managed to speculate and conspire ourselves toward a single name from the multitude of local groups that may have experience enough in the oddity that is Travis to prompt this sort of delightful reaction.

All the while I continued to receive Text Messages. This next set unexpectedly stopped, pivoted, and darted in the direction of Hugh Heffner’s mansion…

10:52 am – Do you know who this is yet?-?
10:54 am – Why don’t you call me tonight if you are free.-?
10:55 am – Come on, I know you want to.-?
10:58 am – I will be waiting at home for you tonight. Come over whenever you want.-?

I was aroused enough that this update is completely inaccurate if I fail to mention it. That would, in turn, simply render me an irresponsible writer. Wait. I am irresponsible and I am a writer, but I am most certainly not an irresponsible writer. Suffice it to say that I was aroused. Earlier Messages carried the scent of a young damsel struggling to contact her prince, only being held back by timidity and uncertainty. The latest messages reeked of a fifteenth century barmaid who only wanted to sit on my knee and sway back and forth to Celtic string music while spilling ale into her excessive cleavage from a large wooden stein. I won’t lie, I really wanted it to be both.

11:26 am – Travis one word of advice. Do not write a detailed explanation on how to prank a friends cell in the form of txt msging. Not a smart idea-?
11:33 am – Travis, oh Travis, when will you learn.-?
11:42 am – Travis, this is way too easy-?

Oh no.

This is where the bubble burst. That tiny little bubble that held all of those images of damsels, princesses, barmaids, and wenches. It exploded as I began to realize what I’d done. I had, effectively, given every single one of my readers instructions on how to accomplish the very same thing that my mystery sponsor had done. What’s worse (and much worse), all of my dearest and oldest friends were devout readers of that mailing list. And we simply starve for the opportunity to place one of our good friends in a state of utter squalor. There is no better word to describe my state at this point than squalor.

11:47 am – Who cares about a blog, not this dawg-?
11:48 am – Travis, Where does **** **** live?-?
11:49 am – I am not an orangutan!!!-?
11:52 am – This has gone too far. Zinggggg!!!-?
11:54 am – I can’t take this anymore…you are an idiot-Noodle.

The last five words sum up this post pretty darn well. I’m an idiot. My good friend Adam (Noodle) had read the update. Then he had chatted with me on MSN Messenger for a few minutes. He very accurately gauged my enthusiasm and willingness to believe in this mystery woman. He knew I felt she would surely be on the mailing list and likely contact me again after reading my post. He slid effortlessly into that persona, unlocked the door to lunacy, then allowed me to burst through it using the top of my head as a battering ram.

Something has to be said, at this point, of friends. Not acquaintances, workmates or girlfriends either. While we all appreciate the latter there is something definitively different about the relationship one has with his closest and truest friends. The ability of those persons to sprint, without hesitation, toward an opportune vulnerability and expose your more blatant shortcomings represents (in my mind) the interest and attention they have shown in getting to know you, as a person, better than most ever will. I, Travis, am absurdly committed to the female gender. I shoulder massive amounts of curiosity and imagination that can erupt into an emotional outburst given the proper set of circumstances and one catalytic little nudge. My close and dear friend Adam knew this and nudged me. He can be such an asshole.

I will take this opportunity to congratulate Adam on his forthcoming wedding late this year. I’d also like to thank him for asking me to be his best man. That’s all I’ll say about that.

To whomever is visiting from Penhold. My bad.

My Secret Admonisher

Sincerely…

I have read that the pre-rampaging Hitler did not have a girlfriend. Understand that I’m not infatuated with Hitler, but I do know enough about the past to effectively emphasize a point using an easily identified historical figure (albeit, a murderous tyrant of a historical figure).

It’s noted that adolescent Hitler did have an obsessive interest in a young blond named Stephanie. He would stare at her as she walked by and sometimes he would even follow her (that’s creepy Adolf). He wrote her many love poems but he never delivered the poems or worked up the nerve to introduce himself, preferring to keep her in his fantasies. He told a friend he was able to communicate with her by intuition (that’s more weird than psychotic) and that she was even aware of his thoughts (he’s open minded) and had great admiration for him (how did this guy subdue a country). Hitler was also deeply jealous of any attention she showed to other young men (seems reasonable considering he’d never spoken to her).

In reality, Stephanie had no idea Hitler had any interest in her. Years later, when told of the interest of her now-famous secret admirer, she expressed complete surprise, although she remembered getting one weird unsigned letter.

I am currently fielding a melting pot of weird unsigned letters. Well, not letters per se, but definitely communications. Over the past week I have been receiving literary feelers in the form of digital Text Messages. I know what you’re thinking. “Travis, everyone receives Text Messages, put down the coffee.” Aye, here’s the rub, I have no idea whom these messages are from, I am unable to reply to the messages, and yet the messages persist in their frequency like tidal waves breaking against my disoriented sense of self security.

I have eliminated Hitler from my list of suspects. Perhaps we could go over the clues together and attempt to unravel the mystery.

Ok Watsons, magnifying glasses out, and on to the evidence…

To date I’ve received eighteen anonymous Text messages from my Secret Admonisher. A “Secret Admirer” is an individual whom expresses interest (moving beyond simply being in a state of interest) in another individual unbeknownst to the subject of interest. Savvy?

The reason I’ve used the term “Secret Admonisher” is that I’m presently unsure of my contactors state of being (or perhaps more importantly, well-being). If I’m going to presume a state of feeling of one individual, I’d rather ere on the side of caution. This way, if it turns out this person does secretly admire me; then I can be flattered. On the slightly unsettling other hand, if the submitter happens to wish my insides displayed for all the world to see, I don’t have to be quite so surprised.

Ok Matlocks, drab grey suites pressed (complete with elbow patches), and on to the evidence…

The madness began on Monday, January 15, 2007 with the following sequence of Text Messages:

1:56 pm – Travis, You There?-?
1:57 pm – Is your Fridge Running?-?
2:03 pm – You better go catchup to your fridge-?
2:18 pm – Did you Catch it?-?

This sequence offers three primary clues:

1) I [and disagree here if I'm wrong] do not believe this individual to be genuinely concerned about the mobility of my refrigerator. The individual is likely using the age old Freon based prank phone-call scenario to place me in a state of confusion or attempt to stimulate my funny bone. I don’t remember laughing aloud upon reading this sequence.

2) There is no sender. The text message did not identify the sender nor did it state that it came from a [Private Number] (an unlisted cell phone). As such, I was unable to reply to any of the messages. This leaves me in an utter state of confusion since every single message ends in a question mark (even the third message which is actually just a concerned coolant suggestion).

3) Thirdly, note the excessive use of punctuation (not to mention horrific grammar…and I set the bar low; as my editor will attest the instant she reads this). Specifically, question marks (seven in four texts). This effect may be a byproduct of the method of message transfer. We should not rule out that the sender may also just be very, very inquisitive (perhaps a chimpanzee or an orangutan).

Ok then. We’re well into our investigation and we have three solid clues to work with. For the duration of that Monday and Tuesday every brand of curiosity ran through my mind as if it were the beer list at Oktoberfest.

Tuesday night we had a late hockey practice. The skate began at 10:00 pm, which might as well have been 2:00 am for me (I need my beauty sleep). Since I had already been tired that day, I purchased a medium coffee prior to the evening’s workout. That evening coffee vaulted me beyond my Surgeon Generals’ daily limit. The caffeine hit me like an attention deficit five year old with a croquet mallet. This proved to be equal parts good and bad.

The practice nearly resulted in my lungs exploding and my legs bursting into flames. First we skated, then we skated some more, and finally we finished with some skating. Luckily by the time we began the first set of drills the coffee had turned me into a vibrating Richard Simmons of energy. It was a much needed workout that did provide evidence of my quitting smoking (that resolution is still intact) to be a valuable and necessary endeavor.

I arrived home after practice at approximately 12:30 am and proceeded to stare unblinking at my cell phone for another one-hundred and fifty minutes.

From 1:00 am through 3:00 am I received the most recent set of contacts from my “Secret Admonisher”.

Ok Grissoms, bug dictionary at the ready, on to the evidence…

1:04 am – Is your fridge still running?-?
1:08 am – What do you call cheese that’s not yours?-?
1:08 am – Nacho (not your) cheese haha-?
1:12 am – Did you laugh at the joke?-?
1:19 am – Did you catch the fridge?-?
1:26 am – Am I Dead Angel?-?
1:26 am – Cause this must be heaven!-?
1:28 am – If I could rearrange the alphabet I would put U and I together-?
1:31 am – Something tells me your sweet? Can I have a sample?-?
1:43 am – You be the biscuits and I’ll be the gravy, let us do breakfast sometime-?
1:55 am – Do you know who this is?-?
2:00 am – 1. How does a blond kill a fish? Drowns it-?
2:01 am – How does Travis kill a bird? Throws it off a cliff-?
2:16 am – How do you keep Travis busy for hours? Tell him to go find a corner in a round room-?

You can’t make this stuff up. In a matter of fourteen posts this person has haphazardly smashed into the following discussion points:

- Reaffirming concern for my icebox (dually noted).
- Dubbed themselves an angel (somewhat cute – rules out men – hopefully).
- Regained a marginal amount of grammar credit for alphabet knowledge.
- Compared themselves to gravy (uck – kind of cancels out the cute).
- Asked me a question to which a) they know the answer and b) I have no means to respond.
- Insulted my intelligence thrice over (awe, they shouldn’t have).

Caffeine does things to me. Medical side effect type things. It’s worth the entirety of another update in explaining. I am currently allowed one large (or extra large if I’m ultra tired) coffee in the morning. I may have a diet soda (containing caffeine) at noon with my meal if I’m feeling particularly randy. Any more caffeine in a single day and sheer melancholy ensues. I begin to shake, for one. Not minor little finger tremors either, but massive full body spasms making me perfectly suited to perform “the worm” at a wedding dance. I garner a headache that has me wishing my face would explode, ending the sensation. Lastly, my emotional state becomes similar to that of a far-gone crack addict; I become giga-paranoid and edgy to the point of insanity. You can see how all of this plays quite well into my “Secret Admonishers” agenda (whatever that may be).

Picture this. Travis sitting perfectly postured on the edge of the sofas’ middle cushion clutching his cell phone between two pale shaking hands. Red-eyed and pensive he remains fixated on the upper leftmost area of the view-screen as he waits for the next paranoia inducing Text Message. Unable to sleep because he has a caffeine buzz the size of Utah while he intermittently receives all manner of completely insane Text Message from someone who so obviously loves refrigerators, highly ineffective pickup lines, and Bob Newhart blond jokes.

At one point I seriously considered that this might just be a dream that’s jumped the rails and sprinted directly toward the nearest rejected Quentin Tarantino script.

I couldn’t possibly sleep, so I tried to evaluate the Text Messages for clues that very night (mistake). My evening’s earlier chemical oversight had (by now) taken over and some slightly outlandish notions had begun to run through my head. Here’s the best of what I came up with:

There was, again, no sender which told me it was likely aliens, my conscience, or the cell phone itself trying to contact me. Choosing to take precautionary measures against all three possibilities, I wore a tin-foil hat for the rest of the night, sent apologetic emails to a half dozen ex-girlfriends, and (my personal favorite) I held an additional cell phone thinking my original one would not be so lonely if it had a friend.

Approximately forty-five minutes after I’d received the last messaged I faded into a light sleep that left me tossing and turning until morning. That next morning I sprung toward my cell phone with a clear head to try and re-catalogue the information.
Ok Gadget, Penny and Brain in the wings, on to the evidence..

1) Again, no sender. In the crystal light of day this does offer a valuable bit of information. I recalled that you may send a text message from the Sasktel Website and provide your own sender information from the form.

2) Again, the excessive use of punctuation. Upon my visiting the Sasktel Website I did find a form that allows you to send Text Messages to cell phones. I sent a text message to myself for testing purposes and noted that it will not allow you to send the message unless you append every single message with a “from” identifier of at least one character. A question mark would do it.

So at least I’d discovered the method of message transfer. Somebody was sending my cute little Text Messages via the Sasktel Website. Cheeky.

As far as the actual content of the messages themselves, I’m not sure they offer any real valid clues as to the identity of the individual (but they are fun to analyze).

All in all, I think I’m torn. Part of me hopes I receive more of the fluffy meaningless quips in order to assist in unraveling the mystery. The other part of me just wants to race home and put on my tinfoil hat.

In any case, I am almost certain my persecutor is a reader of my column, so I can promise you something will come of it all.

Whats in a kiss?

Together we’ve transcended sixty-four “updates”. In that time we’ve traveled through the darkest jungles of my being as we’ve tried to slice away thorny vines of immaturity using machetes possessing the bluntest of morals. Seldom has this adventure been boring, and I do consider you all very capable safari mates. Having said that, I feel many of the updates were written simply because my muse had arrived regardless of the presence of a particularly shiny plot. I tell you this now. Update number sixty-five has; quite possibly, a premise that out-sparkles that of the previous sixty-four updates combined. I suppose the pressure is on me then to simply present the events in an appropriate fashion. Right. Machetes at the ready; follow closely, it’s going to be tough chopping today…She kissed me. I’ll come back to this. I promise.

My night started at a Kindersley Junior Klipper (JK) game. I won’t belabor the ins and outs of the vices I employ throughout a nights worth of silliness, you all know me well enough to fill in the gaps. A friend and I intently watched the game as we visited with various passing members of our Senior Klipper hockey team. A small sidebar here is that of the nine games we’ve played to date I’ve dressed for seven. Of the nine we’ve won five, lost three, and dumped one in overtime. Our team has a modest defense; however, is an offensive juggernaut boasting eleven former junior hockey stars. This affords us the luxury of implementing a “score a bunch and try not to give up quite as many” system of play. Absorbing light shifts I neither cost us the game nor win it for us. My legs are almost entirely there with my timing following a little more slowly. One thing I will say is that I have a seemingly infectious effect on team moral.

There is that sort of kiss which; put simply, you lay awake in bed thinking about and drift into sleep dreaming about. You imagine that particular person that’s causing your otherwise productive days to be chopped into imaginary fleeting quips of lips touching and cheeks brushing. Should this magical little encounter ever occur you become oblivious to the actual event since your conscious is neither willing nor able to acknowledge the fact that you deserve it. These moments are rare and when they do occur they are truly staggering, and not easily dismissed (whether you’d wish them dismissed or not). She did not kiss me in this manner.

After the JK game my friends and I wandered down to a local pub for one quick drink.. You’ll remember the Red Lion (RL) pub was the place that I had the startling revelation that I should play in a Senior Hockey league boasting a much higher level of skill than I posses. We sat around, observing nothing of particular interest. A few anonymous patrons meandered in an out with not much else ado about the place. A tumble-weed bounded passed at one point. Approximately an hour later we decided to switch venues to the Kindersley Inn (KI); a younger, hipper, trendier version of the RL. Subsequently, the KI was the sort of place that younger, hipper, trendier girls hung out.

We decided to ride “The Bus” to the KI. The fact that of all the busses in Kindersley this one is known as “The Bus” says something. “The Bus” is a frighteningly truncated version of a school bus (even yellow) that can be summoned at any hour. It will arrive promptly to carry your sorry self anywhere within the township that you should wish to go. Philosophically, it’s a masterful idea. A minor caveat to the entire theory is, of course, the fact that all manner of ass-hat is sure to be riding the lorry at the exact instant you wish to travel. As a general rule, if I recall the bus trip being “not that bad’, then I am that ass-hat. I remember this bus trip being of a particularly good time.

There is that sort of kiss which; put simply, warms you in passing. Ever fleeting just a quick flickering identifier that the particular someone you’re presently spending time with can spare a moment to float passed you in some arbitrary room and deposit slobber on your cheek. These kisses are made all the more exciting if your provider is able to lay it upon you prior to your realization that anything has actually happened; forcing you to stop and remember how nice it was rather than expecting how nice it will be. This brand of affection can be more-heart felt than the first. In this world of work, cell phones, e-mail, and everything else that takes time away from the things that really matter it is truly considerate of your counterpart to stop and acknowledge the fact that you matter to them enough to pause…..if only for an instant. She did not kiss me in this manner.

We arrived at the KI and I performed the same opening maneuver I always do upon entering a crowded night-club. I walked confidently like my handsomeness cured disease. I cut a swath directly through the people as if touching me would turn you to stone. I made eye contact like I was surveying the crowd for candidates to share my nuclear bomb shelter. Lastly, I headed straight for the washroom like I hadn’t gone in three days. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t have to go. I stood in the bathroom for a few minutes trying not to look like I was watching the boys pee then headed back to the floor of the club. I walked passed a cute girl at the ATM machine who surprisingly smiled and quite brilliantly stated…”Hello.” I tried to impress her with a response modeled after James Bond (Sean Connery, of course). I smiled and nodded, “I withdraw money from these things all the time.” She quickly hid the cash as I shrunk to the safety of my friends table. It’s an absolute wonder that I’m ever able to get a date.

There is that sort of kiss which; put simply, is mandated by tradition. Sidling through the door of your grandparent’s house you remove your snow boots and winter coat as you find your spot in the queue for the routine family greetings. Standard hugs and refined kisses remind you that those extended portions of your family that you see all too seldom yet remain important. There are, of course, varying degrees of the implementation of family gestures. I personally don’t engage in the most lavish of family embraces simply because in 1984 I contracted an acute case of the cooties that I’ve been unable to shake. I care about my family far too much to risk spreading the infection.

Let me describe her….carefully. Very, very carefully. I’ll reiterate; this was perfectly harmless, like fixing a radio while taking a bath. She was thin; not so thin that she had to put rocks on her pockets on a gusty day; however, thin enough that the snug white t-shirt she wore would allow me to draw a fairly accurate police sketch of her torso. She wore light blue jeans that hugged her hips, although not to the extent that her t-shirt embraced her…well….embraceables. She wasn’t stunningly attractive, but she couldn’t be quickly dismissed either. Deep persistent eyes gave the impression that she neither required my company nor cared if I were there at all. There’s something eerily irresistible about a woman who treats you like you don’t exist.

There is that type of kiss which; put simply, tastes like an ashtray. It is always performed while ill-judgment and poor decision-making stare down from perched atop each shoulder. If I had to use an analogy I suppose it would be drunken sailor meets nymphomaniac cheerleader. Often occurring shortly after last call in a crowded pub just before you begin to consider your options for arriving home safely. Seedier motives may accompany the combatants in this second brand of amorous meeting. Oddly, these encounters seem to come easier than the first, I suppose that’s since there’s little or no risk. You’re not putting yourself in a position to lose something since you’re not dealing with an individual that’s paralyzed your ability to act rationally. Sigh.

Needless to say in a perfect world we’d all have more the prior and less of the latter. Well “Judgy McRighteous”, my world is far from perfect. I’m willing to bet each and every one of you has kissed one frog that hasn’t turned into a prince. I know for a fact there are a few girls running around who regret kissing my sorry lips upon a veritable wasteland of awful decision making.

We chased each-other around the crowded bar for the better part of however long I was there. Which could be anywhere from ten minutes to four hours….I can’t be certain. All manner of flirtation and taunting took place gaining moment as the night wore on. Any indications of interest that began with innuendo graduated to flagrant debauchery by the time the lights came on and the bouncers began to shuffle customers out the door. Now, this next part was my fault. This mystery woman stated she was going for a cigarette. As a matter of reflex I instantly stated that I needed one too. So technically, I could have curbed the disaster there…..hindsight. I followed her outside. I was wearing a t-shirt; however, I wouldn’t have realized how strikingly cold it was if it wasn’t for her t-shirt. Amidst my understandable distraction she leaned in and performed everyone’s least enchanting brand of lip touching. I feel it only honest of me to inform you I was a somewhat willing participant. Ok, that was it. I jumped back on “The Bus”, continued on to a house party and spent the duration of my night in a pile of crumbled potato chips. I’ve no idea what happened to the woman.

I suppose that’s about it. Let’s see, have I forgotten anything? Oh yes….right….minor detail….how can I present this in a manner that won’t cause the entire of your bottom jaw to smash violently against your keyboard as flying keys rain shrapnel in your eyes. I suppose if we’re taking the opening analogy much farther than it ever deserved to be taken, I’d have to say that our machete wielding safari group was mauled by a seasoned cougar. How else could I say this…. the day I was born she could have legally joined the army. Hmmm…one more….. If she and I were both wine, she’d be much more valuable than I would. She was at least fifteen years my predecessor, some speculate that number to be as high as twenty.

The Norwalk

Long time no read…..or should I say write? Semantics, in any case, we’re here now, we might as well make the best of it…which is (ironically) roughly the same premise for nearly all of my previous relationships.

I considered asking you all to defer your urge to view the attached images until after you’ve read the update. I thought I may prepare your virgin eyes for viewing the monstrosity contained therein. Then I recalled every instance in which I had been asked to do the same. Disregarding those fleeting requests I mercilessly double-clicked (quicker than usual – out of spite), then promptly deleted the email while entirely dismissing any semblance of the pictures meaning (since I hadn’t bothered to read the text). Immediately thereafter I dubbed the sender a hooligan (and a bit of a slacker) for wasting my invaluable time. I refuse to believe you are a hooligan (although you’re obviously a bit of a slacker); subsequently you may view the attached images presently, that I may continue the rest of my ruse in peace. I realize a precious few of you have already bore witness to these pictures; however, allow me the opportunity to explain the motive of my captors. Actually, I’ve absolutely no idea of their motive, bastards I suppose (perhaps raised by gypsies)…allow me to detail the bastards’ methods…

Up until a couple of months ago I knew very little of “The Norwalk”. I originally thought it to be a fancy dance maneuver. It would closely resemble a reverse Moonwalk in which you slide your feet forward in a smooth and silky fashion. This notion resulted in a bit of confusion when I was informed that one of our Long Term Care facilities had incurred a “Norwalk Outbreak”. The initial image painted in my brain was that of countless elderly people performing this “Norwalk” by shuffling around the freshly waxed floor of the common area. An occurrence made all the more feasible by their slippery blue booties. It seemed quite unlikely, and at the same time favorably intriguing. I immediately scheduled a meeting in that very same facility.

The morning I was to leave for my facility meeting (and Norwalk lesson), I discovered that it was not, in fact, an elderly dance revolution. Upon my coworkers inquiry as to what we should do about “The Norwalk Outbreak”; I blurted, “Stop waxing the floor and take away their booties.” The surprise on my coworker’s faces informed me both that I knew not what I was talking about and that they knew that I knew not what I was talking about. After exchanging enough puzzled glances to confuse even the shrewdest of psychiatrists, I received a thorough (and accurate) description of “The Norwalk”.

Truth be told, the most crucial detail I recall is that “The Norwalk” requires you to bequeath your lavatory as though you’ve just eaten an entire box of those fancy little oranges. Yes, those oranges, the ones that the Mandarin Empire is only able to produce two weeks of the year. Bit of a cruel victory, like being the absolute best in the sack as long as you’re wearing your socks. Deciding against all of my better judgment, and since I’d already scheduled the meeting into a busy months agenda, I chose to visit the facility anyway.

There was the matter of “The Norwalk” being a virus of a particularly high level of contagion; however, I rationalized as long as I resisted the urge to lick anyone, I would probably be alright. I was no longer seeking out “The Norwalk”; simply attempting to skirt around it while visiting the facility. I suppose intent has little to do with it. A fact plainly illustrated by my last haircut in which I did not “request” the Vincent Van Gogh; however, very nearly received it anyway. I’ve been wearing a toque quite a lot lately.

On the way to the affected facility I nearly crashed a company car. I slid across oncoming traffic, nearly inconvenienced a farmer in a grain truck by examining his radiator with my face, and then careened to a halt on the opposite side of the road. I have no firm stance on the subject (or validity) of omens, but for those who do, that would be three (my coworkers warning, the bad haircut, and my nearly fatal car accident). Ok, ok, the car accident actually ended up being little more than my coasting to the edge of the highway at an emasculating pace….but I don’t believe omens need to be of a certain level of disparity in order to be counted.

I finally arrived at the affected facility, and was presented with an uncharacteristically personal brown envelope that was stuck to the inside of the outside door. On the front of the envelope was written:

“TRAVIS WEBER: FOR YOUR SAFETY PLEASE ADORN THE ENCLOSED BODY ISOLATION WEAR UPON ENTRY OF THE FACILITY, DUE TO THE NORWALK OUTBREAK.”

I was at a bit of a loss; since, until this point in my life I really only had experience using one type of “BODY ISOLATION WEAR”. I was pretty sure there wasn’t one of those in this envelope; furthermore, if I needed to wear one of those in order to enter this facility, I wasn’t certain I wished to proceed. I opened the envelope and peeked inside with one eye. I discovered a variety of less disappointing items.

To my surprise, it was filled with all manner of disposable clothing (and not the cool edible kind either). Having been placed into a slight (yet effective) state of hesitation by the warning, I searched for assistance by peering through the windows of the facilities doors. At this moment I wasn’t really quite sure what to do.

Choosing to err on the side of caution I began to slide on layer upon layer of crinkly clothing. There was a hat, more of a porous shower cap really. A face mask, just in case I wandered into an open heart surgery. I tied on a very see through yellow gown which made me entirely grateful I’d decided to keep my business clothes on underneath. I had very stretchy rubber gloves that made me nervous for a reason I’m unable to put my finger in….er on. Lastly, I slipped on a pair of baby blue booties. It was at this moment that I clearly preferred my original rendition of “The Norwalk”.

Alright, so now I’m dressed for success. I take a deep breath and prepare to delve into the great abyss, fully prepared to encounter all manner of other employee dressed in similar outfits. For a second I thought it might be fun, I could pretend I was from the future. I walked through the front doors, turned to my right, and was greeted by key members of the facility staff and a single digital camera (which is one too many digital cameras, under these circumstances). If you haven’t already looked at the pictures, now’s the time friend.

Here’s the rub, I never actually became infected by the “The Norwalk”; which (by my reasoning), tells us one of two things. Either Travis’ Technicolor Norwalk Spacesuit actually did help to prevent the spread of the infection, or I’m simply an exemplary specimen of the human variety (and an incredibly good sport). I think we all know which one it is.