Misadventures of a Massage Therapist

Toilet Humor

2010-09-11T16:14:00.000-07:00

I am sitting on the toilet, trapped in the bathroom with my laptop as a three year old is banging on the door screaming at me to come out to play!

And this is how I got into this little predicament.

I am staying in what is quite possibly the best billet I’ve had on this entire tour so far. I mean I’ve connected with a few of my hosts more so than my current ones to be sure, but the accommodations are just unbelievable. I have my own room on the main floor that is decorated with artwork from what looks to be artifacts brought back from international vacations, (or IKEA). I have a bed, a real bed that is almost the same size as my own back home and just as comfortable. I have more space in this room than I’ve had in the last two homes I’ve stayed in combined. I find myself waking up some times and leaping out of bed, just so I can stand in the centre of the room as the daylight floods the room with its light, and I find myself twirling around in one spot, just because I have room enough to do so.

Quick note, that’s a really dumb way to let the neighbors know you are staying there. So I’ll be keeping the blinds closed for the rest of my stay now.

The folks who are staying here wasted no time in giving me the lay of the land. Bathroom, kitchen, laundry room, living room, bedrooms and children. The first one I meet is their 3 month old son. Potentially, this little guy is going to be my new alarm clock. The other child is a 3 year old little girl who is not familiar of the rule, “Don’t talk to strangers.” Because I am now her best friend in the whole world. The mornings don’t start with the usual, “Good morning mommy,” phrase anymore. It’s now, “Where’s Jason?”

Her parents quickly made the new house rule of, “If Jason’s bedroom door is closed, that means you shouldn’t disturb him.” And this little cutie is nothing if not a good little soldier when it comes to parenthood law. But her new favorite hangout is right outside my door, so as soon as she hears the door slightly creak, she’s ready to pounce!

Another great little feature that this place has is wireless internet. Sweet! No more internet cafes for me! The trick of it is to actually find where the signal is the strongest. Because at any given moment, the signal will decide that it is getting bored staying in one area of the room and will get up and move to the opposite side of the room, losing all your progress in a story you are trying to tell in an email that you stupidly did not write on Microsoft word first and then copy and paste it into a message like you normally do.

And in the few days that I’ve been here, I have actually begun to map out the “hotspots” on my bed spread. Thankfully the blanket is composed of squares so it is really easy to coordinate. Otherwise it starts to look as crazy as it sounds to the untrained eye. One day while I was home alone, I took my laptop out of the bedroom I’m in and tried to find a really huge “hotspot” in the house. Somewhere in here there has got to be a trail of bandwidth that could just throw my little PC into light-speed. It just so happens that it was located in the bathroom.

So I sit on top of the toilet seat and begin to read emails I’ve failed to respond to in a timely manner, begin to download yet another episode of “Kids in the Hall” and “Twin Peaks”, (strange combo, I know) do all the little updates on my computer that I’ve ignored for the longest time, and yes, I ran a virus scan. The really “deep” ones that could take an hour. I Figured I might be in there for a while so why not? Now as I’m sitting on the toilet, I’m not actually using the toilet. And it’s while I’m sitting there that Pavlov’s theory of classical conditioning had a real world application in my life that I can recognize. Try it sometime when you don’t have the urge to go to the washroom. Just sit on it with the lid closed for a few minutes and before you know it, BAWOOM!

Here’s where the imagery gets a little comical. As I am sitting on the toilet, I realize that my feet don’t touch the floor. I know I’m not known for my height and all but I’ve never stayed at a place where this was actually a problem for me. I felt like a child sitting there, if only because I was able to swing my legs back and forth as if I was back on the swing set in my childhood. And then something occurred to me. Even though I had the “urge to purge” sitting on the throne, I couldn’t make it, you know, come out. I pushed and heaved and rocked but it was as if I was just a little shy for some reason.

I felt my legs begin to shake a bit at which point a thought occurred to me. What if it was some sort of psychological fear? Stay with me here, this is how my mind works while I’m on the toilet. I thought, what if the reason I can’t produce is because my feet aren’t flat on the floor? Like it’s some sort of fight or flight response for not being secure on the ground? Sounds ridiculous right? But I’ll tell you this; tucked away beside the bathroom sink was a little plastic purple and yellow step for the little three year old girl to stand on so she would be able to wash her hands. Looking at it I wondered if I was to put that under my feet as I sit here on the toilet that would raise my legs up slightly enough that it will feel like I am on level ground again and maybe, just maybe, that will give me psychological and physical…release!

Well, it worked. My first ever experiment in the field of Psychology and Physiology in one go! And truth be told, with the little stool under foot, I’ve never known this kind of ease and comfort even in my own bathroom. I propped up my laptop upon my lap and began typing away this little discovery when…BANG BANG BANG!!!

“Jason, come out and play!” And you really have to imagine that being said in a high-pitched, sing-song kind of way to get the full effect. Which is borderline cute and scary as hell at the same time. As luck would have it, I was on the toilet in case it was the latter of those two options. So now I’m in a jam. I am sitting on the toilet with my pants around my ankles, I have a plastic stepping stool under foot, a laptop that is most certainly giving off a light that makes this whole scenario look all the more suspect, and the only thing that separates me from the outside world is a door, which at that very moment I discovered did not have a lock on it.

I’m now staring at the three year old standing in the open door. Apparently it’s no big thing for this little girl to barge into the bathroom when it was just her and her parents. She has a look that conveys in no small way, “Ooh…you are so my bitch now.” Because all she would have to do is call out for her mom and I either stay seated and have them discover this whole suspicious scene the way it is, or I try to get up and pull up my pants as their small child looks on in horror at the half naked bald man with a computer in tow.

In a voice that sounds too far off in the distance to be my own, I asked this little angel, very kindly, to close the door and I’d be out in a minute to play with her. She giggled manically as she slowly shut the door again; never taking her eyes off of mine the whole time it creaked to a close. Fucking. Freaky.

Now I have to figure out how to get out of the toilet, while trying to hide the laptop, lest the parents are now waiting outside the bathroom door, just like their young daughter in the mornings, in order to confirm that I am indeed a pervy creep who does things in the bathroom when they are not around.

You’ll know the outcome if my next little Misadventure is titled, “Funny things I learned while being arrested.”

The Reverend

2010-09-05T01:07:00.000-07:00

I‘m not sure why I haven’t shared this little tid bit of information with all of you, because this is a pretty big piece of history that really does shed some light on the inner workings of my mind. I’m not exactly sure how it came back to me all of a sudden. All I know for sure is that somehow I got onto the subject of nicknames with someone, and after comparing some choice nicknames reviewers have given a lot of my fellow Fringe performers and I over the years, this story came screeching out of left field.

Between the first and second year of my massage career, we had our summer break. I was working as much as I could at the bars I was tending, trying to save enough to pay off my loans for second year. On my down time from working long hours into the night, I would usually unwind by watching a bit of TV before crashing for the night. As it happened, there was a rerun of the show “Friends” on when I got home one evening.

I don’t remember many of the details but the major plotline was that one of the characters was getting ordained as a minister online so he would be able to perform the service for two of the other “friends”. As soon as it left the actors lips, I had to give my head a shake. No, that can’t be. That’s not possible! To become a, (what a priest?) that took years of study and celibacy didn’t it? This had to be TV make believe. But the idea wouldn’t leave my mind. And when you are really bored and you can’t find any decent porn on the internet, you begin to investigate these little notions.

So there I was on a summer afternoon, trolling online to find out if it was indeed possible to be ordained as some sort of leader in a religious faith online. It took one search. One.

There it was: Online Ministries of the Christian Faith.

Now to be fair, I did not consciously search out one faith. I simply typed in online minister or something and this site was the first one I got. After that I was too busy pissing myself laughing over the ridiculous idea that this was in fact possible. So there very well may be online Catholic/Jewish/Buddhist/Scientology/Mormon/Mayan faiths that do this as well. But no matter what the religion it was that I was reading about, what happened next was bound to happen any which way you slice it.

I have never subscribed to any one faith. This coming from a kid who spent a number of years in a Catholic school. Mind you that was only because they had a kick ass drama program, but that’s beside the point. And because of the fact I have no definable faith, I really can’t have a beef with any one religion or another, because in my opinion, they are all kind of silly. Not the people who are of whatever faith, just the institutions themselves. Some of you who have read my previous story on the Mayan Civilization know why I have distaste for religious faiths. And with that in mind, the idea that follows was kind of hard to escape.

I thought, “So…can ANYONE do this? I mean how do they know that I am a member of their faith? Do they do background checks? I could be a total nut job who got a crazy idea after watching an episode of “Friends” and is now going to totally fuck with the institute of Christianity just for shits and giggles for all they know.”

Only one way to find out.

“Click”

Question number one: Do you believe in a higher power?

Wow. That is such an open ended question. Nowhere did it say, “Do you believe in OUR higher power,” just “A” higher power. And truth be told, I do believe in a higher power. If you break it down scientifically, the one thing that defines living from dead, that one little spark that no one can identify that makes us “turn on” for the first time and then evolves into a personality until death do you part? Whatever it was that made that little spark come on for the first time, be it happy accident or evolution, THAT is my definition of a higher power. What people call the human soul, whatever created that, is the higher power. Not some imaginary God that is wrathful or loving depending on what you do or do not eat in life.

So in short…yes I do!

“Click”

Next Question: If you were to be ordained as a minister, what title would you prefer?

And then they listed a whack load of titles.

- Father

- Vicar

- Minister

- Reverend

- Parson

- Pope

Holy shit! I could be called the Pope!?!?

Just kidding.

So I thought, “Reverend sounds kinda bitchin’,” so that ones the winner.

“Click”

Next Question: Would you care to make a donation to the Christian Faith?

NO!

If I did make a donation, THEN I could have chose “Pope” as a title. It’s like the equivalent of upgrading to the “Pro” mode for any computer program. So after the last question I had to fill out my personal information, phone number, mailing address and such. And after I hit the “send” button, I felt certain that someone on the other end of the Christian hotline was getting this request and some red flags would be going up. So I waited for the inevitable phone call to personally tell me that my application had been rejected and that I was going to burn in a lake of fire with all the other sinners.

But no phone call came. And two weeks later, a package arrived for me at my parent’s house. I opened it up and pulled out a brown piece of parchment. In big huge script letters it said, “Jason Brasher…blah blah blah…hereby ordained as Reverend…”

“OH JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!!!!!”

Yes, that was my first decree upon being accepted into the Christian faith. After going over the documents, trying to find something that would make it clear that I had to send in some proof of person or some money that I owed one organization or another, I found nothing. There were some papers that gave me instructions on how to get started building my place of worship and how to go about gathering followers. Other than that I found one document that stated all of the powers I now possessed.

Two images hit me after reading the words “powers” and “possessed”. Like the battle between good and evil, I had powers, (not unlike Superman) and yet I was possessed, (not unlike the Exorcist). My powers were limited when compared to superheroes though. My powers included the legal right to marry, bury or baptize anyone across Canada and within 48 states in the U.S. But the hell I could raise with this knowledge would be on par with the devil!

My first thought was to pack up the car and drive down to each and every one of those states and cities that ban same sex marriage and just start lining people up for my “mobile marriage”. My God has no rules and regulations about who you can and cannot love! But something more sinister emerged after that brilliant idea.

As I said, I was bartending at the time, and I was paying my way through college. Now I am also skilled enough, (apparently) to have yet another source of income. I stood up and paced around the house for a good long while, and then it came to me. I am going to move to Las Vegas!!!

I was going to open a bar and call it, “Worst Hangover Guaranteed”. The customers would come in and sit at the bar, where I would wow them with my juggling bartender skills and my mad mixed concoctions. After a few rounds they would get a proper buzz going, where upon I suggest heading to the back of the bar where I would have a spa set up. There they would get a nice relaxing massage, which would increase the amount of endorphins in their bloodstream, (which would get them high as kites). Feeling good and relaxed, and slightly pissed, it then becomes a no-brainer that the person they met at the bar that very night is the love of their life. Well wouldn’t you know it, there is a chapel in this very locale!

The next morning they would wake up with a screaming hangover, a total stranger in their bed, a ring on their finger, but their sciatica would be gone! And I…would make a triple income!

Come September, I went back to school and met the gang from the year before. I listened to everyone tell stories about their adventures over the summer, places they went, things they saw, the tan lines and sunburns from a summer well spent. And then one of the guys turned to me and asked, “So what did you do Jay?”

“I found God and became a minister.”

Naturally, this got the attention of everyone in ear shot. And after telling them the story I’ve just told you, it goes without saying that “The Rev.” would become my nickname for the rest of the year.

Amen.

Chinese Dolphins

2010-09-02T20:50:00.000-07:00

As many of you know, I have been on tour across Canada along the Fringe festival circuit this summer doing live performances of my stories. What some of you may be unaware of is a side project I have been doing from the outset. For each city that I perform in, I get a tattoo done along my right leg to represent this time in my life. But it doesn’t stop there.

I went one step further and considered this Fringe festival business that offers all the artists and acts the freedom to do whatever say whatever and sometimes “expose” whatever. Considering that I was going to have an artist working on my tattoos, I thought it only fitting to allow them all the same kind of freedom. Now, some thoughts may arise when you read that. Like, what if they want to do an entire mural across your leg? So yes, I had some guidelines that needed to be followed, to allow for equal space, an appropriate budget, and within my scope of taste.

These were the parameters:

- The tattoo had to be no more than 2x2 inches.

- The tattoo could only be in black ink. I wanted to stay pure.

- Nothing offensive. That’s why I was blessed with a mouth and freedom of speech.

Other than that…GO NUTS!

Of course my fear took a hold of me the day before getting my first one done. I’ve been working on half naked people for a number of years now and I’ve seen some very unique tattoos. But for the most part I have seen the bottom of the barrel tattoos on more than one individual. What are some of the bad ones you ask? So glad you brought it up.

If you have a Disney cartoon character or a Looney Toons character, that is dumb.

If you have a Chinese or Japanese symbol and you believe it to be the symbol for peace/love/hope/strength/independence/honor…and are not Chinese or Japanese? Guess what? Your tattoo is the symbol for “combo number 5”. That is dumb.

If you have a dolphin…it is dumb, and so are you.

I realize this is very harsh and some of you who are reading this who have one or all of the above designs somewhere on your body are now deleting me from your favorites list and are preparing to curse me out. But for those of you who are familiar with my tales know that I usually look like the bigger dipshit by the end of my tales.

Now then, tattoo number one was a very sweet design. The image was taken from a graphic novel titled “Blankets”. A book that if you have not read, run do not walk to any book store and pay whatever the price is. Read it and then thank me later. The artist had a background in cartoon illustration and comic book art. I am a bonafide comic geek and after we sparred with what titles we enjoyed, we discovered a mutual love for this book. As it turned out, Montreal was not the kindest of cities to start my tour off with. I was a bit bummed and in need of a hug at the time, so when the piece depicted the two main characters embracing each other, it called out to me in more than one way.

So tattoo number one rocked! (And no…this does not count as a cartoon tattoo as previously mentioned. I’m getting there)

On to tattoo number two.

I walked in and the artist in Ottawa had been sketching an original design that was influenced from an artist whose work is in almost everything this artist has done since. THIS was more like it! He showed me the tattoo and I have to say, even now it’s hard to describe. It’s what looks to be the skull of some demonic bird that has a 3D eyeball looking out from between the jaws of the bird. It looks totally badass! And I’ve always wanted to feel badass in some way, (all 150 lbs. of me). The only thing bad about it…it was going to be HUGE! At least double the size of my last tattoo. But, the guy was so into the idea of a cross Canada tattoo that he reduced the price just for me. How could I refuse?

So two for two! Let’s move on to Toronto.

This is where things went slightly sour. I arrived at the shop and was greeted by the cashier, another artist working that day, and the girls who sold merch in the downstairs area. My artist for that day however…was still sleeping. Apparently he was still hung over from the night before. Oh and the tattoo, yeah, he never gave it a second thought after I booked with him. So he has nothing to offer. So on the spot, after looking through some magazines and previous work the studio did, with the help of a different artist as well, we picked out this cute little Betty Page-esque pin-up girl. By that time they kicked my artist out of bed and he stumbled into the room. He gave my leg one look to see what other artists have done before him, criticized them all for the after care they chose to offer me, then told me to wait till he was done his smoke break to begin work.

Wait…break? Dude you just woke up! You need a break!?

After a half hour of complete silence in the studio, this guy looks up at me and says, “Kay, were done.” Which sounded more like he was saying, “Kay, get the fuck out.” Half the studio came in to check out my tattoo and talk about the cross country idea. The staff was amazing! The artist I had…could not have been a bigger dink.

Ah well, tattoo number three is sweet!

Winnipeg. My home sweet home. Originally I had discovered that a childhood friend of mine had since become a tattoo artist in the city, so I thought it would be like coming full circle in a way to have her do my next tattoo. But things sometimes go awry in life and I had to reschedule with a different studio at the last minute. A very nice woman brought me in and agreed to do the tattoo my friend was supposed to do in her place. What it was supposed to be was a copy of that little logo that you would see at the end of any “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” or “Firefly” episode. The Mutant Enemy guy that goes, “Grrr…Argh”. My love for zombies and my love of Joss Whedon come together. And the artist did it in a way that it looks like the little guy is chasing after the pin-up girl. AWESOME!

The one thing that stood out about this one was the studio I had to be in. I’m used to the studios where they have the dental chair you sit in, while images of all these badass, full color body tattoos hang on display. Pictures of biker boys showing off their latest works, “Black Label Society” logos on the shelves, maybe trinkets from old school horror movies, and always…death metal playing on the radio.

This time however, I am brought to the back room and told to take a seat in the dentist chair. The chair...is bright pink. I take a look at my surroundings and notice that the walls are decorated with giant flower stickers, posters of Disney Princesses, fun little bobble heads, and rainbows for the boarder around the walls. This was where Strawberry Shortcake gets her tats done. The artist told me that they used this room to pierce all the little kids. This way they feel a little less intimidated. But for me, I was feeling a little emasculated.

Why can’t I go in the big boy room? So now my “Buffy” tattoo is becoming less cool and more girly by the minute.

But when all was said and done, it is a wicked addition. Tattoo number four, DONE!

Tattoo five. Edmonton. The crown jewel of the Fringe festival. I arrived at the studio and met my artist for the day, an older artist who has been on the scene for decades. At first he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do for me. Looking at his arms, which had so much art along them you were hard pressed to find a sliver of untouched flesh, I noticed a lot of the work was of classic movie monsters like Frankenstein, Dracula, and Wolfman. So I offered the idea of doing a horror monster with his own kind of flair. He drew up a sketch within ten minutes and away we went.

Now to be honest, I wasn’t sold on the style at first. It looked like something along the line of graffiti art, or something that a kid would have on the back of his skateboard. Neither of these ideas appealed to me. But when all was said and done, it is one of the better looking tattoos I have so far.

Tattoo number five is wicked cool! Onto Victoria!

And here…is where things go awry. I walked in to the little studio and was greeted by the artist I was to work with. Now one thing I should mention is that getting my show into Victoria was a last minute deal, and booking this appointment was another last minute deal. This guy was the only one out of all of Victoria that had time to fit me in. This could be looked at as good fortune or a great, big warning sign.

He is very excitable and really eager to show me the idea he came up with after I contacted him. This wiry little hippy went bouncing back to the studio and came back out with his rough sketch. I was so pumped that this guy was into the idea, and just vibrating with anticipation for what he was going to offer. And then he showed it to me.

“Is…is that a dolphin?”

“No man, no. It’s a whale!”

He said whale. I know he said whale. But all I could see was a very large dolphin. I looked up at him completely horrified and saw that he was grinning from ear to ear. Now it’s at this point I became torn in two. I was at the crossroads so to speak. I am trying to decide if I am the guy who sticks to his principals and keeps his word by allowing creative freedom to be expressed by each of these individuals. Or am I the guy who really doesn’t want a dolphin tattoo?

I should mention that even though I criticized people who have Asian symbols on their person, I do in fact have a tattoo written in Thai down my leg. Which I got in Thailand, and I know for a fact that it is the name of a small village and it’s adjacent waterfall where I spent one of the most awe inspiring afternoons while down there. So how much pride would I lose by adding a freaking dolph…WHALE! It’s a friggin’ whale!

A took a deep breath, tried to focus on the death metal in the background and said, “Alright…let’s do this.” And I went sobbing into the dentist chair.

When I got back to the billets place that I’m at in Victoria, I spent the rest of the afternoon moping around and drinking a ridiculous amount of Pepsi. It wasn’t until one of the residents of the place, Caitlin, came home that my spirits picked up. She immediately asked about the tattoo, which I started off by explaining to her my dislike of certain tattoos in the Asian/Fish genre, and the whole ordeal of the artist’s revelation of the dolphin/whale leading into my personal dilemma of sticking to my guns.

And then I pouted and took a swig of Pepsi.

But, Caitlin then told me that in myths or legends held by many native or aboriginal cultures, they deemed that the whales are the keepers of stories over the years. Whales hold onto the history of the world and the tales that people weave.

My eyes lit up slightly, “Yeah, and this does look a bit tribal doesn’t it?”

“It sure does, big guy.”

Caitlin to the rescue! Of course I may have forgot to tell her about the part where the guy admitted to me that this whale is also on the label of his favorite beer. But hey…keepers of the stories!

And in two weeks, I’ll have the seventh and final tattoo. Which I have personally picked out to round out the whole set.

For those of you familiar with the film “The Seven Samurai”, the flag they bare to represent the group of masterless warriors, is six circles and one triangle done with a Japanese calligraphy brush. Seven symbols to represent the seven individuals.

And seven symbols to represent the seven destinations for this lone warrior.

What the Hell was I Thinking?

2010-08-20T18:34:00.000-07:00

Edmonton.

Home of the ever popular mall. Love it or hate it, it’s here to stay. And on my first day off from the Fringe Festival I had the opportunity to see it for the first time as an adult. An experience I was going to share with my sister, brother in law and nephew no less. Before meeting up with them I decided to get there early just so I could take it in on my own.

I have never seen consumerism in action like this mall displayed. To give a few of my local friends and family a familiar layout, the thing is like our Polo Park mall, but multiplied by 4. The mall is laid out like a great big “X” and at the end of each “X” there is another mall that goes all the way right to left. And believe me, it ranges from upper crust Like Polo to Kildonan Place mall. Yup, there is a ghetto within this mall!

And to be honest, I think they cheated with the whole claim to being the largest mall in the world. I don’t know any malls back home that have a freaking water park, an amusement park, two mini golf courses, a freaking Pirate ship, an aquarium, hotel and casino in it. These do not fall into a mall must have category, k? But still, if you strip those away from the rest of the mall, it still is impressive.

Impressive how one single mall can still fit two of the same store within it. Starbucks? Two. Second Cup? Two. Boston Pizza? Two. EB Games? Two. La Senza? Two. Shoppers Drug Mart? Okay one, but I can’t remember all the other doubles, there were just way too many. Plus I was distracted by the Pirate ship and the arena sized ice rink. But my biggest surprise was that they had constructed not only a water park and carnival rides, but they offered indoor bungee jumping. Something my brother in law discovered.

Many of you don’t know that I am deathly afraid of heights. In Toronto I could barely contain my bowels as I stood over top of the glass floor at the CN tower. And in planes, I am white knuckled during each and every take off. So naturally when my brother in law suggested we do the bungee jump, my reply was obviously, “FUCK YEAH!”

Wait, WHAT?!?!

Tell me I did not just agree to this. Two weeks after the agreement, here I am in the West Edmonton mall, meeting up with the family and seeing my brother in laws face light up with excitement over this experience. Little did he know, I was secretly hoping he had forgotten or they had looked over their finances and decided against the idea. Nope, he’s all in.

Before I knew it, I was standing in front of a couple of 20-nothing surfer wannabes as they lazily explained what we were going to be going through. I’m sorry but watching these guys roll their eyes as they go through the procedure of explaining how not to die is the last thing I wanted to see. Now all I can think of is the scenario where I jump and one says to the other, “Wait, did you tie the other end to the cable, dude?”

Now, we were being led up this catwalk which has little grates so you can see just how high up you’re going. This is so the instructor boys can occasionally look back and laugh at the expression on your face. Cause it’s usually one of, “Fuck I’m gonna die, fuck I’m gonna die, fuck I’m gonna die, fuck I’m gonna die.”

Before you know it, you are in a small caged area high above the massive wave pool below, and you can see just how dirty the ceilings really are. Chris was the first one of the group to take the plunge. I would describe his experience and what it looked like to see him there one moment and then jumping to his death the next, but as I found out afterwards, our experiences were almost identical. So here’s the way it went for me.

They opened this creaky little gate and allowed me to say a prayer before I stepped forward to certain death. They took hold of the harness I am wearing, which is the most unflattering garment I have ever seen. Essentially it is a bunch of vinyl straps that only serve to cut off circulation to your feet so you feel paralyzed on the spot, but more so, to strap your crotch into a position where nothing is left to the public’s imagination. To add injury to insult there is a foot long cable that hangs down in front of your public display, as if mocking you because you are not as big as IT is. This is what the boys in charge grab onto to lead you onto the platform.

Yeah close your eyes and picture that for a moment. I am a humble man now.

So then they attach what looks like Snuffleupagus’ nose to my crotch and throw it off the edge. Chris told me later that this was the moment that freaked him out the most. (He thought the Snuffy nose was going to yank him off the plateau before he was ready). They then lead me to the edge of the platform and told me to bring my toes to the edge.

I inched my way forward, and I got to the point where I felt I went a little too far. What I mean is I went as far to the edge as I felt comfortable with but my big toe went out just a little farther. Just far enough to go right over the edge. It went from solid ground to open air. That was it. That was the moment I started my mantra of, “Fuckmefuckmefuckmefuckme!”

Then these two yahoos who were basically comatose while explaining how to survive this experience came to life. They started to yell and whistle and scream for the people below to egg me on and jump to my death. “You people are sick!” Is what I should have said, but that would have taken me away from my mantra, and that was the only thing keeping me from pissing myself.

Now, before you do something as retarded as bungee jumping, you picture yourself as this hero who conquered gravity. The guy who laughed in the face of physics and said, “Boing!” And you imagine that when it came time to jump off, you would do this brave Jesus Christ Pose, Superman jump and swan dive to the bottom. But what happens, is you lean forward, see the pool below and tuck into a kind of fetal position as you fall off the edge and scream like a motherfucker all the way down.

And I have to tell you all, my first thought as I felt the wind rushing past my face and I went soaring back to earth was, “Jesus…I need to go on a diet!” I’m not even kidding. Like that’s my biggest concern now? Finally the rope tightens and I do the sling shot back up. That was the best and worst feeling ever. The best because once I got back up to the top again, I really did feel like Superman. And I beat my chest and howled like Tarzan. And yet it was also the worst, because I had to fall back down again, just like before, shitting myself the entire time.

And as a bonus, as soon as the rope tightened on the second time down, I realized all the blood in my entire body shot right into my head. After it was all said and done, sure enough, a blood vessel exploded in my right eye. That’s gonna be oh so sexy when I’m on stage. But truth be told, it was one of the best experiences I’ve had since this trip began. And it was something that me and my bro-in-tow will remember till the day we’re both stricken with Alzheimer’s, and we find ourselves doing it all over again.

My Mayan Education

2010-08-12T18:35:00.000-07:00

So for the first day off after arriving here in Edmonton, I decided to indulge in a little trip to the local science museum here. I attended the one in Ottawa and experienced my first earthquake, so I was anxious to see what Edmonton had to offer me.

I did the rounds of learning a thing or two about the human body, little science displays that would let you create lightning and tornados, buttons that you’d push to blow a puff of some foul smell you’d have to identify, and interactive visual tricks that make you dizzy or see colors that aren’t really there. But the added bonus here was a chance to sit in on a planetarium-like display documenting the mythology of the ancient Mayan civilization. I thought, “Cool! I never got around to watching that shit ass movie ‘2012’ about their idea of the end of the world synching with the end of the Mayan calendar…now I won’t have to. I’ll get the facts!’

Oh good God people. We have nothing to worry about come 2012.

First of all, has anyone stopped to consider that a lot of people are freaking out over the fact that the Mayan calendar comes to an end in 2012, (Oh God, it’s the end of the World!), but never stop to think that maybe the reason it stopped was due to, oh I don’t know, their civilization being wiped out? If the Mayans could predict the end of existence, could they not find the foresight to predict their own fate?

Just sayin’.

So, onto the movie. First of all, our planetarium in Winnipeg is balls compared to this one in Edmonton. I’ll tell you, James Cameron can stroke everyone off with his new 3D hype, but THIS is the way movies should be made in the future. I have never felt so immersed and enveloped in a film like I was watching this documentary. It was crazy cool. Until I started listening to what was being said.

So to start off my little lesson in the ancient Mayans, it stated that this was all based on what is the ancient myth of the Mayans. “Myth”… meaning, “Not real”. So this is all about as real as “Lord of the Rings” or “Harry Potter”. It starts off by saying that the earth was one great big ball of water and that it wasn’t until a giant turtle rose up out of the deep with what is now the earth we walk upon resting on its giant back. Oh yeah, and during this little time in history, the sun and moon don’t exist yet. I’ll come back to that but for now, let’s move on.

So yeah, giant turtle…didn’t see that coming did ya!? Now the Mayans were not born out of clay, wood, ribs or whatever is the traditional bible idea these days, but in fact were created out of corn. Mmm Hmm…corn. The cob variety I believe. Now there were two boys, (whose names escape me) that lived upon this new found earth on the back of a mother-fuckin’ turtle that were a couple of rascally little buggers. They would play a game of soccer in the corn fields at all hours of the night. Course that could read, “All day” too, but again, there is no sun or moon yet. I’m getting there.

One day, the lords of the underworld, (i.e. Hell) looked upon these two boys enjoying themselves playing soccer in the friggin’ dark, and grew jealous of their fun. So they challenged them to a ball game in hell. If you ain’t shaking your head yet, you will be soon.

Now then, the first World Cup goes down in hell! And due to the two boys cheating, (they pride themselves on cheating!) they not only beat the devil, but they also recover their dead fathers head, not his body, just his head, plant it in the ground, which of course turns into a big ol’ stock of corn, which grants them immortality by transforming them into the sun and moon respectively.

I wonder if the origin of pot was based in Mayan, “reality?”

It was on the very first day that the sun rose up in the sky that they began what is known as the “Mayan calendar”. So to clarify here, before anybody checked out to see what the entire world looked like in the light, before seeing what each other looked like in the harsh light of day, or what the land they lived on looked like, they came up with a very complex system of measuring the rise and fall of this new, scary-as-fuck, ball of fire in the sky to make a measurement of time?

I call bullshit! Well, I called bullshit when they said the turtle bit, but I’ll call double bullshit now!

Now I’m a man of facts when it comes to our history. I’m on the side of evolution if only because it’s been proven as hard cold fact. Call me crazy! So I have to wonder how far back in time the Mayans are figuring this all officially began. Because I’m fairly certain that the dinosaurs were here a hell of a long time before we ever started looking humanoid. And they sure as fuck weren’t stumbling around in the dark.

So ladies and gentlemen, those of you who are still fretting over some little superstition about the world coming to an end in 2012, think about it. This is a religion that even Scientologists are looking at and thinking, “Well that’s just fucking stupid!”

Make plans for 2013 and beyond people, we’ll be here for quite some time!

Niagara Falls

2010-08-07T19:27:00.000-07:00

Tattoo #3.avi

2010-08-07T17:23:00.000-07:00

Day 9+10 - Toronto Starts!

2010-08-07T17:22:00.000-07:00

Day 8 - Pork Day!.avi

2010-07-07T22:22:00.000-07:00

Day 8 - Parliament Day.avi

2010-07-07T22:21:00.000-07:00

Tattoo #2.avi

2010-07-07T22:19:00.000-07:00

Day 7 - Home sweet home

2010-07-02T07:52:00.000-07:00

Day 7 - Ottawa! and a little rant on Montreal Fringe

2010-07-02T07:51:00.000-07:00

Chicken Little

2010-07-01T15:45:00.000-07:00

When I was 5 years old, I was living in Montreal with my family and attending kindergarten. Around the time of Thanksgiving, the school decided to put on a play for the holiday. The play was based on the story of "Chicken Little". That's the one where, "The sky is falling!! The sky is falling!!" I was Chicken Little. This was where it all started. This moment, right here, was to be the first step in the long road to doing my own material for the Fringe Festival.

Backstage, I'm a three foot nothing kid with freckles and a Beatles-style haircut getting fitted with a cardboard bandana with multicoloured cardboard feathers for a head piece. They placed my skinny little arms in skinny little cardboard tubes which had the same cardboard plumage as the headband hanging off each one to act as chicken wings. They strapped on a beak of some sort on my face which would always move around anytime I moved my head and poke me in the eye. This meant I had to move my whole body if I wanted to look at someone. The teacher dressed me up, stood back and gasped, "You look fantastic!" I felt like a huge dork.

So the name of the game was this. As soon as the lights came up on the stage, I was to walk out to the center, look out at the crowd and wait for an apple to come flying out over the backdrop directly behind me. As soon as I hear the 'thump' of it on stage, I am to deliver the key line of dialogue, "The sky is falling!!" Then the show would start. We had gone over it a number of times over the course of a month so that there would be no way that my daydreaming, five-year-old mentality could forget what to do. Wait for the apple, say the line, get on with the show.

As I stood there in the mockery of a bird costume under very hot lights, I looked out to the crowd and saw a sea of parent-like faces looking back at me. As I patiently waited to hear the sounds of an apple close by, I did what every performer tries to do...find mom and dad. Before I could spot them though, out of the corner of my eye, in what little peripheral vision I had left between the head-dress and the beak, I saw a red blur whiz by my head. The apple has arrived! But it bounced on the stage, bounced off the stage, and kept rolling on right into the front row. The apple has left the building.

In a flash my brain assessed the situation. I cannot go on without the apple on stage, it would destroy the illusion of realism we've got going for us right now. I can't go out into the audience and pick the apple up, I would be interfering with the forces of nature and instead become a false prophet for my apocalyptic prophecy and do away with the idea that I am but a dim-witted jester in the grand scheme of fate. Deep thoughts for a 5 year old. I'm cool like that.

But as fate would have it, the apple rolled right in front of a familiar face in the crowd. My big sister. A glimmer of hope flashed in my eyes, 'She can save me! Tara can save me!' These were innocent times. A time when a young brother doesn't fully realize the unadulterated hate and disgust an older sibling has for the younger model. And as my eyes widened and pleaded for her help, my arms firmly attached to either side of my body, my right hand flicking spastically trying to signify to my sister, "Throw the apple up HERE", a smile crafted by the devil himself grew across my sisters face. She tossed the apple up and down in her hand a few times and mouthed the words, "Oh! You want...this apple?"

My eyes began to twitch and burn with the words, "YES!"

It's at that point that my sister, who in her entire life has never had any interest or aptitude for sports, rounded her arm behind her head, and fast-balled the apple towards center stage. At Mach-5, this red round missile hit me right between the eyes. Now if you take a moment to recall the sound that echoes in your jaw when you take that first bite out of an apple, and the sound of a wooden baseball bat hitting a big fat softball right out of the park, and mix those two together, you get a pretty gruesome sound. And the audience knew it too, because they all said as one, "Ooooh!"

I'm five years old. I just got blasted in the face by my big sister in front of a room full of adults and all the cool kids in Grades 1 through 8. All my friends were waiting in the wings. And I couldn't see my Mom or Dad anywhere. I wanted to cry. My eyes were way ahead of me, holding back the tears on the lower edge of my eyelids for the very moment that my lip started to quiver. It felt like my face was on fire, (and I was most definitely cross-eyed) but I stood there for what seemed an eternity and came to a realization that has served me well ever since. The show must go on.

So I stiffened up, looked out to the crowd and said in a very weak, heartbreaking voice, "Oh! The s-s-sky is f-f-falling!!" and marched over to stage right to find my good friend Henny Penny. I looked up at the Hen and thought, 'Man, your costume sucks!' without realizing she was a mirror image to my own costume. The girl just stared at me in awe of my sheer courage for going on with the show. Either that or she was shit scared that apples were actually being thrown from the audience if you gave a sucky performance. She looked at me almost horrified and said, "Are you okay? I saw the apple." I tried to brush it off and quickly said, "Yes, I'm fine! Come on, the show must go on!"

Off to the other side of the stage we went to find our other friend, Goosey Loosey. Same thing as before, I get there and my friend is peering out at the attacking audience in fear for her life. She took one look at me and tried to say, "Are you okay?" but I just stammered and flicked my pathetic cardboard wing towards the stage saying, "I'm fine! C'mon!" It went back and forth like this until we had a mass of frightened, cardboard-clothed children on stage. The story finishes off by having the whole flock of bird characters die by being eaten alive by a Fox, all but one very lucky Chicken that is, who then gets to tell the King about the oncoming apocalypse and that his entire posse, (or "Fellowship of the Apple") have been consumed by a fox. For his reward, the King sick's his dogs on the Fox and restores life to the Chicken Little gang, (how he does that exactly, I have no idea).

The only question I have in regards to the whole story is this: What the hell did any of that have to do with Thanksgiving? I'm pretty sure the teachers just saw Thanksgiving = Turkey. Turkey = Chicken. Chicken = Little. But what is the message? Is it that we must be thankful for all that we have and that it might all be gone one day so abuse it all while you can?

or...

Is the message a warning not to be like the little Chicken who jumps to a conclusion and whips the populace into mass hysteria, where upon the unscrupulous Fox would no doubt use the lies to manipulate the rest of the world for his own benefit?

The answer...

Who gives a shit? I'm five years old, I got smashed in the face with an apple, and I'm about to get an ice cream cone for a job well done. The sky be damned!

If Mr. Ford can do it, so can I!

2010-06-26T18:55:00.000-07:00

I have a confession to make before we get into this story. I, Jason Brasher, shave my chest. I know what you’re all thinking, the only people who do that are self-absorbed douche bags. Well, you’re right. But the main reason I do the smooth, is because when I have the fur going on, it itches like crazy. But when I shave it, I have like two weeks of itch-free Pecs. Then it begins to grow back and for two weeks it itches again. Then it’s a happy medium again, till it gets too long and itches all over again.

Inflammation is not a good color on me.

Now knowing that I am going to be on the road for a good long while and staying at a bunch of stranger’s houses in all the different cities, the scenario I would like to avoid is the inevitable one when the home owners come home earlier than expected and catch me in the process of shaving my chest. That’s the real world version of “The Crying Game” in my head.

So to avoid this, I thought “Hey, why don’t I just get body sugaring done? It’ll last longer!”

In the past, I have tried self-waxing strips. It was not the smartest of ideas I’ve ever had. Somewhere between getting the wax stuck on my chest, hands, legs, face and the walls...I vowed that this was going to be the last attempt at waxing. But folks have told me that sugaring is not as painful, but that I should still get a professional to do it.

So off of a friends recommendation, I booked an appointment at a day spa for the following Saturday. I arrived at the spa for my appointment and was immediately led down a bunch of hallways that twisted and turned, snaking all the way to the back of the building. Funny, it didn’t look like it could house the entirety of Middle-Earth from the outside?

As I sat in an over-stuffed chair, feeling like a man-child in a room that was far too sophisticated, I wondered how the hell I was going to find my way out again. Before I knew it, a small woman entered the waiting area and introduced herself as my “Body Scrubber”.

“I’m afraid you got the wrong guy. I’m here for, um...a uh, *cough* chest...sugar...thing.” Said I in the manliest voice I could muster.

“Oh no! First you have to exfoliate all the dead skin off so as not to cause infection!” I was leery, but she had that kind of matter of fact approach about her that I did not want to question. So I kinda shrugged and got up to follow her.

“Oh but first, we have to get you changed out of your clothes and into the bathrobes. You’ll find one in the change room here.” Ah, right, this is a spa. I forgot about the protocol. Already, I was dreading this experience.

So out I come from the change room, trying to maintain somewhat of a cool-guy-stride as this massive bathrobe consumes my tiny stick figure body. I’m led into this room where everything is covered in tiles. In the middle of the room is a hydraulic bed. Above it is about 5 shower heads. I know what this is. This is the wet room. Am I getting a body treatment? I didn’t want one?!

“So I’ll get you on the table face down first and underneath the towel. You can take everything off, don’t worry I’ve seen it all before,”

Whoah, whoah, whoah! Like, NAKED-naked? Even I’m not ballsy enough to say “I’ve seen it all,” to clients.

“Um...I think I’ll keep my underwear on if that’s cool.” I know...such a prude.

“Okay, well anything you don’t want to get wet, just place it in the pockets of your bathrobe.” Fuck. How dumb will I look if I walk out with sopping wet underwear showing through my jeans? Thankfully, she gave me a second option, because she obviously saw the wheels turning this idea over in my head.

“You can use a pair of our disposable undies if you like, over on the table there.” Yes, yes I will.

So she leaves the room and I hang up my robe on the back of the door. Quickly, I take off my underwear and tuck them into the pocket. I pick up the baggie that has a navy blue piece of material in it and rip it open. I grab hold of two pieces of string and look at this object for the first time. I’m confused. It looks like an eye patch. A slight tug shows that in fact, there is a space for my legs to fit through. So as I place my legs in the proper holes, I hike it up...and realized, I have it on backwards, cause this ain’t covering jack! So quickly now, I switch it around...and it’s still not covering up much. That is until I gave it a little tug with the strings, and fwoomp! Like one of those little umbrellas you get in Pina Coladas, it spread across my junk. Then I gave the same kinda tug to the back part.

There was no fwoomp.

At the very moment that it hit me that I was a grown man, standing in the middle of a room, with nothing on but a thong...the door opens. “Is everything alright in here?”

Before I knew it I was in the fetal position, eyes bulging out of my skull and shrieking at the top of my lungs, “I’M NOT DECENT!!!”

The door quickly closed again and I dived under the towel. Even as I yelled out, “Okay I’m ready now,” I was still fidgeting with the placement of the dental floss up my arse. “How is everything so far?” the girl kindly asked. “Well, I never thought wearing a thong was going to be part of my day today.”

And then...she giggled. On e of those mischievous giggles that tells you that she knew all too well what was going to happen when I opted for the disposable undies. You. Bitch.

She then proceeded to rub my entire backside with sand. Yeah she can tell me its chocolate mixed with Jojoba and the honey from bees that migrated from the Spanish coast all she wants, it still felt like plain old sand that was tearing my skin off. “Doesn’t that feel amaaaaaaaaazing?”

And when I say ‘my entire backside’, I mean she scrubbed places only I am allowed access to. I felt violated. Once the scrubbing was done, she turned on the water works. 5 shower heads turned up to the max and hotter than all hell blasted what little skin remained into a heap of boiling flesh. “How’s that feel? Pretty awesome right?”

“AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!”

“Okay, time to flip over.” Really? We’re not done yet?

The front side was a little less painful now that I knew what to expect. But have you ever tried taking a shower while you lie on your back? Of course not, because you’d drown.

Exactly!

After I’ve towelled off and removed the underwear of shame, I leave the room and am handed off to the body sugaring lady. She is 3 inches taller than me, jet black hair that is parted to the right and lacquered down for eternity, tattooed eyebrows, black lipstick and a lip-piercing that I mistook for a birthmark at first. Her arms were crossed in front of her as she peered down her nose at me.

“Hello. I am your ‘vaxer’. You vill come ziss vay.” Big, scary, German accent. Wait...did she say, “Vaxer?” As in...”Waxer?”

“Umm, sorry but I think I signed on for body sugaring?”

“VEE DOO NOT DO ZISS SUGARINK! VEE DO ZEE VAXING!” Holy fuck I am scared!

So there I am on a freaking dentists chair without my shirt on, starring at this Goth, neo-Nazi who is mixing a bowl of hot wax as she stares at me with no expression on her face. My instincts are telling me to get the fuck out of dodge, but my 1% of manly pride is kicking me in the cranium saying, “Don’t be a pussy!” I’m getting a chest waxing, I think we’ve established what kind of man I...oh, too late, she smeared me with wax.

Then she placed a small strip of cloth across the wax. And at that point I felt soothed. I felt that she was trying to lull me to sleep, like my mom used to do when she tucked me in at night. Gently rubbing my back over top of the blankets till my eyes started to glaze over.

And then this chick ripped my fucking nipple off. As some of you might remember, this is not the first time my nipples have come under attack. But I saw clearly the strip of cloth forcibly removed from my body, and my nipple refusing to let go of the cloth, so that it looked like a piece of chewing gum was being pulled off of the street on a hot summer’s day. Only to finally release at the very last moment and sling back to my body, where it immediately swelled up and began to have a pulse of its own. The rest of my chest was about what I’ve come to expect, I mean if I can suffer through tattoo’s what’s a little wax right?

Then she slathered on a layer across the side of my abs. “Oh no wait! I don’t usually do that part,” I tried to say. But she just looked at me, (while she applied the wax) and just kinda hypnotically nodded as I spoke. As if she was saying, “Oh I totally understand your peals for mercy...but we have ways of making you talk!”

A thunderclap filled the small room. I gripped the sides of the chair and puckered my mouth up involuntarily. I did not know that the hair on my abdomen was attached to my spinal column. And that was just one of 6 strips she did across the area.

When it came time for me to get off the table and pay for this torture, a steady stream of sweat ran down my body from the collected pool that was resting in the nook of my armpits, and the paper sheet that she laid out across the table stuck to my body. I’m not known to sweat very much, so when I pulled off the sheet to reveal a Jesus Christ like sweat print outlined on the paper, I had to laugh out loud. “Look at that! I am such a pussy!” I exclaimed.

“Indeed,” was the last thing Nazi-waxer said to me.

Here’s the real kicker. This whole thing cost me $120.

“What the what!?!”

“Your treatments come to $120.”

“For that?!?”

“Well the scrub was $40. The use of our decadent Jojoba/Chocolate/Bee honey from butt-fuck anywhere cost an additional $15. The use of the locker rooms was another $10. And then the chest waxing was $55.”

I got jacked.

Actually, come to think of it, this was a mugging! They beat the crap out of me, they emasculated me, and ran off with my money while I wreathed in pain. I should report this.

Last Night in Montreal.avi

2010-06-24T15:31:00.000-07:00

Tattoo #1.avi

2010-06-24T15:30:00.000-07:00

Misadventures Interview With "behindthefringe.com"

2010-06-24T14:53:00.000-07:00

http://behindthefringe.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=60:faqs-misadventures-of-a-massage-therapistq-toronto-fringe-festival-&catid=34:fringe

Ottawa Rocked My World

2010-06-23T16:59:00.000-07:00

So here’s a fun little story. I took the time on my first day off in Ottawa to go and see the Canada Science and Technology Museum. I thought it sounded kinda fun and geeky, so why the hell not? I get there around 2pm and get a brief guide as to what to see and where to go.

“Oh we have a great attraction featuring automotives around the corner,” yeah, I’m not really a car guy.

“And our main attraction is our “Crazy Kitchen” which is located at the back of the hall,” really? A kitchen is a part of “science”?

“Just go past the displays of the boats and trains and you can’t--“ WHAT?!? YOU HAVE TRAINS HERE?!?

I motored down past the cars to the trains. But on my way down, I noticed the boat display too. They had hardcore details of some of the biggest and best ocean liners ever built, going all the way back to ships that still used humongous sails instead of steam engines. And yes…there was a big honkin’ display for the Titanic.

And then I turned the corner and saw my first train display. They. Were. HUGE! The wheels alone towered over me, a few you could actually go up on and sit in the engineers chair. Well, you’re not supposed to, but fuck it, when am I gonna be back here?

And as I came down the stairs, looking through the windows of the travel cars with authentic cots and washrooms displayed, I heard a rumble.

It was similar to being underneath a bridge when a train passes overhead. It shook the foundations of the building and I felt my knees clunk together once or twice. I thought, “Holy shit! Now THAT is a dedicated soundtrack!” It put 5.1 surround sound to shame.

Then as I am walking past the display, I noticed a lot of the tour guides going up to everyone asking if they were okay. And some of them kept saying, “That was a big one!”

“A big what,” I asked?

“That was an earthquake!”

Saybutwhathefucknow!?!?

Soooo, I just experienced my first earthquake.

The guy made me feel slightly stupid for thinking it was part of the display by saying, “Uh, yeah…when the entire building shakes, it’s not a display!”

Well fuck you dude! I’m from Winnipeg! The ground tends to like us, and doesn’t bounce us around just for the fun of it! And by the way…OXY PADS, look into it!

I wish there was something else to write to make this story my usual length. But I don’t know how to top an earthquake.

Radio Show.avi

2010-06-21T13:50:00.001-07:00

Day 4 pt.2.avi

2010-06-21T13:50:00.000-07:00

Day 4 pt.1.avi

2010-06-21T13:49:00.000-07:00

Day 3.avi

2010-06-21T13:48:00.000-07:00

Day 2 pt.3.avi

2010-06-21T13:47:00.000-07:00

Day 2 pt.2.avi

2010-06-21T13:46:00.002-07:00

Day 2 pt.1.avi

2010-06-21T13:46:00.001-07:00

Day One pt.2.avi

2010-06-21T13:46:00.000-07:00

Day One pt.1.avi

2010-06-21T13:45:00.000-07:00

THE BEST BEER IN THE WORLD

2010-06-13T10:30:00.000-07:00

I hate Montreal.

Now to be fair, Montreal is a very cool hip happening place. The architecture alone outclasses Winnipeg. And the people, if they aren’t the best looking ladies and gents in all of Canada, I am dumb and blind as well as half deaf. Here’s something worth mentioning. I am not a smoker and am not attracted to those that are. But in Montreal, everyone smokes. And somehow, they even make that seem sexy-cool. In Winnipeg, people smoke to release tension or to get away from their nagging boss/husband/wife/kids. Here...”we smoke because we can, you silly little Englishman.”

Montreal makes smoking cool the same way James Dean made leaning against a wall, “Moody”.

So why do I hate this city? Because of my own stupidity.

On the night of my first show, right after I did a video about how great everything went and how sunshine is coming out of my ass, Phil, who is the guy letting me stay with him and his roommates in Montreal, informed me that I would be able to move into the new apartment. When I arrived here, they were in the process of moving, you see. This is great news for me, because where the new apartment is, is actually a hop skip and a jump from the Theatre I’m performing at. Woo Hoo!

So, I am to pack up my stuff, head to the apartment, unload, come back to the old apartment and help load up some boxes to bring to the new apartment before I crash for the night. I left at 9pm from the old apartment...and from here on, is a prime example of why I call my show “Misadventures of a Massage Therapist”.

Jean-Philippe, (one of the other roommates) asked before I left the old apartment, if I knew where I was going to get to the new apartment. I said, ‘Of course I do! I plugged it into my GPS before I arrived in Montreal!’ If you take a moment to go to YouTube and watch some of the videos of me driving from Winnipeg to Montreal, you’ll see just how much GPS has been a thorn in my side so far. So off I go, I tap the saved location titled, “Phil” on the GPS, and it tells me I have 10 km to go till I “Reach my Destination”.

Well that’s odd, since it only takes me 5 km to get to my Theatre. The one that’s a hop skip and a jump from the new apartment? But I trust in GPS! So I follow it to the letter. I go as far as it would let me at a leisurely 40 kph, until it told me to take a left turn. That left turn took me onto the mother-fucking freeway! I shot up to 110 kph in the blink of an eye. I am shrieking like a banshee because I am totally confused. I DON’T REMEMBER A FREEWAY ON THE ROUTE BEFORE!?!?

I thought I was in the clear when it gave me another left turn up ahead and led me away from the scary traffic. But nope...it just led me onto the freeway going the OPPOSITE way now! FUUUUUCCCCKKKK!!!!

Up ahead, I saw a sign that said, turn here for Boul. St-Laurent. That’s the street I was looking for! That’s where the new apartment is! So I turned down the street, even while GPS squawked at me that I was going the wrong way. “Screw you GPS, you robotic sounding love-child of Hal 9000 and Stephen Hawking! You’re a computer! I have eyes!”

After 3 km down Boul. St-Laurent, I realized that the reason I recognized the street name was not because the new apartment was down there, but because that was the street my Theatre was on.

So...back to the starting point I go. Back over the freeway I go, and yes, back on the one going the opposite way too. And this time, I followed the GPS to its final destination. The destination was the very beginning of St-Hubert. That was the name of the street the new apartment was on, yes, but it was at the very BEGINNING of the street! I was on the outskirts of Montreal! Then I remembered...

When I initially typed in Phil’s address for the new apartment into the GPS, it could not determine an actual address number, I needed a cross street to plug in as well. Which I didn’t have. So coming into the city, I figured, “Well, as long as I’m on the right street, I can just drive down until I come to the right number!”

That works in theory, but St-Hubert is a very unique little street. You go from two way traffic, to one way, to an opposing one way so you are now heading into oncoming traffic, it twists and turns so that other streets are cut off and St-Hubert ends up on an entirely different lane on the other side of a set of traffic lights...

It is the road to madness!

So it took me a while to initially get the hang of the street. But that was three days ago. I have not fixed the GPS to register the new apartment correctly. At this point I should mention that this 10 minute drive is entering 40 minutes.

So after coming face to face with the F1 Racing event taking place here, damn near running over pedestrians, going down one ways the wrong way, I finally found the new apartment by some miracle. Now to unload my stuff and head back before the roommates think I am a complete moron. Here’s where it gets even better.

I bring my suitcase up to the apartment first, come back down and tackle the big blue tub with most of my gear in it next. Only to get to the door to the place, search for the keys in my pocket, and guess what?

The one and only set of keys? The ones that these people have been complaining about that they don’t have a set made for everyone yet? And that they need some special permit to make a copy because these keys are so rare that they don’t even make them anymore? Those keys? Locked upstairs in the apartment.

I cursed. Loudly. Violently.

I sat in the front of the apartment and tried to call Jean-Philippe and prayed he wouldn’t freak out in French. Cause it would be bad, and I’d have no idea what he would be saying. He wasn’t answering. Shit, was he asleep? I tried texting him. Nothing.

I was realizing that I was going to be ostracized for the rest of my time in Montreal over this one. I have fucked over EVERYBODY! And then I had a moment of desperation. I buzzed everyone in the whole building. And as luck would have it, at 11:40 on a Friday night, there was one guy who was still at home. I mimed as best I could through the glass, “I-DO-NOT-HAVE-A-GUN!” He cautiously opened the door and said, “Oui?”

“Hi!” After that, I spoke very precisely, and very slowly, because that always breaks the language barrier! “I live in apartment five,” I lied. “I left my keys up there.” I am also miming each and every syllable.

The guy just casually opened the door and said, “In you go, dude.”

I ran upstairs, grabbed the keys, put a death grip on them so I would never part with them again. Hey, if it works in relationships, it should work on a pair of keys, right? I unloaded everything from my car and made sure before I left to add my current location into the GPS as the REAL new apartment. I hauled ass down the streets of Montreal to the old apartment, hoping that even if everyone was asleep over there, that I could sneak in like a skinny, bald, white-boy version of Santa Claus and take the rest of the boxes over to the new place.

I walked in and found Jean-Philippe standing in the hallway, smiling. “We’re getting McDonald’s!”

After I sat him down and told him the whole story. He said the most perfect sentence to follow it all up with. “Soooo...you want a beer?”

I haven’t had a beer since I was 21. But after the events of this fucking night? “Buddy, a beer would be great!”

NEW TOUR, NEW VIDS

2010-05-06T12:05:00.000-07:00

The Gods Hath Spoken…

2009-07-16T20:57:00.000-07:00

Well, I did what I swore to myself that I absolutely would not do during the whole fringe week.

I read a review of my show.

By fluke, mind you. I was trying to see if the God awful show I had just paid $9 to suffer through had a review yet. So when mine eventually came out, I’d have something to compare it to. While going down the list of reviews online, I came across a very familiar face…

“Hey…THAT’S ME!!”

And then I saw it. The rating.

See I wanted to stay away from the reviews for both sides of this scale. On one hand, if the review was great, I might get cocky and over-confident for the rest of the run and really leave people with a bad taste for any future work I do. But if it’s a bad review…You know the saying, “Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it?” I can’t take criticism. I’m a closet crier when nobody’s around. And I didn’t want a bad review to make me depressed and want to hang my head in shame for the rest of the performances.

I’m stalling. Here’s the review:

“2 Stars”:

Jason Brasher has the makings of a good storyteller — gift for gab, engaging presence, mischievous streak a mile wide — and he obviously loves being the centre of attention. He’s that life-of-the-party guy who’s always cracking up his friends with those "you shoulda been there" yarns, spun out of mundane situations that always manage to take a bizarre turn.
But that guy needs more than a microphone to turn his party shtick into an hour-long show. Brasher has a knack for physical comedy, but his disjointed anecdotes are all set-up and no punchline. And since there’s never a moral or conclusion — or a point, really — they don’t quite cut it as stories, either.

The Winnipegger, who’s making his stage debut here, was probably a hoot as a bartender. But given the gross tales he tells out of school, I don’t know that I’d want to be one of his massage clients.

Ouch.

I read this in between going from one play to another this evening. I was in a great mood after seeing a magic show in one venue and about to see another play later tonight that discusses the idea of feminism in a world where everyone is obsessing over Britney’s va-jay-jay. Something I’ve thought about a great deal. Not Brit’s nether regions, the feminism idea.

But I read this review in between shows. Needless to say, I was gutted. I always wondered what those guys who write screenplays about their lives feel like when a reviewer gives them a shit review. It’s on par with saying, “Your life is shit.” I now know how they feel.

I walked to the theatre for my “feminism-discussion play” and tried to convince myself that it was the wind that was making my eyes water as I walked across the street. But when I had to duck into a corner to compose myself, I guess I wasn’t fooling anyone. I could barely look at other attendees at the play for fear that they read this review and recognized my grill from the posters. That they would point and mumble to one another, something to the effect of, “Don’t go see his show…he only got 2 stars!”

As I sat through what is one fantastic play, I thought about what exactly was written in that review.

“a good storyteller — gift for gab, engaging presence, mischievous streak a mile wide”

Well that’s pretty cool! The review isn’t dissing me as a person…I’m the part they actually like!

“and he obviously loves being the centre of attention.”

Damn skippy I do! If you were fueled on Pepsi 24/7 and lived the life I live, you’d be crackling with energy, bouncing in your seat, yelping, “LOOK-IT-ME, LOOK-IT-ME!!!”

“He’s that life-of-the-party guy”

Okay…that’s the part that’s actually funny to me. You people reading this are not to know the following, but on any given night, I am in bed by 10 pm, reading one of the 10-20 books stacked by my nightstand, or I am doing an all-nighter playing some epically long video game. I don’t go out to parties; much less socialize more than once a month. I’m a 31 semi-agoraphobic, part-time misanthrope.

Who is ALWAYS the life of the party…but on a monthly basis only. Get yer facts straight there, review person!

“who’s always cracking up his friends with those "you shoulda been there" yarns, spun out of mundane situations that always manage to take a bizarre turn.”

THAT! That right there is the point of my show. I’m not an actor, and I don’t pretend to be one either. All I have are a shit load of stories that take place during my lifetime that are there to make people laugh. I have no message, no pearls of wisdom, no God-like statement to make to the masses. And that’s the point! It all comes out of the everyday stuff that just about anybody can or has lived through. When you get to the end of this rant, you’ll see what I mean.

If the review stopped right there, even with the two star rating, I’d be extremely happy. Somebody gets me. But then it delves into the pit of my deepest fears.

“Brasher has a knack for physical comedy, but his disjointed anecdotes are all set-up and no punchline.”

That’s what they call a back-handed compliment, yes? I do agree my stories don’t have punch-lines…because my life as a whole isn’t a joke, and it’s not done yet. So even I don’t know the punch-line. And I don’t know many people who go through life with a definite conclusion to their everyday events or a rhyme and reason to things they live through.

Oh and “p.s.” review person. My spell check says that “punchline” is a two letter word. So, fuck-you-very-much.

HAH! There’s a “punchline” for ya!

“And since there’s never a moral or conclusion — or a point, really — they don’t quite cut it as stories, either.”

This part, I kinda have to agree with the reviewer. There are no morals to my stories, and granted, there’s no real point. It’s just me telling stories to make people laugh. I’m sorry they don’t “cut it” as a story to the reviewers standards, but I’ll stick with good ol’ Webster’s for that one:

Story - [stawr-ee, stohr-ee] noun, plural -ries, verb, -ried, -ry⋅ing.

A narrative, either true or fictitious, in prose or verse, designed to interest, amuse, or instruct the hearer or reader; tale.

I believe I have achieved a “story” by that definition.

The last bit that was written was the real mean part. SO mean that I don’t want it to appear more than once in this “story”. But when I break it down, the review is pretty accurate. What I set out to do is just tell my tales and get some laughs, and maybe, if I’m lucky, a few individuals will get just that much more inspired, and that much less scared to work up the courage to go out and tell the rest of the world their stories, their adventures, their joys and sorrows, that it is possible to do what you thought was impossible.

And even though some may not like it, it’s unique, it’s true, and you have in fact achieved something. One of the biggest influences on doing my show the way I chose to do it is Henry Rollins. A guy who spends most of his life on a stage telling people what he did that day, that week, that month, where he’s been what he thought, and how balls-out funny life really is. He says, very frequently, “I refuse to live my life under a rock,” and I refuse to let one bad critic make me think any less of myself.

Plus, reviewers get paid by the word and I just copy and pasted her entire little review on here. She won’t see a dime for that, so hah hah, plagiarisms a bitch!

WINNIPEG FRINGE FESTIVAL 2009

2009-07-11T16:50:00.001-07:00

To everyone who gets around to reading these stories of mine,

I've been a very bad blogger. I have abandoned my frequent rants to you all in preparation of this years Fringe Festival out here in Winnipeg.

That's in Manitoba, in case you forgot.

That's in Canada, in case you're from the United States. (You guys do know that there are other countries out there right?)

Anyhow, if you are in town between July 15-25 you can come see me tell a whole whack load of my "misadventures" live and in person.

Check it out:

Venue 11 (Red River College 160 Princess street)

Wed. July 15 - 6:00pm
Fri. July 17 - 7:15pm
Sat. July 18 - 3:45pm
Sun. July 19 - 8:45pm
Mon. July 20 - 1:45pm
Thu. July 23 - 10:45pm
Sat. July 25 - 3:15pm

Ticket Price: $9.00

And for all those who can't make it out, you'll be happy to know that during the entire festival, EVERY DAY, I will be writing new posts on here. Some might be about the festival, some might be stories I haven't even got around to writing yet, it may even be the long awaited completion of my Thailand trip...you'll have to come back and see!

Hope everyone is having a kick-ass summer!

Thailand Adventures (Day 3 / part 2)

2009-05-20T12:44:00.000-07:00

The trip down to the school was an experience in itself. If there are any traffic laws in all of Chiang Mai I’d be surprised. We rode in the back of this rickety little truck with a little shanty shack to act as a roof over our heads. The seats were bolted down into the cab with little care, so any time you hit a bump, your seat would shift to a different area of the truck. Above our heads were the “Holy Shit” bars to hold on to, which we used the entire duration of the ride.

We could see the oncoming traffic as we traveled down side streets, back alleys and highways. If there are traffic lights, I didn’t notice them, cause we were constantly going in a forward motion with no stops along the way. Only once did the truck sort of slow down, and that was just to make a u-turn…in a lane specifically for that purpose. I don’t know about the rest of the world, but in Canada, most streets have sign after sign deterring drivers from any attempt of a u-turn at any time in their lives. Here, they not only encourage it, they have a lane, with a painted u-turn symbol on the pavement, dedicated to it. We are not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

Watching the traffic around us was pretty entertaining. The number of scooters driving around the city far outnumbered the cars. And just when we started to marvel at how they could fit three people onto one scooter, along came a family of five bundled onto the smallest scooter I’ve ever seen. To top that, a driver had his dog perched on the handle bars as he zoomed by us. And still, people condemn Britney Spears for bad parenting?! She just drives Thai-style people!?

When you’re not watching all the scooter drivers dive in and out between slivers of space between the larger, crush-your-bike-like-a-toy cars and trucks, you have an amazing view of the city. There is every color of the spectrum on display. Between the clothing the locals wear, the billboards around the cityscape and the natural growth of the trees and plants, it’s very hard to take it all in the first trip down. Someone in the truck said it best, “The jungle seems to be overtaking the city, or they are constructing the city around the existing trees.”

That is something worth mentioning now that I think of it. The trees around the city are mesmerizing. The scale of them is double, if not more, of an average tree in my hometown. And the way they grow, the branches seem to resemble an old mans aching bones. They look broken and fractured, while the leaves that attach to the ends of the crippled branches, bloom leveled with the earth below. Man I sound like a really bad poet when I try to describe pretty things. But, it’s true none the less.

Finally we made it to the school. We were welcomed at the door and were instructed to take our shoes off, come indoors, (where it’s air-conditioned, thank God) and change into the required scrubs for class. I don’t remember giving them any sort of measurements before signing up for this course and it showed when I walked out with my pants tied around my belly-button and my shirt coming down to my knees. Looking around the room, I could see I wasn’t the only fashion victim. Tall people had what looked like skin tight Capri pants on; the tiniest of our group wore the “one size fits all” outfits and tripped over themselves throughout the day. We were pretty sure the school did this for a laugh.

When we finally met our instructors, we were a bit nervous. In the course outline we received, it stated that the course was demanding and that even though the environment is relaxed, our instructors were strict. This was so not the case. We had two tiny little Thai women with a severe case of perma-grin and a light-hearted sense of humor. For example, every morning, we would have to start the day with exercise and Yoga. Of course when I read that in the schedule, I assumed that from 9am-11:30am would be dedicated to JUST exercise and Yoga. Well it pays to read things properly, (like say…flight times?) The yoga and exercises consisted of a few stretches and then these little exercises that I’m pretty sure were designed to make us laugh and act a fool for fifteen minutes, (which I am more than willing to do at any given time.)

But before any of that we had to do a prayer/chant to Buddha, their King, the doctor who implemented Thai massage, and the instructors themselves. They even provided us with the prayers spelled out phonetically so we wouldn’t screw it up. But we did anyhow. This was all followed by 3 minutes of meditation, which I think was the best part of the morning ritual. But then again, I’m a lazy shit.

Before we knew it, we were being escorted out onto a patio to have lunch. Every meal was going to be a vegetarian dish of some sort. Back home, I have a co-worker who is a strict vegan, (whom I constantly tease) as well as a sister who secretly makes desserts with tofu in it just to convince me that there is no difference between that and any other dessert without it. Well if there’s no difference…then why bother?! Regardless, if they ever knew how good these lunches were, I’d have a lot of apologizing to do.

The patio we all sat at over-looked a stream that ran below the school. On the other side of it were a few grass huts with children running around in the yards chasing after some wild chickens. The huts were cloaked with a variety of trees that bowed towards the water below. You’d hear exotic birds calling out all around you. Occasionally, you’d get a hint of a breeze and sit there trying to place the smell that’s in the air. A smell that brings you back to your childhood, playing in the weeds at the family cottage, trying to collect as many crayfish as your little plastic bucket could hold.

Or at least that’s what I smelled. Everyone else smelled sweat apparently.

The rest of the day flew by pretty quickly, but even so, it drained us of every ounce of energy we had. The trip back in our cab-o-death was silent for most of the way back. We were all sweaty and just completely spent. I carried myself up to my room and stepped right into the shower. As soon as I was cleaned up and smelling half decent again, I got my second wind. A few minutes later I was bouncing down the stairs to meet up with a few of the group to decide where we were going to eat that night. Before we headed out, one of the receptionists at the hotel had a message for “Mr. Jason”. That would be me.

The message in short said, “Someone more important than you is checking in. We are kicking you out of the deluxe suite and moving you to a smaller room, immediately!” Maybe not those exact words, but it’s how I felt reading it. So upstairs I go and quickly packed my things up as one of the housekeepers made their way to my room to help me move my luggage to the new room. I had just enough time to raid the newly stocked mini fridge and pack it into my suitcase before the housekeeper arrived. They can take my deluxe room…but they’ll never take…MY FREE PEPSI!!!

The new room is basically the same, except the bed is about a third the size it was in the other room. Not a big deal. Back downstairs I go and off to dinner we all went. Or so I thought.

We made it up to the main drag where the new part of the city met up with the old part of the city. The way I understand it, is that the old city had a wall built around it at one point which eventually they tore down. Now, the rest of the city kind of expands out from that old city and the ruins of the wall which are still there. That’s probably a very over-simplified telling of Thai history, but what can I say…I’m a simple minded guy, who is also easily distracted when people are giving me history lectures.

So there we were standing at the edge of the very narrow sidewalks, watching the endless flow of traffic zoom past us. Now remember how I said there are no visible traffic lights? Well finding a crosswalk is a greater challenge. The only way we were going to get across is by trying to weave in and around the oncoming traffic, or throwing one of our party in front of traffic so they might stop and let the others pass. I was elected to be the crossing guard, (or target practice, however you want to look at it.) I walked out into traffic with my hand held out, as if I was Moses about to part the Red Sea. And to my surprise, I did not die. The girls ran across the street to the other side and I bowed in thanks to all the patient drivers who let me live.

Now I thought we were going to dinner, but apparently the girls wanted to check out the markets first. We made it up to the mouth of the beast as it were, the starting point to a maze of tables and kiosks of goods and wares. There were lanterns hanging from tent poles as far as the eye could see, illumintaing just how far we could trek. We stood there for a moment trying to take it all in. We all agreed before we set foot in the swarm of merchants that we were going to stay together and not get lost. So naturally as soon as we took three steps, we were all off in separate directions. I think that was due to the fact that we all wanted to get away from the starting point as quickly as possible. That’s where they try to sell all the food. So between all the spicy meats on the open grills, the smell of fresh fish coasting in the hot night air and the unmistakable smell of raw sewage from the river running through the city, it was a pretty potent aroma.

The markets are just incredible. It’s a shoppers dream come true. Almost everything was hand made. Every piece of fine fabric in every style imaginable, any color you could think of. Jewelry, bed sheets, shoes, dresses, suits, shirts, toys, knick-knacks, paintings, fruits, vegetables, spices, drinks, perfumes…it just never ended. Until at some point you get deep enough into the whole display and realize it’s all the same stuff over and over, just spaced out and repeated after a few booths.

You really had to have a keen eye, (or be a girl) to pick out something totally unique amongst all the items on display. It’s harder for me I guess, because, well nothing here really interests me. Like, I don’t want to come back from this trip all decked out in Thailand garb just to prove that I’ve actually been somewhere. Cause you know as soon as that week is up of wearing the Thailand style, you really have no other time that you can wear it out in public without everyone thinking you’re a mad man. Then again, I’m a typical white t-shirt and jeans kinda guy, so convincing me even to wear a suit is going to give you some trouble.

Eventually we all ran into each other again. The girls had their shopping fix for one night and now, it was off to dinner. On the walk back towards the hotel, we came across this nice little patio restaurant that seemed to be engulfed by bamboo trees, so of course we had to go there! Surrounded by trees that are completely foreign to me, in a country I’ve never been, about to eat food that may or may not agree with me, and the only thing that is going through my mind is, “Why the fuck is Celine Dion playing on the sound system?” I can’t get away from that skinny bitch.

But the food…oh Holy Gods!

I played it safe for tonight with a chicken and cashew dish, (making sure there was no garlic in the menus description) which was so so good! In front of me was a small dish that looked like soy sauce with tiny little peppers floating in it. The girls warned me that on the previous night, Crystal, (the only member of our group who looks even remotely like a happy-hippy) had tried a dash of it on her food and immediately turned from pale white, to sweaty red, saying “Yep, that’s got some hot to it,” as she downed her water. So…of course I have to try it. One tiny pepper later and I wanted to “make the bad man stop!”

I thought I’d be a little exotic by getting a watermelon smoothie to drink. My exotic order just made the rest of the group question my sexuality. And I was nowhere near exotic after a couple of the other girls ordered dessert, which came served in hollowed out coconuts and pineapples. Ah well, two more weeks to order me up some of that.

Thailand Adventures (Day 3 / part 1)

2009-05-15T09:55:00.000-07:00

It’s 5 am right now and I’ve just woken up. All of my own free will too, which is impressive for me. Is this a sign of maturity? After what seemed like an endless runaround through airports and falling asleep in uncomfortable positions in the airplane seats the stiff bed in my room was a welcome. I touched the mattress and was out like a light.

I briefly met the rest of the group before coming upstairs and passing out. I had asked the front desk staff if they had checked in yet. He pointed over to the dinning area where I could see 10 women all seated having dinner. I walked up to them cautiously and asked if they were by any chance a group of massage therapists. One of the girls looked at me quizzically and said, “Are you Jason?”

I sheepishly grinned and waved back, croaking a little “Hi!” as I stood there uncomfortably. I gave them all a quick run down of the adventures getting here and finished off by saying I smelled like ass crack. Nice way to introduce myself I must say. So today is the day I get to put faces with the names.

Like I said, it’s a about 5 am right now and I don’t have to be up for at least another 2 hours. So I’m just sitting out here in the hallway to my hotel room. It’s still nighttime and raining. Big fat drops of water keep splashing off the surface of the bamboo leaves that my floor is level with. Looking out over the edge I can see the street lined with pubs and little specialty shops. When the lightning strikes it illuminates the whole sky in a purple flash. Nothing is cooler than seeing a lightening bolt touch down somewhere behind a mountain top, silhouetting the massive structure. From the far end of the street a little scooter comes wheezing down the rain-slicked tarmac. There are three Thai’s hanging onto the bike as the driver tries to keep it upright. Their laughter drowns out the motor as they pass by me.

That’s something that I will never get used to here. The good natured attitude of almost everyone I meet here. In the city, its common place to keep your head down and avoid eye-contact with everyone surrounding you. If you happen to look up into the face of a stranger, they immediately turn away as if they didn’t see you. But here, if someone catches your eye, they immediately smile, bow and say hello, (in Thai of course, which is “sa-wat-dee”). All around the hotel, the bellboys and housekeepers treat you like the owner of the place, bowing and moving out of the way for you. It’s nice, but a little uncomfortable. I’m not really accustomed to being waited on like this.

There area definitely some characters that work here. A bellboy in particular is all smiles and cracks little jokes every time I see him. When he noticed that I spotted a Gecko making his way up the wall in the lobby, the bellboy pointed to it as if to say, “You see that lizard?” he then made a gesture suggesting he would eat it. The main dude behind the desk was just a sight to behold as well. He was a bigger guy, both in height and width, sporting a Bruce Lee hairdo from the 70’s, a mustard colored power suit, thick black and white retro granny glasses, two pimp rings on each hand and he spoke in a gentle falsetto. I’m looking forward to meeting the rest of the staff here.

Something tells me that beauty goes a long way here. I noticed it mostly on the way down here. All the employees at the airport were drop dead gorgeous. All the advertisements for the multiple Asian airlines were adorned with Asian girls in tight little suits and skirts, giggling and twirling their hair. They were like ‘Hooters’ ads, without the ‘hoots’. The hotel as well, all the women are beautiful here. Kinda makes you wonder. And I know I sound like a misogynistic prick for noticing it in the first place, but I’m just telling you like it is.

So now I’m downstairs and having the first of many breakfasts. When the tour stated that the hotel would be providing all breakfasts and the school was providing lunches and snacks throughout the day, I expected little to nothing that would fill me up like back home. Man, was I wrong. The breakfast is not a typical continental deal you find back home, but a full-on buffet like the kind you’d get at ‘Bonanza’ back in the day. Ham/bacon/sausage, pancakes/toast/waffle/cereal, eggs/omelets/stir-fry, fruits/juices/milk/water. Oh my God…I can’t eat anymore.

I joined a couple of the girls that were already downstairs. I wish to God I could remember all their names but only Adena’s sticks out. Already they are talking about what they plan to do after school. Some want to head into the markets right away to do shopping. Some want to do a boat tour along the river running through the city so we can take it all in at once. Someone also mentioned the idea of going to one of the local zoo’s to pet the tigers. I respect the laws of the jungle a little too much to go around and fuck with tigers. A tiger is and should not be a domesticated animal. They can and will eat your ass with little regard to the laws of the petting zoo. “The Jungle Book” was a lie kiddies.

I’ve pounded back my first Thai breakfast. Rice with Squid, cuscus with pineapple chunks, boiled broccoli with oysters and a side of fish mixed in with spicy peppers. One of the girls across from me opted for a soup with fish balls. Whether or not that’s hunks of fish rolled into a ball…or fish testes I do not know. I’ll probably try that tomorrow.

Before I leave for my first day of school, I totally ransack the mini fridge. I want to see if they restock the fridge everyday or if it’s a once only thing. There are six bottles of water, two cans of Pepsi, an orange Fanta, and two cans of Thai beer, (which I left behind). So we’ll see when I get back. Oh yeah, and as of this morning I have my luggage back. Now it’s off to school!

Worst Jobs in the World

2009-05-13T09:56:00.000-07:00

I was talking to a buddy of mine the other day and he got onto the subject of the worst job he’s ever had to do. This is a guy who is providing for a family of four and works mainly for the city. So if there is any opportunity to get a better paying job, he’ll jump at the chance no matter what the gig is. But before I tell you about his, sure-fire, worst job in the history of man, I thought I’d soften you up a bit first by telling you a couple of my own.

One of the earliest jobs I ever had was working at a KFC/Taco Bell. I don’t know who the genius was that decided Kentucky Fried Chicken should go hand in hand with Mexican food, but what can you do? Some of the people that worked there were pretty fun I have to admit. One of the cooks in the back part of the kitchen would come in with a feather pillow once every so often. He’d wait till he thought the crowd was really backed up at the front counter and then he would grab a handful of feathers and throw them in the air. He’d come storming out from the back with a huge meat cleaver in hand, a trail of feathers clinging to him like static, while he’d scream, “Damn it! Catch that chicken! Don’t let him get away! Damn feathers every where…There he goes! Don’t let him get away!” And he’d run into the back again. The silence was deafening.

But one thing sticks out in my mind as clear as day. A customer who came into the restaurant every Friday like clockwork. The glass double doors would swing open like a western saloon, giving the customer just enough room to squeeze inside. A roped off maze leading up to the cashier would be knocked over in her wake. And before I knew it, I would be face to face with the behemoth that was this woman, gasping for breath as she mopped her sweaty brow over top of the register. Finally she would place her order;

“I’ll have a 20 piece meal with 2 gravies 2 coleslaws, 2 family fries, a dozen rolls and…(this is the kicker) a large DIET Pepsi.”

I am required to ask her every time, even though I know the answer, “Is that for inside or to go?”

“For inside please.”

And there she would sit. In a booth all by herself, consuming an entire family of poultry. This happened every week.

Finally the day came where I was moving on to a different place of employment. It was my last day at KFC/T.B. and who should come through the door with a ‘Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum’? The behemoth! And sure enough, she gets the usual with the large DIET Pepsi. Now once every so often, you find yourself compelled to do something absolutely rude and out of character. Whether it’s just you being a cocky young teenager at the time or just being fed up with the daily monotony of life as an adult. Regardless, once in a while you do something that brings you into the fold of Assholes United™.

When she added on the DIET Pepsi at the end of her order, I finally cracked. I leaned in to her and whispered, “Honey, live a little. The ‘DIET’ ain’t helping anything. Go crazy this one time and get yourself the REAL Pepsi!”

Needless to say I was given the rest of the day off. So I look at it as a win/win situation.

The next place I found myself employed at was a video store which had the bonus of being open 24 hours a day. Me being the night owl in my youth took every late night shift I could get my hands on. Not a bad deal. Mop the floors serve a handful of customers and have an unlimited supply of videos to watch.

One particular night I was working with another guy named Steve who had been there for at least 2 years or so. For the most part we sat at the front and popped in horror movies to watch as we did absolutely dick all for the rest of the night. We had a security camera in and around most of the store and one or two in the back room. The back room was the adults-only section. Anytime someone went in there we locked the cameras on it, in case someone tried to steal some porn. While we were at the front shooting the shit about movies and girls and what not, Steve happened to look over at the security monitor over my shoulder.

“Jesus Fuck!” were his exact words as he bounded over the counter top and leapt over two racks of cassettes. I had no idea that Steve had such ninja-like reflexes. A couple of customers were just coming up to the front with their selections when the guy bounded past them into the back room. I tried to pretend that this was a common occurrence and might have said something like, “When you gotta go, you gotta go.”

No sooner did these people leave, Steve came out of the back room slamming the door wide open. He was dragging something across the floor with him. Actually it wasn’t some ‘thing’ it was some ‘guy’. Steve didn’t even look at me, just kept dragging this human carcass across the floor and to the exit. He literally tossed this guy into the parking lot and screamed, “You ever come back here, I’ll kick your fucking head in!”

Steve walked back inside in a huff, came behind the counter again, sat down on his stool and didn’t say a word.

“Uhhh…” was all I could say.

“Fucking guy was jerking off back there.”

“Dude…that’s gross!”

“Yeah.”

“Does that kinda shit happen all the time here?!”

“No it’s been a while now. Fucking freak.”

“No shit.”

“Well…I hate to tell ya, but since you’re the new guy here, you’re gonna have to do the clean up.”

“No that’s cool man. I mean, I’d be pretty shaken up too after that. You want to just do the cleaning for me another night?”

“No I mean the “clean-up”. Back there.”

“…..”

After a few ballsy statements saying no way was I being paid enough money to do that, I snapped on the rubber gloves and filled up a soapy bucket. I walked into the back room, gently nudging the door open to peer inside. The door creaked ominously. My eyes darted back and forth, trying to asses the situation. I couldn’t see anything that resembled, “a mess”. Was he pulling my leg about this or something? There was nothing here, nothing to clean up. Maybe he got the guy just in time?

Nope. As soon as I turned around to leave, I saw it. The rack on the other side of the door was the victim. I’m willing to bet that this guy was saving himself for weeks in preparation for this night. Cause I’m telling you, the guy did a freaking Picasso on the back of the door. I mean it was across the boxes, from the top of the rack right to the bottom, on the wall behind the rack…as if an elephant just sneezed onto the door only to have a spider make its web with the contents. It took me 20 minutes and a loss of my lunch to get it all cleaned up.

That had to be one of the worst things I have ever done in my employment history.

But it comes nowhere near the recent job description my friend had told me about.

He had just finished up a two month stint working for the city’s water and waste management plant. After three weeks on the job he was tasked with unclogging, “The Digester”.

It’s pretty much what you would imagine. If you know your human anatomy well enough, you know that there are parts that move your food through out your body, keeping what’s needed and eventually discarding the leftovers. Well, every so often, you’ll do something like swallow your gum or a piece of hair. That stuff takes a little while longer to get through the system. Well “The Digester” is the end result of the city’s digestive system. And to put it delicately, the city has swallowed up a lot of gum and hair.

This thing only gets cleaned out once every two years I’m told. And as my buddy got himself suited up in a Haz-Mat suit and flipped on the oxygen, I’m sure he was a little nervous about seeing the 2 year supply of what cannot be processed by a huge waste management plant. Into the tunnels he goes and after 20 minutes of walking through raw sewage, he comes to a great, big, sphere-shaped boiler. They crack the door open…and there before him is the worlds biggest, nastiest hairball in history. On closer inspection he realized it wasn’t just hair, oh no. It was long hair from people’s heads, short hairs from their bodies, used tampons that people flushed away, used condoms that have made there way down. All stuck together with the worst of what the human body can dispose itself of.

To give you a bit more of a visual, the mound stood about 25 feet high and was at least 100 feet in length. He had to hack at it with a weed whacker and when that didn’t work, he’d use his hands to pull it apart. Every time he shredded a piece off, a condom, (most definitely ‘used’) or a tampon, (ditto) would slap against his mask. All the while they were doing this they were awakening the gnats that had nested in this heap. So many would fly out from it that they would barely be able to see exactly what they were doing.

I don’t care who you are, where you are in life, or how shitty things can get. After hearing about that, I look at my life and I am so very very thankful for where I am and what I get to do.

Thailand Adventures (Day 2)

2009-05-12T09:53:00.001-07:00

I am officially the biggest douche in the world.

I arrived here in B.C. around 6 pm. I was going to be meeting the rest of the group I’m with at midnight in front of the international departures gate. Or so I thought. Come midnight there I was, standing by the gate waiting for everyone or anyone to show up. The airport is very big and from where I am I can see down two very long hallways which almost runs the length of the airport. So I know for a fact that aside from me and the people behind the airline counters, there are only a handful of people in the airport right now. None of whom are heading in my direction.

After five minutes I break open the little map of the airport I was given. “X” marked the spot where I was, no doubt about that. But it’s right on the line between indoors and outdoors. Was I supposed to meet them outside?

I ran down to the main floor from the second floor and headed outside. There was no group out there either. Back inside I go, heading straight for the information booth. “S’cuse me, where exactly is this spot?”

The gal behind the counter dusted off her copy of the airport map and looked back and forth between my photo copy and her full color map. “I have no idea,” was her helpful reply. Back to the departure gate I go. A half an hour later, my best guess was that they went through the gate already, checked their bags and were impatiently waiting for me to show up on the other side. Worst case scenario, they go through the freak out that I just went through and find me waiting impatiently on the other side for them. Did I say that was the worst case scenario?

I hand my passport to the attendant behind the desk for my airline. He types my information into his computer and tries to bring up my itinerary. Because this was all booked with a group, my flight info was with the group coordinator. So all his questions for me were answered with a very helpful, “I dunno?” But I’m sure they have my name and everything registered for the flight, I mean you have to do that sort of thing, right?

“Uh, you don’t seem to have a flight booked for today.”

“Well that can’t be right. I’m supposed to be meeting like 10 other people here for a flight to Hong Kong at 2:00 am.”

“…Oh wait a minute. I see the problem here. Your flight left already.” My heart stopped. “Yeah they left exactly 24 hours ago.”

I felt nauseous. I booked my flight a day late. How the hell did I screw that up? My mind was just reeling. I can’t afford to pay for another return flight to Hong Kong and Thailand, I just can’t. But I need to take this course for my continuing education credits, otherwise I have to shell out another $700-$1000 for a different course that I’m pretty sure I’ll hate. This was supposed to be a vacation for me as well, a vacation 5 years overdue. What else can I do? I have to go back home I guess? Fuck. Me.

But…after a half hour of some amazing wheeling and dealing with the airline, they got me a flight out of Vancouver to Hong Kong, a day late, no charge. They even worked it out to get me to Bangkok to meet up with the group in time, but from there to Chiang Mai depended entirely on getting back with the group when I landed. Otherwise, I’d have to buy another ticket. The return flight would be “waitlisted” until I was ready to go home. This meant I would be spending some time hanging out in airports until I get an available flight home. I’ll deal with that later, right now, I’m running for the gates like a mother fucker.

Running so fast and so hard that a big burly security guard decides to stop me and do a baggage check. COME ON!? So there I was the one and only guy on a late night flight to Hong Kong, being searched for weapons or narcotics or whatever the hell makes airports go nucking futs these days. As soon as he saw my collection of baggies filled with random objects like cash, cameras and soap…he got a little more suspicious and decided to flip through all the pages in each one of the three books I brought along as well as this journal. The entire time he’s asking me questions about where I’m going, business or pleasure, my occupation, blah blah blah. The whole time I’m trying to be very polite and accommodating while in my head I’m screaming, “GET OUT OF MY WAY YOU STUPID HIGH SCHOOL REJECT!! I’M NOT A FUCKING TERRORIST!!”

After he has searched everything, including a pat-down, with all my carry on contents spread out across a table top, he allows me to leave. He and the three other security dicks, (THREE!) just stood back and watched me carefully as I packed everything back into my carry on. It kinda felt like I was just violated and they were watching me gather my tattered clothes off the ground. Have I mentioned I hate airport security?

Running like a mad man, I make the flight time with 15 min. to spare. I had a few minutes to spare so I quickly sent out an email to the group coordinator;

“This is Jason Brasher writing. So sorry for the screw up, I am in Vancouver right now and they've got me on a flight out this evening to Hong Kong and then to Bangkok. I should arrive in time to make the flight to Chiang Mai. They have me arriving in Bangkok flight 77A at 10:35 am on Saturday at the Bangkok Suvarnabhumi. I really hope this is where you are all taking off as well. I have to check to make sure all my return information is still good as well, but I'm a little frazzled right now and can't figure it all out. I'll try to check this email once I land in Hong Kong, if you get this can you please confirm one way or another what the plan is. I also sent word to the hotel in Bangkok as well so you might already know this. Again so sorry for the incredible inconvenience, but I will see you all soon. Jason”

I’m in my seat, on my way. All I want to do is pass out. I’m so wired and freaked out that I don’t know if I can. I had to get this all out on the page before I forgot all the little details, so there it is. A good start to the trip, and here I thought I’d have nothing to write about from Vancouver!?

- Bangkok.

It gets worse.

When I landed in Hong Kong, I ran to the next terminal to make the flight to Bangkok. I could not miss this flight. If I do, I’m semi-screwed. Luckily I didn’t have to worry about getting my checked in luggage as they worked it out to have it transferred onto my connecting flight. So I just ran like the devil. This time, no security stopped me in the hallways, I cleared all the metal detectors and before I knew it, I was in my seat and being served an orange juice. Life was good.

Until…

I get to Bangkok international. I wait in line for 20 min. waiting to get through the immigration counter. Which seemed kind of odd since I’m not staying here for more than two weeks. So what’s the point of being in the immigration line? Every second that I stood there was a second keeping me from connecting with the rest of the group. Plus I had to get my bags here as well. Finally, I walked up to the immigration counter, smiled for the little camera they have, got the passport stamped and away to the luggage claim I go. 1 hour left to meet with the group.

Under extreme stress, I am not a patient guy. I stood in front of the baggage claim for what seemed like an eternity waiting for my luggage to pop out. 20 min. later it became clear…my luggage was not coming. As if he could read my mind, one of the airport workers came over to me and asked if I had claimed my luggage yet. When I told him I hadn’t he called down to make sure that the last of the bags had been put on the belt. Nope, no more bags were coming. This cannot be happening.

The attendant pointed me to the baggage claim assistance area, where people who lose their luggage get to go and cry about it to someone else. At the far end of the airport is this little room. In it, you sit down and fill out a few pages of information to find and retrieve your luggage. As soon as it was all filled out I asked to borrow the phone to call the hotel the group was staying at. The group had checked out and were probably already in the airport. I had 30 min. to find them.

I ran out of the baggage complaint department and headed out to the departure gates. I wasted no time and sprinted to the information booth. I begged them to send out a message over the P.A. to have my coordinator meet me at the info booth. I waited for 10 min. and no one came. I panicked and thought that the smartest thing to do would be just to see if they have my info at the airline booth to Chiang Mai. If so, screw it, I’ll hop on the flight and figure out where the rest of the group is when I touch down. I’m not missing this flight.

I get to the departure gate for Chiang Mai. I ask if they could check my flight status and see if any of the rest of the group had checked in. “Absolutely. If we could just see your passport.”

I reach into my bag. Grab the Ziploc Bag with my money and my passport. My passport was not there. I looked inside the bag. Not there either. I sat in the middle of a busy Bangkok airport and just like back in Vancouver, I dumped everything onto the floor and searched through every piece of paper, every pocket, every page of every book I brought with me. My passport was gone.

The lady behind the desk came out from behind to assist me, or to see if I was okay. “Sir…,” was the only thing she said before I looked at her with bloodshot eyes of rage and pointed at her with contempt. She jumped back a bit and scurried back behind her counter. That was the biggest, “dick-head” thing I’ve ever done to another person. It’s not her fault that I was stupid enough to misplace my passport in one of the largest airports I’ve ever seen.

I felt hollow. I felt weak. What the hell was I going to do? I’m stranded in a foreign country with no passport. Even if I wanted to, how could I get home? I stumbled back the way I came retracing every step through the airport. Finally I realized, the last place I know I had to use my passport was at the baggage lost and found office. But that was on the “arrivals” side of the terminal. I had passed through the gate already. Maybe security would let me through again just to get my passport?

I don’t know why, but it seems that everywhere I go in Asian airports, the people who are the for information, or to help you, speak next to no foreign languages. Pilots and flight attendants? Fluent English and an array of Asian languages. So why the hell does the head of security request me to write out exactly what I’m saying so he can take it down the hall to some pencil pusher in front of a computer screen to have him call his cousin to translate it for him? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?

15 min later, I’m still sitting in the airport security office, waiting for someone to come back and tell me if they found my passport or not. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to throw up. I want to punch security in the face. If I can do all of that at the same time, I just might feel a little bit better. I’ve missed the flight yet again. So now, I’ll have to pay for a new ticket. Please God…I don’t want to turn tricks on the streets of Bangkok to get home again.

A lady no bigger than 4”10 walks in and hands me my passport. I leapt up and scooped this midget woman in my arms. She squawked as she was lifted in the air, at which point all the security guards came to life and put their hands on their guns. I dropped her on the couch and ran out the doors to the airline counter again. I bought a one way flight to Chiang Mai, which only cost me about $47 Canadian. Woo Hoo! I’m on my way!

- Chiang Mai.

I’m here. I’m at the hotel. I’m sitting on the bed in my deluxe suite. I found out the hard way that beds in Thailand are not like the bed I have at home. I fell onto the mattress with a “thunk”. It’s stiff as a board, but at this point I really don’t care. The complimentary mini fridge is stocked with Pepsi and bottles of water. There’s a fresh plate of fruit waiting to be consumed. The shower is all tiled, open spaced and inviting. Which is good cause in my airport panic, I finally developed a ripe funk of sweat and threw up in my mouth a little bit. But before that, I have to run across the street to a 7-11 and pick up all new toiletries.

Now you’re not supposed to know this, but I have crazy dry skin at the best of times. So the first item to purchase is moisturizer. But that really doesn’t exist in Thailand. What they do have in abundance is “whitening cream”. Apparently the Asian culture views white skin as a thing of beauty, where as we view tanned skin as beautiful. So I opted for hand cream and hoped for the best. Toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant and luckily the hotel had shampoo and soap provided for me. Done…now to eat.

My first Thai meal. I thought after all the stress of getting here I’d start off a little less adventurous than I had planned. Last thing I need to cap off the night is to have a bad reaction to Thai food. So I ordered something safe like Chicken mixed with garlic. It tasted great, and it came with these crunchy little peanut things mixed into it. After my fifth bite I realized what the crunchy things were. It said Chicken and Garlic in the menu. And that’s what it was, Chicken…and cloves of garlic. Whole cloves, enough so that garlic was a side dish at this point. I could hear the distinct sound of my sister gagging in disapproval at this revelation.

But who cares. I’m here, I made it, I’m in Thailand. Can’t wait to meet the group tomorrow.

Thailand Adventures (Day 1)

2009-05-11T12:25:00.000-07:00

Here I am. Waiting for the first of many trips to get to Thailand. I was hoping to hold off on writing till I got to at least Vancouver, but they always tell you to get to the airport at least 2 hours early, so you can wait and shop at the duty free I guess?

Got through security without a hitch which is a nice change of pace for me. Anyone who knows me well, knows that me and airport security were never a match made in heaven. Luckily my Dad has become a really paranoid dude when it comes to traveling. He was the guy who informed me that not more than a week ago, Thailand was in a great big upheaval between protestors wanting their current Prime Minister out, which turned into a big ordeal with the military getting involved and a few civilians dying. Little did my Dad know, that just made me want to go even more!

I mean how often in our sheltered little boxed-city-life do we get to say we were there when history was being made? I’m not one for violence, but something like this just gets my blood going. I hate being on the other end of the media and not getting a full understanding of what is really going on in the world. But I’m getting off topic.

Like I said, my Dad is a paranoid kinda guy, and he is also aware of my past dealings with airport security. So, he informs me that I might want to pack any and all liquids in plastic sealable bags before getting on the plane. Well, $2.00 later from a Safeway and all my shit that could fit in a Ziploc Bag was sealed up shut. My camera? Check. My passport and money? Check. All my headache/sinus/cold/flu meds? Check. My PSP, my pens, my shampoo and toiletries, all sealed up. I was a hermetically sealed up dork.

When I said goodbye to my friends and family before this trip, I thought for sure I was going to get a little misty-eyed at the thought of leaving everyone. Not a drop was shed. That is until I closed the door on my room at work, and locked the door to my apartment. The hell is that all about? Maybe there’s something about saying goodbye to freedom or my home that hit me, maybe it was the idea of leaving behind my comfort zones, who knows? But yeah, I could feel a frog in my throat at those two points.

Before going on any trip, there is always something unknown that I freak out about. Not like panic attacks or anything, but just something that gets me a little anxious about a flight. Sometimes it’s the take-off, I just don’t like the feeling of a plane lifting off the ground. Sometimes it’s this moment of dread like I’m never coming back. But on this trip, the one thing I was so extremely self-aware, or self-conscious about, was the potential ass sweat that I would have sitting in a plane for an extended period of time. Come on, you never want to be the guy someone sits next to who reeks like a Scottish toilet. Or be sitting in a pair of jeans that feel…musty. So yeah, bring on the terrorists, I could care less. Just don’t give me crotch rot on this trip.

This sounds like a joke but I’m being very serious. I even went out of my way to ask friends and family what I should wear on the plane to avoid this plague. So as I sit here writing the first few words of this journal, I am clothed in jeans, a wife-beater T-shirt, my zip-up hoodie, runners and my ball cap. I figure the trip from here to Vancouver is going to be the trial run for wetness. If I think I can’t handle it for the connecting flight, I can easily change into something else. Shorts, long-sleeve shirt, and maybe underwear might be a good idea?

The night before this, I was taken out for a last night on the town with all of my co-workers. When we got to the bar, a co-worker informed me that she had a surprise for me. She had brought a friend. A friend…who had an “interest” in me. Somehow between seeing me on a tape of my co-workers wedding and seeing my little Facebook write up, she decided I was a half-decent looking guy and was heading out to meet the real deal tonight. So naturally I go from good-time, crazy ass Jason that we all know and love…to babbling idiot who realizes he looks like shit.

Luckily I got over the whole rush of being on a “set-up” and saw the girl for the first time across the room. You know how they say, you can always judge the way your friends view you by the people they set you up with? My friends…think I am the bomb! This girl was beautiful! Tall, blonde, thin, wicked smile, great sense of humor…and what a nice bum! Yes, I Jason Brasher have become an ass man. Don’t get me wrong, the butt comes second to the face, cause if you’re not attracted to the face, it makes waking up next to that person really awkward. But yeah, the whole night I kept having to work it out in my head, this girl was interested in me!? By the end of the night, she had my phone number and by the time I got home after the trip, we were going to get together. Not a bad start to a much needed vacation.

Okay, so I’m finally on the plane now and heading out to Vancouver. I am seated next to a hippy who must be going back to the homelands he came from. My worries about crotch stench are given the back seat for now. Cause if anyone can smell something coming off of me over the reek of this dude next to me, they must have super-smell. Dry as a bone down there right now. So far, so good.

Looking out over Canada is something to behold. You can just make out the lines of the dirt roads that separate all the farmlands from one crop to the next. It makes the whole province look like a great big patch-work quilt. Now that we are finally seeing the end of winter, all the snow has pooled up in spots across the land. Connecting to rivers or floodways that move south, making the land look like the skin on a senior with liver spots and veins rising to the surface. Some of the larger rivers are half frozen over still, and other parts seem to have dried up, leaving a pathway where water once ran through. The wrinkles of seasons past I guess? And after spending countless months blanketed in an overcast cloud of grey, it’s nice to have the plane rise up out of the clouds and have the chance to see blue skies again.

Made it to Vancouver. My pants are dry, I don’t smell too terrible, and I’m eating a decent meal at some swanky airport restaurant. I don’t know why but I’ve always had a love for Vancouver. I mean I have no reason to. Every time I come here it’s either raining or overcast, today being no exception. But I guess despite the weather I’ve collected more than a few childhood memories here to look past that.

I remember staying here with my family at the Granville Hotel on Granville Street. My Mom had heard that visiting Granville Island was a must-do in the B.C. travel itinerary. Little did she know that there is a huge difference between Granville Island, which is full of musicians, crafts, theater, festivals, and all around good-natured hippy stuff, and staying on Granville Street, which is in the downtown area of Vancouver. We found out just how different the first night when from our balcony, my sister and I watched a drug bust at 11:00 pm across the street. Shoot out and all. The next morning, taking a walk down the streets, we found almost as many McDonalds and Coffee shops as there were Porn shops. 2-1 was the going rate.

As cool as that was, the best thing about going to B.C. was the getting there. We used to always travel by train, helps when you have a Dad who works for the railways. This is the only way to travel as far as I’m concerned. Sure the airways have faster travel times and are less expensive, but traveling by train is leaps and bounds from air travel. The difference is the experience, the journey not the destination.

For one thing; Leg room. C’mon airplanes, enough with the teeny tiny living spaces. Make bigger planes and space us out a bit for Christ’s sake.

For two; Maneuverability. If you want to get up and stretch your legs a bit, you have train after train after train to explore. And I have to admit, crossing the joints of a train when it’s in motion makes you feel like you’re in some sort of Alfred Hitchcock thriller, trying to get through to the dinning cart and escape the Russian spy hot on your tail who wants to take back the secret documents that are hidden within the porcelain doll that you’ve somehow obtained. I should mention that I have to wait in this airport for 5 hours before my connecting flight and my mind tends to go off topic. Bare with me.

And the third and final reason why traveling by train is awesome; The Observation Deck.

I remember as soon as we were all settled in our spots on a train, I would take off and head down to the observation cart. I’d grab the seat closest to the front and right beside the window. I’d have my little walkman with me playing the now classic album, “For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge” by Van Halen, I’d consume multiple packages of these little pink and white tick tack candies that they provide for you with the odd box of Cracker Jacks and suck back a can or two of “C Plus”. I’d sit there for hours rocking and bouncing in my chair watching the prairies blur past me. See the skies reflected in the lakes and look above my head to see the enormity of the Rocky Mountains before going through a tunnel and being consumed by them.

It was even better at nighttime because you’d get to see the night sky lit up in its brightest glory. Enough to illuminate the entire car. Every so often the train would slow down and pull into a small town. Through the late night haze, you could see passengers getting on and off the train. People struggling down the ramp at the station with their luggage in tow. It seemed very haunting, even as a kid, seeing all the houses in the distance. All the lights out except for the street lights bouncing off the rooftops letting you know that they exist. All the towns people asleep in their beds while you crept in and out of their little hamlet. Before you knew it, the train wheels would squeal back to life as you'd slowly leave the town in the dust.

One thing about this trip that I wish I had planned ahead for, was the amount of time I’m staying here waiting for a flight. I have a friend who lives here that I could have hung out with till my flight time came. A good friend who I haven’t seen since high school. How does one sum up a friend like Fiona?

I met her one day in high school when I came cart-wheeling into the lunch room on a fresh Pepsi caffeine-high. Dressed in my usual grunge grab and with longer hair than most of the girls in the school, I leapt up onto the table Fiona happened to be seated at. I was basically straddling her face before I realized there was someone seated there. I looked down at her and said, “Hi! I don’t know you!? I’m Jason!”

“Hi there, sparky! I’m Fiona, and you just totally cracked my back.”

After that day, a friendship so very unique was born.

She went to a different high school than I did, how she ended up at mine that day I have no idea. We never became the kind of friends that hung out every day or every weekend even. We would see each other maybe a few times in a year if we were lucky and just be totally over the top happy when we were together. She was one of those people who listened to music unknown to you, dressed in a fashion that no one else would dare to at the time. An old soul with an unrivaled vocabulary. But the real friendship came from some the late night phone calls we shared.

Every so often, in the middle of the night my phone would ring. The conversations would start with her either having a problem she needed to confide in someone with, or there was a boy she liked who was not falling head over heels for her, (which seemed completely impossible to me). But from there, we would talk into the late hours of the morning. She was the first person, well I guess girl-wise, that I could confide all my deep and meaningful thoughts to. Nothing that crossed my mind was silly or unimportant when I talked to her. My passions, my problems, my ideas, notions and everyday thoughts just spilling out to her.

She is the girlfriend I never dated and one of the few who knew the real, uninhibited “me” back then. If I had never known this girl I don’t think I would have been as open as I am today. I don’t think I would be as comfortable or as confidant about myself as I feel I am.

I hope everyone in life gets to know someone like her. Or at the very least have a friend who comes into your life and leaves as mysteriously as they appeared, leaving behind something special.

Well, it’s almost time to meet the rest of the group on this trip, so for now my pen is being put away.

Nice Parking, Asshole

2009-05-11T09:31:00.000-07:00

On a Friday morning, I woke up to find that outside my apartment, where once a city was in the beginning stages of spring, was now covered in a fresh blanket of snow, yet again. It was late March and usually by this time of year, we have that wonderful sloppy wet mess around town that let’s us know, it’s not too long till summer is here. The grass is still very damp and can’t perk up enough to look like its once great green color. There’s still a lot of sand and salt on the street corners and all the cars are half covered in mud and filth. Half of which are driving around with the old, “Wash Me!” etched on their back windshields.

Slowly but surely I got dressed and headed down to my car. I finally have a parking space in my building. Before that, I was parking down in the Forks Market and had to trek every morning down there and back again when I got home from work. It’s great in the summer time, but it sucked ass in the first few weeks of winter. Digging your car out of a thick blanket of snow is no ones idea of a good morning. And nothing is worse than getting frost bite across your semi-large nose.

But no more. Now I park in my own little parking stall away from the cold and snow. And today, I couldn’t wait to get out of the garage and head into work. It was a co-workers birthday today and I had promised to get her a birthday cake. But not just any cake, I got a strawberry cheesecake, (as per her specific request). She wanted strawberries on top of the cake and not the mixed-in type. Unfortunately, there was no such thing when I went shopping. Instead I bought extra strawberries to scoop out and add to the cake. I think that’s gonna win some brownie points. Can’t wait to see her face!

As the garage door opened up, I realized on this day that I, like many others in the city, hate Winnipeg drivers. Right in front of my garage door was a black SUV. Parked so perfectly in my way that I couldn’t even attempt to maybe drive over the sidewalk to get around it. I just stared at it for the longest time in disbelief. Who the fuck does that?! A man with a cigarette half hanging out of his mouth passed in front of my car. He looked at the SUV and then looked at me. Instinctively, I looked at him and mouthed the words, “Is that your car?”

I quickly realized that my face still showed just how pissed off I was at the moment. And as soon as I mouthed the last syllable, I tried to quickly turn on the charm and give the guy one of my biggest and sheepish grins. Thankfully he shook his head and walked on. I jumped out of my car, and walked up to the behemoth that was in my way. On his windshield was a piece of paper with a note on it. “Stuck in snow. Just waiting for tow truck.”

Are you shitting me? This thing was a 4x4 tank. And it was somehow stuck in a snowdrift that barely came past my shins? Fucking Winnipeg drivers! So back in the garage I go, close the door and head back upstairs. I called work first to let them know the situation. Luckily I tend to get to work an hour ahead of schedule, so at least I had enough time to come up with a back up plan.

My first thought was to ask a co-worker to come on down to pick me up if they could. People were willing but no one had the time. “Couldn’t you take a cab,” asked our receptionist. Well yeah I could, but see I have this thing where I like to save up all my cash tips and try to see how long I can go without spending it. I was just about to break an even one hundred dollars that week and really didn’t want to have to dip into the pool before I hit the mark. But hey, I needed to get to work.

I called two cab companies and was put on hold for ten minutes each. As I hung up the phone and was prepared to head back down to check the situation one last time, the phone rang in my hand. It was my Dad.

I gave him the whole run down of the jack ass who was parked out in front of my garage and how I was going to be late for work and no one could come down and pick me up and wah wah wah. I didn’t even get to finish my bitching before he said, “I’m on it!” and hung up. So back downstairs I went and waited for my pops to show up to my rescue.

While waiting in the front lobby I could still see the big ass 4x4 in the front. Across the street at the local restaurant, a guy in a black suit and coat walked out into the street. Under his dark sunglasses he looked at the SUV, looked up the street and down the street, heaved a great big sigh and started to dial away on his blackberry. It was HIM! I resisted the urge to run out in the street and knock him on his ass. Ten minutes rolled by and the guy popped in and out of the restaurant. Looking one way then the other down the street, heaving his great big sigh of displeasure and then typing his sorrows away on his little friend, the blackberry.

Another five minutes later and the tow truck arrived. The tow truck driver jumped out and the suit with the phone carefully bounced over to him, (can’t get any of that icky snow on his nicely polished shoes). He pointed to the SUV and sulked. The tow truck driver looked at the vehicle, looked back at the suit and asked him if he tried going in “reverse”? I liked the tow truck driver immediately. So the suit goes bounding into his mobile tank and tries to drive it. “Try reverse” screamed the tow truck driver. The SUV did a half assed lurch forwards and backwards, as if the guy had no idea that cars can move in a backwards motion. After one second of trying to move, the suit bounces back out again and sulks again.

The tow truck driver, (who was really trying to save this guy a few bucks by not having to do anything that he’d have to charge him for) grabbed a shovel out of the back of his cab and swept the snow out from under each of the tires. “Try it now,” he said. You’ve got to be kidding me. This douche in black didn’t even clear the snow from his tires? My right eye started to twitch uncontrollably. Back into the 4x4 the suit goes. Same thing as before, he goes a little forward, stops, goes a little backwards, stops and gets out of the car…and sulks.

Just in case some of you are reading this and are saying to yourselves, “What’s wrong with that?” I’m gonna educate you on getting your ass out of a snow drift. It’s called; “Rocking the car.” What you do, (and what the tow truck driver was trying to get across to this guy) is you drive forwards for a second and then slap it into reverse. Forwards, reverse, forwards, reverse. This causes the car to rock back and forth giving it some momentum to help you move past whatever is getting you stuck. I’ve driven to Brandon and back through snow that came over the front end of my car. Through blinding snow storms across the Trans-Canada highway, where even semi-trucks were turned over on their sides. If I can do that, how the fuck can an asshole in the city not get a fucking 4x4 off of a goddamn sidewalk!?

Regardless, the tow truck guy eventually gave up trying to help this guy help himself and hooked up the old tow line. Within a minute, the guy was out of the way and I could drive my car out of the garage. At the same time, my Dad had just pulled up in front of my building. As I came out of the front entrance with my arms raised above me in disbelief, he cackled in his truck.

“You’ve got great timing, dude”

He chuckled, “I’d say so!”

He waited to see if I could get my car out and past the snow drift in front of my garage. When I got into my car and started the engine, still pissed at this douche bags incompetence, the radio turned on. Playing on the station was that really lame song, “Hell Yeah” by some Nickleback wannabe band. I never gave the song the time of day before now. But as that garage door went up, and I was lined up perfectly with the exit. The line in the song stated, “Are you ready for the best damn time of your life?”

VRRRROOOMMMM!!!!

“Give me a ‘HELL’, Give me a ‘YEAAAAHH’,” is the exact moment when my car exploded thorough the snow bank out onto the street. The tow truck guy turned and whispered a Keanu-like, “Whoah”, the douche bag in black dived out of the way as my car hit the ground and swerved to a halt. I immediately popped out of the driver’s seat and stared him down.

“Now that’s how you do that shit!”

My Dad had his chest puffed out exclaiming, “That’s my son!” I made it to work on time, enjoyed some birthday pizza, and got a great big hug for keeping my promise of a birthday cheesecake. Not a bad way to start the week.

My Worst Day Ever

2009-05-11T09:20:00.000-07:00

***Warning***

Do not continue reading if you are of faint heart, have circulatory problems, nerve damage, are prone to seizures or suffer from epilepsy. If you are on any medication please remove yourself away from the monitor and do not continue. Also if bodily functions really really frickin’ gross you out, you might want to go do something else with your time. Oh yeah, if you are under 18, piss off, this ain’t for your eyes!

Now that the ground rules are established, boy oh boy do I have a story for all y’all!

Today started off like any other day. I woke up in my apartment (which I will never get tired of saying!) and pried my eyes open to see the sun coming in through the window. A beautiful blue sky was out there waiting for me to get my ass outta bed. Which was completely different from the typhoon we experienced just the night…wait no…THE ENTIRE DAY yesterday!

So there I am, flicking my tongue around trying to get rid of the pasties, when I happen to glance at my alarm clock. It didn’t wake me up this day. I woke up all by myself! I’m feeling the grown-up in me clawing it’s way up in me. But what caught my attention was the time.

10:12.

Wait a minute…what day is it today? Sunday.

I work at…………oh…… fuck.

On Sundays, I am usually at work at the unnatural hour of 9 a.m. My first client was scheduled at 10 a.m. on the nose.

I am screwed!

I began running around the entire apartment, (my apartment, heh) screaming “Aww Fuck!!!!” and stubbing my toe multiple times on this new piece of exercise equipment I just HAD to get! I picked up the phone and called work. I don’t leave my home phone number at work because, quite frankly, I don’t want to be bothered by them on my days off. This of course, is probably one of those times it would have been a good idea for them to have it.

All I remember is calling and as soon as someone picked up….

“Good morning Academy Massa…..”

“ IT’S JASON BRASHER I’M ON MY WAY RIGHT NOW!!!!”(click)

Yup….there is only one Jason that works there, and I felt it necessary to tell them my whole name, like I was speaking to my commanding officer or something. I grabbed whatever clothes were lying around, (in MY apartment) and bolted out of the building, laughing inside at the fact that the bar “The Pink Taco” is right across the street from me.

“Pink Taco…grand opening!” “Pink Taco…now open!”“Pink Taco…coming soon!”
I think of a new one everyday! But that’s a whole nuther story.

So I am just booking it down the river walk to the forks where I have to park my car these days. I think I mowed down some guys asking for change. They sent a few choice words my way, which I certainly deserved. But finally I made it to my car. Totally out of breath, I gunned it out of the parking lot and in Five Minutes FLAT….from the Forks to Academy…I was at work. I ran in, being 40 minutes late now, and looked for my client.

No one there.

The receptionist tells me, a co-worker offered to massage him in my absence, (thank god) but couldn’t after all because someone else booked in at 9:50, (son of a bitch) so now my client was in my room waiting for me to come in and work on them. Shit!

Okay, so here I am 40 minutes late, a very patient and REGULAR client waiting for me, all I have to do is get changed into our very popular all black uniform and I’m good to go. Problem is, my uniform is nowhere to be found. And that’s when I realized what I was wearing.

Jeans…with holes in the knees. And a very tight army camouflage t-shirt. I looked like a Nazi who just walked in off the street.

Brilliant.

So I went in, my client was under the sheets ready to go, no worries no nothing. I apologized up and down, I felt so so bad about this situation. I’ve never screwed up this bad before. I am the almighty cog in the Academy Machine that does not break down…until today.

So fine, we get started and I begin an hour and a half massage. But then something came to my attention. As I’m working the back of his leg, my stomach wakes up. I had skipped breakfast in my rush, so I expected a bit of tummy rumblings going on. But this…was different.

This was a feeling, not a sound, a feeling that something in my stomach...was not right.

Something was rotten in the land of my large intestine. And it…wanted…out! We all know too well the feeling of one of those craps that you just know has a relation to Mexican food. This was one of those bad boys. I had JUST started the massage. A late massage no less. There was no way I could excuse myself and take off to deal with this problem. My only choice was to clench my butt and pray to god that worked!

The thing is…with massage, you use your abdominals to create the movements and pressure needed. And every time I did that, it pushed against the beast inside. Which in turn, pushed against my tightly clenched butt, as if a bully was poking it into submission. Throw in the odd zinger, where you begin to pray to god to, “make the bad man stop” and hope nothing gets past the gates. This feeling always makes my do a funky little dance, where you kinda convulse and gyrate your hips in every direction, while your knees constantly try to fold over each other.

Every so often I would look up to the clock in my room with hope that it would read “TIME’S UP!” Only to see that in all that time…one minute had passed. I had 1hr and 29 minutes to go. I was not going to survive.

This went on for the other leg as well as the work I did around the hips. But by the time I had moved onto the back, the feeling had settled. No pain. Nothing! I even flexed the abs a little to test the waters. I was good to go. One hour to go!

The rest of the massage went well enough. I had him turn over and worked from the legs up to his neck. And that’s where the fun really started.

All that pain and discomfort I was feeling before was just all the gunk in my system passing through the proper channels. NOW, it had reached it’s destination. I sat down on my stool, (heh) to work on the neck, and something became…crystal…clear. There was a mass, what felt like the size of a pack of ground beef, begging to be freed from the other side of my sphincter. Some of you aren’t familiar with that word, it’s pretty much the paper thin gateway that holds back all of your bowel movements. As I tried to sit down, my legs naturally spread apart to ease myself down onto the stool. Bad idea.

I damn near fell over with the certainty, that if I spread my legs any further than a nanometer…I was going to have a really bad day. I thought my little dance before was impressive? My ass cheeks did a solo routine on that stool that could put the most influential tap dancers to shame.
Finally…time’s up! I ran like a mother fucker to the closest toilet that was not occupied, (on the top floor, because my day is just that great!) and as the gladiator Maximus once said, I “Unleashed Hell”.

No you do not get to know the contents of the bowl. That info is between me, my God, and the gallons of Pepsi that probably had something to do with it.

Needless to say, I’m a little fragile and weak from the experience. But I’m at home now, all is well in the world, and I’m going to relax now and enjoy one of my monthly treats.

Jalapeño and Cheddar Thunder-Crunch chips!