July 01, 2010
Chicken Little
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!
June 26, 2010
If Mr. Ford can do it, so can I!
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.
June 24, 2010
June 23, 2010
Ottawa Rocked My World
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.
