My Bio

Tommy Paley, or T-Pain as he is often called for perplexing reasons, wrote these words that you are reading at this moment, though he did not invent said words or devise any of the rules for grammar and punctuation being demonstrated (quite poorly) here as he often claims. He wants you, the reader, to sit back and relax and enjoy a nice hot mug of cocoa unless you are like him and hot mugs of cocoa are a constant source of frustration and humiliation. And while you are relaxing, he wants you to not only continue reading these words, but also to make believe that this write up is on the inside back cover of his first published book of hilarious and introspective short stories to be enjoyed by humans and proto-humans alike.  

Tommy, for those who haven’t had the pleasure of being in super-close proximity to him for long, extended periods of time, is a proud, nearsighted, highly (and potentially dangerously) creative family man. So proud, that he once very briefly considered a series of tattoos that would have covered his entire back stating as much; so nearsighted, that he once thought he was sharing his white bedroom with a large collection of quite-lost and oddly two-dimensional polar bears and so creative, that he once wrote a story about how he met his wife using only vowels and exclamation marks. He never shuts up about being a family man to the point that his throat is often quite hoarse (the fact that his throat closely resembles that of an actual horse is purely coincidental). Tommy always wanted to have a family of his own; to hug and hold and call his own while also researching how easy it would be to utilize them for financial gain without feeling too morally decrepit. His family, who came into better focus once he was fitted for glasses, was disappointingly not nearly as blurry as he initially thought, but always supportive, to a fault, of his creativity (albeit while often sighing and rolling their eyes uncontrollably).

Mr. Paley, as his students and closest relatives have been conditioned/brainwashed/pleaded with to refer to him as, spends his days searching for truths, both real and abstract, after devouring a breakfast, both real and abstract, solely comprised of day-old stale bread. Stale bread, according to him, can be used to make a really great bookmark if you are not concerned with totally ruining the book you are reading and getting crumbs everywhere. Once he spent a Thursday evening attempting to literally get crumbs everywhere. Totally unrelated, but the very next morning he started a search for a new set of roommates who weren’t so “sensitive”. Truths, based on his extensive searching each day between 6:30am and 6:35am (which usually involves also attempting not to fall down the stairs while half-asleep), are as elusive as they are valued on the black market. Mr. Paley, went asked to comment, clarified that he has never actually seen the black market with his own eyes as it was “really really dark at the time” (which later got explained because he was wrapped very tightly in his blackout curtain).

T-Pain spends much of his small amount of free time marching to the beat of his own drummer which was always a dream of his when he was but a young, misdirected and freckled boy with absolutely zero ability to keep a beat. A few years ago, he got tired of spending so much time sitting, breathing heavily and staring at the wall that he attempted writing at the same time to give his brain and fingers a chance to work together on a project. His brain and fingers not only grew closer, but they also held a secret staff meeting and passed a motion to buy Tommy out. To call what he feels when writing “joy” would be both accurate and misleading. To call what he writes about “necessary” or “meaningful” or “non-gag inducing” would cause people to wonder if he is just writing his own reviews now. When not writing, he is not.

Mr. P can often be found counselling the leaders of tomorrow during working hours and shepherding wild animals in the evenings, although no proof has been provided and it is really just his word at this point. What sort of has-been deadbeat would go through all the time and effort and allergy medication needed just to invent a lie involving the herding and care of feral animals just to attempt to impress people reading this bio? What sort of deadbeat indeed! Hopefully, by reading this, you can see how funny Mr. P is or at least how desperately hard he is trying to be seen as funny, which should be funny in and of itself, only in a bit of a sad way. If you are smiling reading this, then he has succeeded. If his success, in turn, makes you a tad worried blink twice and then touch your nose with your two pinky fingers at the same time. Help is on its way.

Finally, and kudos to you for reading this far in the hope that there will be draw prizes upon completion which there definitely will not, in the near future Tommy hopes to complete his vegetarian cookbook to end all vegetarian cookbooks (that’s meant to sound as promising and threatening as it does) entitled “Seriously, Where the F@#& is the Meat?” which will not only contain amazing recipes and hilarious anecdotes involving food, but also instructions on how to appear richer than you really are without resorting to a life of crime done entirely using marionettes. Tommy also plans to continue to write his unique brand of creative non-fiction that, while not helping him achieve the fame and applause and free bags of pre-shredded cheese that other writers of his ilk may crave, give him yet one more reason to get out of bed and put on his socks in the morning. The other is to avoid cold feet.

The Writing Process: Part 2

So, I am back to continue to enlighten all of you who are still tuning in (is there more of an echo now then last time or is that just the result of all of my vocal training?) about how I write. Note: if any of you are actually attempting to tune in, please stop as it is greatly disrupting my cable and most likely not at all possible unless you have tons of money and then almost anything is possible. For those who missed the first piece about the writing process, these blog posts are my chance to share where my ideas come from and how much it costs for me to purchase them and bring them here from their native Namibia. I am attempting to flesh out how I do what I do without using any actual flesh in the process. I did try to brainstorm how I would use flesh if I wanted to and just couldn't think of a plan that would be overly messy and attractive to ants. There are times when I want to be attractive to ants, but those are some of my dark moments that I don't want to get into right now. No, right now I am thinking of a family in the hills of Germany...and I'm back. That happens to me from time to time - without any announcement, I am mentally whisked away to another part of the world where I will often stay, get acculturated and even be adopted by a family or clan if all things go well. Sometimes the trip is long and heart-warming and other times the people there just want to eat my warmed heart as a tasty pate with a slice of fresh baguette. This time the trip was short, mostly because the German family was at a bratwurst festival (not for eating, but more for the out-of-body experiences that come from eating one too many sausages) for the weekend and also because I feel the need to write.

I also feel the need to decorate my room with various mirrors and colourful drapes for reasons that I have been told by my lawyers I do not need to go into detail about right now no matter how many times I pretend that I am asked. Yesterday it was 5 times. For the record, I don't have any lawyers or even one single lawyer and I have also been told by them to say that as well. Is me writing about me writing sort of like talking to myself while I eat the food I made and telling myself about what a good job I did and patting myself on the back at the same time? Don't worry - I'm not doing that as it is way too challenging to eat, talk and pat myself all at the same time. I plan to do them one-by-one-by-one and that is how I will spend this Sunday! This piece of writing is not meant to sound too self-congratulatory - self-congratulatory too an extent, just not so much so that I make anyone sick or more sick in case they happened to be reading this while sick in the hopes it would either make them better or just distract them from how badly they feel. Either way - I'm good - I take great pride in distracting people from how bad they feel or just how they feel in general. Spend some time around me and you won't have any idea how you feel at all! Not that is a slogan I can live with! It is a gradual process - you will start feeling a lot and then little by little you will grow emotionally numb, some checkers will be played, the wind will howl, the birds will fly south for the winter and a pie will be consumed. All of this for the low cost of having to hear me moan about things - I'm sorry, I wish I could sing better too.

Contrary to popular opinion, writing is not all fun and games. Fun and games is all fun and games - writing is not fun and games at all and I'm not sure why we are spending so much time trying to explain this as it seems pretty easy to understand. Oh, one more thing - fun and games is not entirely all  fun and games, that is just what the powerful fun and games lobby wants us to believe. Occasionally there are tears. Too many tears and the word fun starts to see wrong and quite insensitive and sort of like why don't the rest of you stop playing and laughing and see what is the matter already? I hope we understand each other and I can't proceed until we do or else I will have a nagging feeling sort of like a mother bird when she leaves her nest full of cute little helpless baby birds who are anxious for her to return (is that true - are little birds actually anxious? do they have the ability to feel such a complex emotion at such a young age? and maybe they are happy to have the nest to themselves for a while before boring old mom comes back who only cares about spitting chewed up food in our mouths even when we have had more than enough?)

I know I just said "we" and lumped you into all this when you may have been just passing through and you are most likely thinking "wait a minute! Like woah - slow down, big fellow. Don't get me all mixed up in all of your issues." To which I reply (a) I am willing to take your minute and raise you an infinite number of minutes - That's right! I can wait as long as this is going to take or as long as you will let me stand here on your porch before calling the authorities (ask for Bob down at the precinct, we are on a first-name basis and I know he loves two creams and a sugar in his coffee), (b) I will not slow down (c) "Big fellow?" - have you taken a close look at me recently? That is wrong on at least two accounts and I know I can find at least four or five more if given the time and some chocolate and (d) issues?!?!? What do you know of my issues? Have you talked to Sarah? Did she say that if you read this you could get mixed up in them? For the record I was just bidding time until my "mom" came back to "the nest", if by "mom" I meant "star ship" and by "the nest" I meant "home base" and when I told her that I wished I was a herring who was about to be caught in the net of a muscular, but kind fisherman and his son, I WAS JOKING! Did she honestly think I thought I was a herring??!?! Okay, that actually could make sense - I do get occasionally slimy and have a large collection of all different kinds of scales.

For those that didn't know, I have been caught in nets on two separate occasions - once was my fault entirely as I decided to drape a series of nets in my bedroom the same week I decided that any form of lighting was completely passe and the other time was at a costume party when my best friend, dressed as a net, bumped into me (dressed coincidentally also as a net, only a much smaller one) and we became entangled and lay in a pile all evening long (we believed in not only dressing as nets but acting as net-like as possible to complete the effect) - it was the closest the two of us ever had been and we swore never to talk about that evening again which I am violating right now and feeling actually not so bad for doing. The part about being caught or rescued by a hunky, should-be-in-underwear-ads, fisherman and his equally-dropdead-gorgeous-yet-overly-fish-smelling sons...yeah...anyways...

Easily the toughest things about writing for me are not what you would think of (not that I am pretending to always know what you think, or to ever be knowing what you or any of your kind think. Quite the opposite in fact, I know nothing that you are thinking about as evidenced by my inability to buy you a present or even  a piece of fruit that you don't instantly return. And when I say your kind, I don't mean that in a derogatory way, unless of course it is my turn to be derogatory - for those that don't know, a few friends and I take turns each Thursday from 9am till noon being derogatory to each other - sort of like a snack-bringing rotation except that it usually makes me angry and upset and there is no sugar involved except on particularly creative Thursdays). I can easily find my way to the computer and I get how to turn it on etc etc etc - I am mildly offended that many of you thought that the whole finding my computer and actually getting to my blog would be the challenging part for me. Not totally offended, just mildly, as I said, sort of akin to going walking in the woods and only stumbling upon chanterelles and no wild morels or having two out of five random passersby thumb their noses at me for no apparent reason aside from my decision to wear gumboots to the opera which only shows both my complete inability to anticipate proper attire for many formal events and to read through the lines in my friends texts that were evidently supposed to be sarcastic (I just figured she was quoting some unknown author or authors repeatedly. I did wonder why these quotes were particularly memorable, but I just kept quiet as the last time I admitted to not knowing the source of some seemingly random quotes I ended up having to make egg salad sandwiches for the whole accounting department aside from Fred who preferred tuna.)

No, the toughest problems with writing for me are finding cool and unique names for characters that I am using in my stories. Not that there aren't an amazing amount of awesome names, but I know a lot of people and if I use a name of someone I know they probably think one of the following thoughts (a) should I be flattered or concerned?, (b) let's take a wait and see approach and if he makes money I'll attempt to sue/bribe/threaten him for lots of money over using my name without asking, (c) isn't it weird that of all the millions of names in the world that he chose mine and does that mean that he thinks we are friends? Well, let me put your mind at rest (only literalily of course) - I am attempting to choose names that have zero connection to anyone who may actually read my writing and if I happen to choose your name then it was merely a coincidental slip-up which you should not read anything into. Or if you are in the mood, I suggest you spend hours and hours reading into it and if you find anything interesting, please let me know. Maybe there is some hidden connection that I am unaware of at this point - like maybe I unknowingly used your name because your grandfather once pulled a thorn out of my grandfather's hand when they were playing around that good ol' thorny bush that they spent many an hour playing around as young kids and my grandfather was ever-so-grateful that he just wouldn't let up with the appreciation which usually took the form of cream cheese and jam sandwiches aside from the occasional parfait when his mom just happened to make two of just in case there was someone, anyone, he wanted to thank for some small, seemingly innocuous thing - I'm sure if this happened, my grandfather would have tucked me into bed and told me this story of how your grandfather was such a hero in his eyes and that his eyes had been conditioned to be blind to heros except when thorns were involved and then they were wide open, just not wide open enough to miss the thorn in the first place and usually by this time in the story I was fast asleep, but his story would blend into my dreams and then years later when I decided to launch into some creative writing the name was somewhere in the recesses of my brain mostly because I elected against having that elective and quite-risky-sounding surgery of having the recesses "smoothed" over mostly for cosmetic reasons.

As an aside, I try to do as much as I can for cosmetic reasons outside of buying any actual cosmetic items as I'm working my way up to that, sort of how I worked my way up to hang gliding after just jumping off my couch for years until I both broke the couch and was ordered by both my doctor and downstairs neighbour to get out of the house more often. Note: I've never actually hang glided - I've just worked my way up to it which is akin to saying that I am standing in a line waiting my turn with my prized pineapple to commision a fruit sculptor (someone who carves humourous celebrity faces into fruit) who is currently on "vacation" which means he is in prison for life for mistakenly and repeatedly attempting to carve an actual celebrities face. The names I choose just come to me. Almost like I am still and they are moving at the speed of light or maybe it is the other way around and the names are stationary in space and I am screaming up to them at speeds I am unaware mostly because it will be a cold day in hell before I recognize relativity.

So, to avoid using names of those I know, I am tempted to swing the other way and only use extremely uncommon names, but then people may start to wonder what is up with these names I am choosing and why they all sound African or Korean. That reminds me - I am planning to write a piece about two ex-lovers who decide to move (one to Africa and one to Korea), change their names to fit in with the people in their respective countries and also as a voluntary and totally unnecessary witness-protection program only in this case it was only to protect themselves from each other as the love just hurt too much (all of their friends suggested clipping their nails on a more regular basis and just practicing compassion and stop being so aggressive all the time). After a few years, when they both have become accustomed to their new surroundings, they unveil their plan - to each open up a hair salon that would specialize in straightening afros and perming bangs. These salons would be doomed to fail, which was part of the plan all along, and they would both fly home to the small town in Texas they were from (to be honest, they were from a slightly larger city in Texas originally but I decided against that as I wanted them to have a more small town feel to them, which for me only involved deleting a few key strokes and doing a little extra typing, but for them it involved packing, moving and renting a storage locker to put their huge collection of antique wig stands in just before they were about to purchase their first wig) and meet on the tarmac at the airport only to remember why they left in the first place. They really don't like each other at all and only forget that from time to time because of the fact that they are actually figments of the imagination of a third person who is always mixing up who is who in his head. All in all it is an incredibly bad and intentionally convoluted idea for a story which means that if I eventually write it, it will mostly be out of spite unless I feel that I have already done too much out of spite at the time and then I will do it out of revenge or the need to exercise my fingers in as socially acceptable a fashion as possible.

Along the way, when either preparing to write or writing, I have learned some important things. One thing that stands out is I've learned how important breathing is and also that it is very very important not to touch the burning log in the fire place and also to say please and thank you. It never ceases to amaze me how others are nicer to you when you treat them well and this mostly speaks to how long I've been able to condition myself to maintaining the feeling of amazement. I can go literally for days in this state of awe where I am totally overjoyed and inspired by everything I come into contact with or directly contact head on and I'm also very fortunate when these days ends and I'm not in traction. The word traction almost sounds a bit exciting because as my imaginary friend Joe always says, you can't spell attraction without traction which always makes me smile wistfully and makes me long for some actual flesh and blood friends or at least ones with one of those two criteria, but preferably both as I'm not totally interested in a friend who is solely or mostly flesh and I'm definitely not too crazy about blood.

Another thing I've learned that is worthwhile sharing with you at this time is the importance of looking at someone when speaking to them. The main reasons seem to be that it greatly lessens the confusion of who I am talking to especially when in a busy place like a train station and because in this day and age if you can't look someone in the eyes in makes the other person feel very self-conscious and wonder "what is so wrong with me that he can't even look me in the eyes or even at my nose, which would like some visual attention too from time to time when the eyes have either had enough or decide to get off their high horse and share once and a while". I don't want to make anyone else more self-conscious than me - it is a competition I've been playing in every day since last year went I met that odd lady on the corner downtown with the large collection of stuffed birds for sale. I liked the black and white one the best, and she seemed to be enamored with my shirt collar which I agree was my best feature that day, but just couldn't take it when she offered as my hands were metaphorically full and it was just too confusing to attempt to explain this to the lady who seemed like she would be quite metaphorically-challenged. I do not want to unnecessarily challenge anyone in life, especially since the infamous Balloon Incident.

Who Am I?

So, I am starting a creative writing club at school and before you stop what you are doing and give me a standing ovation, allow me to get changed into something more regal or failing that at least practice smiling for a few minutes first. After a short preamble describing the long set of rules, guidelines and initiation rituals for our club I gave the new members their first writing "assignment" (I am placing that word in quotation marks so none of them thinks that it is an actual assignment and also because I love using quotation marks and often misusing them too just so I don't come across as "the guy who perfectly uses quotation marks" because I know that guy and he is...how do I put this..."strange"). For our introductory piece I thought we'd all write about ourselves (I briefly flirted with the idea that we could all write about each other or write on each other or just hold a pen above a piece of unlined paper and sit at a desk in a white room with no windows and resist the urge to scream). Now, I have written about myself a few times already, but I don't want to skip the task outright or to just reuse something old, so here I am again. How to talk about myself without sounding redundant? Or should I just give in and be not only slightly redundant but incredibly, boldly redundant - so redundant that I should consider editing this sentence at a future date and either bolding or italicizing the word redundant or should it be the word "so" or both? Not sure... I mean while I'm highlighting certain words why not invite them all? I just don't want to bold or italicize too many words because then they start expecting and anticipating it and that doesn't mesh well with how I live my life or at least how I am trying to live my life since the day the crows came. For those that don't know me well, like the students in my club, no crows actually came to this point, but they are always welcome. I have a "crows always welcome" policy at my house and I always will until the crows actually come and then it will only be fair to allow another bird or animal or even my uncle to come visit, although that would mean having to reverse my current "no uncles welcome" policy that I've wanted to lift for some time now what with all of the amazing uncles I come across on a daily basis.

The kids in my creative writing club are probably wondering who am I really and since there is a good chance that I'm reading this to them right now, they may be looking at me as I'm sitting in front of them with my large purple water bottle next to me and wondering why is that water bottle so big with the short answer being that I am thirsty, a lot, and the longer more perplexing answer is being turned into a musical theatre production that should hopefully be opening at a kindergarten class near you at a later date. It is both easy and hard to write about yourself. Easy to hide behind lots of half-truths and transparently obvious falsities and hard to tell the gripping, teeth-rattling, knee-shaking, appetizing truth that everyone claims they crave. Everyone is always craving things sort of like single-cell organisms needing whatever they need for survival (is it oxygen? another cell? all-access cable tv for when the football-loving relatives come to visit round holiday time?) I try to toe the line on my floor all the time as sort of a test of the agility of my toes. I also metaphorically toe the line between what people want to hear and what I want them to hear. If lines had more sides I would also be balancing those two with what I hear while they are hearing things (not much outside of the sound of my voice which is lovely I have to say) and practicing my falsetto as you never can quite predict when it may come in handy - a sing off? my daily performance in front of the mirror before I leave the house? scaring away bears and other unwelcomed wildlife? In my writing I usually settle on starting off with the best of intentions, but then I get horribly sidetracked - horribly is completely the wrong descriptor as I love the sidetracks I walk down - they are far more interesting then the regular path that everyone seems to want me to walk down. Why walk that way, when I can go this way and have more fun, despite all of the mosquito bites and plethora of scrapes and scratches? Even though I go off on weird tangents and never quite get to the point I wanted to get to, I am a strong believer that the final destination is a whole lot less important than the trip to get there and I feel that about writing, preparing a meal and actual trips which is why an intended afternoon at the beach with the family is often spent at the museum of natural history accompanied by girl guides. And another thing, why are original points so important in the first place? My theory is that the word point intimidates us, or at least me and that is why I try to avoid points as much as I can which is why I never win at ping pongs. Not enough points. If those students are still facing me and avoiding eye contact as that may be misconstrued as acceptance then I guess I can take a short break here to enjoy the moment before continuing on.

The question on my mind right now is not important at the moment, so I won't ask it. I also find that asking questions in my writing is a completely unsatisfying experience as I never get an answer, unless I play the game of answering myself almost as if I have multiple personalities with one being the youthful, upbeat questioner and the other being the more grounded, voice of reason who supplies the answers and everyone once and a while a third guy pops in out of nowhere and orders a pizza. I don't expect lots of answers from the public when I pose questions that I choose to not answer myself, but people must either think I'm being facetious or rhetorical, which is easily understandable as I attempt to dedicate a minimum of 25 minutes each hour all day to both of these which is hard enough during the day but really challenging while bathing or sleeping (I never bathe and sleep at the same time not even on a dare unless there is the promise of plum pie  -that's how much I love plum pie. I've never even had plum pie. I will move on now). I would love to sleep facetiously or rhetorically but it is exceedingly hard to nail and usually just comes across as regular, plain old, sleep. Anyways, I do have questions on my mind like "what should I tell these students about me?" and "what stuff should I make up completely to give off the illusion of importance and dignity and tallness?" Let's see...I love my family, but that is pretty obvious- most people do and if I didn't, I definitely wouldn't be writing it in a blog that my family occasionally skims through and groans at. Also, not loving my family would make me a pretty contemptible figure that would make being the protagonist in my works of fiction really challenging and I don't think I have the mental wherewithal, vocal training or collection of shirts to be a villian. I guess I should tell the students about my brain and my heart all the while keeping it vague as I don't really know that much about brains and hearts - it is quite shocking that I've made it this far and know so little about two of the most important things in my life outside of my humanitarian work and my stamp collection. Really - I should make a shrine for each of them and pray before them except that I'll have to cut back on all of the praying I do before my stuffed baby tiger (gotta love that little guy) and the picture of my friends Harry and Frieda that no one can tell them about or else I will definitely not be invited over for the next taco night on the account of seeming creepy and I won't be able to blame anyone but myself and my red sharpie that I just had to draw roses with all over their picture. Outside of my love of my family, I also love being active, I love cooking and I love puzzles. To save time I have decided to condense the three loves into one. So, I am trying to find someway to go for a run while cooking and doing a puzzle or perhaps I am going about this way too literally (big shock) and maybe I need to find someway to make the exercise and cooking a puzzle in and of themselves or make a cooking puzzle that the act of solving would help me get some cardio in. I'm not sure what the answer is, but there is an answer out there somewhere and while I totally get the value in finding answers for myself in life I just don't have enough money for a flight to Bermuda right now. Nope, I'm the guy who saw the other guy about the thing that was not only monstrously expensive but also, long story short, caused me to put a halt to my winter plans that included some industrial strength rope, something those in the know call "whale juice" and car freshener.

I would go on and on for a while, but I am trying to keep this somewhat short as my way of paying homage to all of the pumpkin growers out there right now (I am horrible at paying homage and even when I accidentally get it right, my ability to choose the correct recipients is questionable at best). I guess all that I would like to say before I leave you is that I always aim to write how I talk, so that if you were to read something I wrote while sitting in a cafe it would be an eerily similar experience to hanging out with me at a cafe and it would be even more confusing if the piece of writing you were reading to yourself at the cafe was about the two of us sitting together at a cafe talking about me writing a piece about us sitting together at cafe. I have also thought about trying to talk how I write, and although I believe that after hours of practicing (followed by a really nice herbal tea) I've nailed it, it just comes across as a long series of clicks and I just can't get pronounce the sound the space bar makes. I think everyone should try to capture their voice in their writing and I like to think of my voice as a brilliant red cardinal who once flew so gracefully in the skies majestically drifting in awe-inspiring fashion until the fateful day when the rains came and the cardinal finally listened to his mom and just got out of bed and went to school because that is what twelve year old boys do, they go to school and they dream of training seemingly untrainable wild cardinals, or at least I once did when I was twelve. But then I grew up, as all young boys do, and I came to realize (mostly through an amazing set of educational videos my mom just happened to have in storage that she just happened to have done the voice over work for - I did think it was oddly coincidental that I loved the exact bird that my mom had been involved in making educational videos on and I briefly contemplated my mother's role in this before deciding to take a much needed nap) that wild birds must stay wild, especially the transplendant cardinal, for they are the red dots on the lower case "i"s of the world and to capture them would be akin to not serving a homemade aioli with the grilled veggies at a dinner party. Look I know that doesn't make a lot of sense- I don't make the rules here, I only report them. And you read them. How could you!?!?

So there you have it. I think I've introduced myself, kind of. I think those that have read this now have an incrementally small amount of knowledge about me that they didn't have previously. I'm sure some of them wish that it could have either taken less time or that they could have been eating cookies while reading this. I hope you have found this entertaining and I think the long-term impact it will have on you is almost limitless, all you have to do is dream. Have I inspired you to prepare a traditional Japanese holiday meal? Have I  encouraged you to dig a large hole in your backyard for no apparent reason? Have I convinced you that understanding differential calculus won't keep you warm at night? Have I made any progress in convincing you to knit me some woollen mittens to match my sweater or at least not clash with the rainbow pants I am knitting right now as I write this (okay I lied - I clearly can't be writing and knitting at the same time and since I'm clearly writing who is knitting these pants I am proudly wearing? I promised my grandmother one day quite cryptically to never forget where my lunch is and also who made my pants, but then again I promised my adorably daffy grandmother lots and lots of things - it made up much of our daily conversing). But, most importantly have I answered or explained who I am? For those inclined to say "yes" - thank you! The cheque is in the mail (if by "cheque" I mean "this large handful of nearly-expired coupons that I want to give away in the effort to cover my bulletin board solely with colourful pushpins" and by "mail" I mean "here you go, enjoy"). And for those who feel that the answer is "no", I applaud your brevity and your hard-hitting style - it will take you far in life, hopefully far enough away from me so you don't have to hear me crying from the disappointment of a failed writing activity. But, I'll be okay in the end, your "no" will only strengthen me and toughen me up so that one day I will rise with a new, thicker (and hopefully more durable) skin and hopefully I will find a way to utilize this skin to gain some sort of fame or at least membership in an underground club that I am unaware of at this point. And, lastly, for those of you who either want to answer "maybe" or who were blissfully unaware of the question in the first place as yet another thing you are blissfully unaware of in life, thanks for showing up and continue to enjoy this seasonally warm fall day.

I Declare Immunity (and other random thoughts)

I've heard that it takes one to know one, well I demand two!

After many years, I have decided to put function over form and let the chips fall where they may. I also need to plan ahead and buy some chips.

I only swing for the fences. When all of the fences are gone, I will alter my goal.

In my world, it is always sweater weather. On a side note: I have a whole closet full of unworn vests that I am looking to unload.

Please don't try to sell me items or services door-to-door. I was raised in a home where we NEVER attached doors to each other by hyphens or any other means as it would have made getting around the house or quickly moving from room to room too challenging.

When I am told I have no one to blame but myself I often spend hours trying to either find someone else or pay someone else to blame before embracing it and making it my own and attempting to bask in the blame, which is harder than it sounds.

I show a constant and blatant disregard for all minimum and maximum height requirements.

I totally get that this draws unnecessary attention my way but I have to come clean. I will reuse and recycle, but there is just no way that I will reduce. I also have to come clean that I am too proud to admit that I'm not totally sure what reduce means and that while I'm sure it has it's merits, I've already made such a public display stating my case against it that it is just too much work to change course now and will make me seem more wishy-washy then I already am.

While it's not my favourite, I will take your pity if it is all you are offering as long as I have a chance to upgrade to sympathy at a future date.

All of the water that I had is now under the bridge that I constructed in my backyard and my only concern is that I now have a bridge in my backyard. Where will I plan my herbs?

When I declare immunity, I expect you to listen flu bug!

The only problem with dot-to-dot puzzles is that after hours of connecting fun I find it exceptionally challenging to stop connecting dots once I've started.

If I had to choose, I would prefer to hang dry rather than be tossed around in the dryer. Thankfully, up to this point, I haven't had to choose but you never know what tomorrow may bring. For that reason I decided to take an ax to my dryer...and that is why I am seeking your professional help today doctor.

Sorry if I offended you with my frankness, but there have never been any attractive dictators and there never will be. 

I enjoy a close shave as much as the next guy, and that is why I am offering to shave you right now - you really look as if you'd enjoy it and if you aren't interested could you please move aside and make room for someone else to stand next to me for a while?.

If I have to look before I leap, then I'll never leap and I never do. On the other hand, if I walk around town with my eyes closed, leaping may be just one of the exciting new experiences I encounter.

I am constantly stumped when asked if I am ready for the cheque because I am not at all sure if I am.

My beauty may only be skin deep or it may go some amount further, but I'm too squeamish around blood, particularly my own, to find out. 

Regardless of what you've heard, I am not a book worm although I do display worm-like tendencies on a regular basis.

Every day I stretch  to be less stiff, more flexible and just a fair amount longer-limbed as I think that may be beneficial in the future.

Something in the Oven

I do have something in the oven, thanks for asking!

When the lights are on at my house, somebody is home and when they are off, I can't see at all, so while I'm pretty sure I am still home, I could have wandered aimlessly into the woods.

I am often gassy which I blame completely on Big Oil and Gas.

Allergy alert! I may contain peanut butter, cashew butter, almond butter and/or other tree nut butters as well as a significant amount of bread and jam.

I live life on the edge by swimming 29 minutes after eating and proudly deal with the resulting cramps. I have contemplated giving myself even less time, but don't want to appear like I'm showing off.

Sometimes I grow a beard as I am trying to hide something.

I'm trying to convince myself that it is totally random, but why won't any of those balls bounce my way.

Not only do I dream that I'm a frisbee, but I'm trying to live more like one in my waking hours as well.

Once and a while, after not shaving, I am much-moustachioed.

I do wear glasses to increase the chances that a random passerby will ask me a skill testing question.

Everything on me right now is for sale for exactly $1.

To the best of my ability, I made sure that an entire village was used in raising me. No one got off easy.

I am proud to say that I am fully three-dimensional and am considering upgrading to four in the near future.

Videotaping me and showing the tape without my expressed written consent can result in a $5000 fine and/or jail time.

When I splurge and get the best shampoo and soap, I am treated afterward to a wonderfully soft and smooth coat.

I have been known to walk around town whistling a happy tune that is unfortunately significantly marred by my inability to really whistle.

No matter how hard I try, I can only write cheques that my butt can't cash. Honestly, after multiple attempts I am still no closer to accomplishing this at all.

I wear earplugs to tune the world around me out and I also enjoy some cool jazz at the same time.

Even if the owl has called my name, everything those owls say sound the same. How am I supposed to know if he is talking to me?

I always eat with my eyes first and, depending on how messy I have been, the meal at the restaurant prematurely ends there.

Even when the sun sets on my day, I always respectfully keep on going for a while to show my appreciation for all of its hard work.

I am watching the pot boil. Now I am watching it boil over. And my pasta is overcooked and stuck to the bottom of the pot. When can I stop watching this pot? Anyone?

My shadow is so tall and lean and almost definitely mocking me.

With increasing frequency, I know what time it is and what people are talking about.

I believe I can fly. In other news, I am an incredibly broken man.

The Writing Process

So, I often get asked how I come up with the ideas I write about. Good question! You would think that I know how "the magic" happens. After a moment of thinking about grizzly bears  followed by eating a large chocolate chip cookie followed by some planking, I decided to think more about how I write what I write. I mean I could choose any topic, how do I choose the ones I choose? Is it totally random? Am I attempting to put off senility? Do I owe an ominous gangster lots of money? Could the gangster owe me money and could I please be the ominous one for a while? Did I take too many "crazy" pills? The truth is that is how my brain works. I know, I am as confused and surprised as the next guy (that guy is sitting next to me at the library and keeps inching further away every time I look at him, lean in and snicker). You would think that I would write either ultra-boring, predictably banal stories about humankind's predicament or super-cliched, achingly obvious stories about boy meets girl, girl is actually a wolf in disguise, girl wolf almost eats boy even going as far as creating a fabulous five course boy-influenced menu, only to fall head over heals in love with the boy, before the yawn-inducing ending where they kiss and the boy is magically freed from the evil spell and he is transformed back into a wolf too only not at all interested in the female wolf leaving her at the "altar" (a rotten log in the woods near the berry patch). I also am shocked that I don't write pages and pages analyzing basketball advanced metrics or semi-autobiographical experiences from the womb or a how-to book on the utilization of the word "the" to influence people. Those ideas just seem this side of tired and cliched and although I am quite intrigued by tired and cliched writing, I've decided to steer clear for now as I hear they are similar to gateway drugs in that they lead to addiction of other bad writing techniques and as intrigued I am of those too, I'm a bit lazy at the moment.

So, I aim to avoid cliches or work that borrows to heavily from something else I have read (although sometimes I am so tempted to pay homage to the far-from-original books I read that are rife with temptingly-imitative work). Having said that after a long day's work I enjoy a good cliche every now and then especially the one's that make me seem more "normal" and go really well with a nice chamomile tea. I strive to be me -which involves a lot of time trying to figure out who or what that even is? It is one thing to want to be me (and that's the easy part), but that involves knowing who or what that is and where I can buy some if I'm all out or if some of the parts are defective. I want my words to sound like they came from me and I want the ideas to be original and I want others to be impressed that someone could sound so much like themselves and be so original in these nefarious times in which we live and then I want to be pleased that they are so impressed (I know I'm asking for a lot, but I am going out of my way to imagine longer and longer interactions with people these days to fill up the afternoons. You know it is harder than you think maintaining conversations and relationships with over 10 people at a time all of them more imaginary then the next and yet all more real than me on weekends). I guess what I'm saying is that I want the writing to be uniquely my voice (specifically that voice in my head - it NEEDS a way to express itself or else it starts to hurt my brain and only a massage - SUPER hard to do and he never reciprocates, like never) and I'm hoping that if/when the writing sounds like me, it also doesn't sound like something Joe and Jeannie next door would also write (their writing is ridiculously upbeat and positive and as saccharin as it is, they paint a deliciously desirable world that I wouldn't want to live in, but I could see myself visiting occasionally, if for no other reason than the occasional pony ride or ice cream sundae).

So, my brain thinks these random thoughts and my fingers start type, type, typing away. I like to think of my fingers as conduits for my brain as that always makes me giggle..."conduits"...ha ha ha. One idea leads to another and then another (often interrupted by multiple tangents and interjections (actually, I've always wanted to insert a tangent inside a tangent to see what happens - Hey! I''m doing it right now! Wow - this is cool! And it is snowing in here! You should come check this out! I mean if you're not too busy) Hello? Is he gone? It is hard to keep him out sometimes, Mr. Typy Face with his whimsical comments that only he finds funny - doesn't he understand that all of the bracketed insertions make it REALLY hard to read and follow what is going on? Does he care? Or is this his obscure, near-robotic way of showing that he cares? And it is one thing to let me jump in every now and then to toss in my two cents and my jokes and comments, but then he let's more voices in? Is that some sort of not-so-subtle commentary on my job performance? Am I being phased out? Are my comments so obtuse and vague that he needs that other dude to jump in and clarify the clarifier?) and then another and the next thing you know another blog entry is complete. It is a moment of beauty unless your eyes are closed and then it is just dark. But I am making it sound easy, because it is - you should try it - it ain't hard lifting (aside from the actual hard lifting I occasionally do just for perspective's sake).

Now, having said that it is all random is completely false (why did I spend the first paragraph saying that it was? good question!) - it is mostly random, but not all. I usually have a title or an idea or a theme. If I had to choose, I'd prefer a theme and can I have mine toasted with a side of jam? Once I have my starter, it sits there for an indefinite amount of time and in the deep recesses of my brain, slowly at first and then growing to a dull roar or a loud hum, things start to happen. If you are the sort of person who needs an analogy right around now, let's say it is sort of like a room full of bouncy balls. I actually don't think it is like that at all, but you were the one who wanted an analogy and I was pressed for time, and I just love bouncy balls - so there! (Don't complain, I was also tempted to compare it to a hoard of crazed pigs who have decided to extract revenge for all of the ham hocks and bacon as a way to remember my childhood.) Then one day, I sit at my computer (as I am now) or a I take out my phone (I'm doing that too) or use my wife's tablet (got that as well  -good thing I keep a prosthetic arm around for these rare, although becoming increasingly more common, moments when I just need a third hand) or decide to take a shower (I am enjoying the hot, steamy shower as I type this too! What? You say the water may destroy all of the electronics I am also using? "Pish posh" I say to that, even though neither of us knows precisely what that means) and the ideas just flow from me similar to the water flowing out of the shower head or the tea leaves that I decided to prematurely release from their "prisons" when I cut open all of the bags (my wife has asked me to stop "freeing the leaves" and I just shake my head at her until she gives up and exits the room and then I free the leaves once again.) The next thing you know I am done and I am able to either lean back or take a step back (sometimes I lean and step back at the same time which I believe is known colloquially as "letting your backbone slide") or dance a little jig (it all depends on whether I am standing or sitting and in a dancing mood - it also depends on whether the moon is waxing or waning at the moment) - all to show my sense of accomplishment to anyone who may be near by. Once done, I save my work and I always try to put aside some time for self-reflection. This year I have chosen August.

Now, in order to write, I need to provide nourishment for my body and brain. I mean I don't need to but it just seems right and I think I read it in Cosmo. I also have considered only feeding my brain or my body just to save money on food costs (the brain is such a picky eater too). I'm sure if I didn't nourish myself then I could still write (it's not brain surgery, as I specifically requested that it not be) and it would most likely be way out there (where is "way out there" by the way? I've alway wanted to know- seems like a pretty interesting and different place to go and visit - not your usual boring destination. And once you are there, do you know you are there? Is it labelled some way? Or do people just motion you to keep going away until you are out of earshot and eyesight (this happens all the time to me- I almost fell backwards into a pool once but just missed and fell into a bush which ended up being fortunate as I found a quarter in the bush. "That bush is money!" I said to no one in particular which is good because they probably would have slapped me with their boot). Wait a second- double brackets again? How do they keep popping up? Too confusing! Well-meaning! And fun! Nothing like some confusing, well-meaning fun to break up the monotony of the easy-to-understand, hurtful and boring existence we all usually keep. (I wonder what would happen to me if "they" outlawed the use of brackets as a literary devise and didn't allow me to use quotes as a simple fix. And who are "they" anyways and why do I have to listen to them in the first place? Say what? Why am I questioning myself and answering those questions? What would you prefer I do? Don't answer!) Anyways I'm sure "way out there" is great and all, I just want to know to if you continue to act strange when you are there, do people say "you are way out there...oh wait a second, we are all already 'wait out there'. And that guy is even more way out there then us. Dude he is...where is he?" I guess you run out of places - I plan to retire in that place - the one beyond way out there.) So nourishment - it's healthy, it just seems like a good idea and it helps with the writing. Writing would happen anyway even with out it and would possibly be better or least less pompous and privileged, but if you are too weak to sit up and type and think, then what good are you? (Sorry, that sounded harsh- I'm sure you are still great although if you could sit up and type you'd be even more spectacular).

Often I write first thing in the morning from 6:30 till 7:00. My alarm goes off, I sit up, slap myself silly (an activity in and of itself) and go downstairs (I wanted to say that "I go downtown" with lots of cool attitude and inflection but it just isn't at all accurate. I live and write quite far from downtown). I'm exhausted in the morning but I forge on not unlike a warrior heading off for battle and yet not like that at all either  -that warrior would be in heaps of trouble! I eat a blueberry muffin and write. Often when I first wake up I have some fresh ideas in my head from my dreams and other times my head is empty and devoid of anything usable and other times I happen to be writing a piece that is aiming to be devoid and it almost writes itself (these don't write themselves no matter how often or nicely I ask. Between you and me those devoid piece are a pain in the ass although I can't help but respect them and I often wait by the phone on Friday nights just waiting for them to call). So we sit there, blueberry muffin and I, one of us about to be eaten (a reoccurring dream I have is of a giant, hungry blueberry muffin who just can't convince himself to eat me no matter how much I doll myself up or cover myself in a variety of expensive jellies and jams as he is a lonely muffin and would prefer to have a friend - with the relationship being eerily similar to that of a cat and a mouse except with infinitely more blueberry stains and he seems to genuinely want me to live. Also, in moments of true caring and sympathy he let's me nibble his top, although I usually feel a bit guilty and still hungry afterwards). 

Usually, after eating, the ideas flow nicely but what I find is that when I'm tired and still half asleep, the characters are more tired, grumpy, and short with each other then when I'm awake and they seem to want to revolt against me but are just too tired or can't be bothered to do so. And I often think - what? I'm not even worth revolting against? You good-for-nothing lazy characters! (I'm sorry, I'm sorry - you know how much I need you almost as much as I need that endless supply of cream cheese.) Characters seem to need more sleep or more food before they can be their usual charming, exciting and witty selves (and up for revolting too from what I can surmise). If I write after breakfast or lunch then I feel energized and the writing and the characters respond as if they have just been given a shot of adrenaline (they haven't- I did look into it, but I didn't quite understand how to literarily shoot a fictional set of characters with adrenalin and it just didn't seem ethical or moral and I have been trying to be both more ethical and moral this week or at least less annoying and sarcastic. It's a fine line. Someday I hope to evolve into some kind of Ethical Sarcastic superman if you will...I can't believe I shared that right now). So the characters wake up and get "funny" when I do. Sometimes I have to wake them up like a mom arousing my sleepy kids before school - not sure why I am a mom and not a dad, since I am an actual dad, in this scenario...could be worth looking into) As the day winds down, the writing gets slow and methodical and less bright and interesting although we are also nicely full after a good dinner (or even a bad dinner or a ho-hum dinner - they all work). So, no big revelation here- the writing and characters go as I go - they come from me and I am their lifeblood (although, I have learned the hard way to not bleed while writing or to make characters bleed to much or too often as it just grosses everyone out. Not that I'm afraid to make characters bleed! Nope, I will go there if i have to! If the moment arrives I'll cut you! No! Not you! The characters. I would never cut you, even if you begged and pleaded. Why would you do that? Hey I'm not you- I'm just the guy who conveniently uses brackets to talk to himself as seems much more socially acceptable - let's just hope societal conventions don't shift as I'm writing.)

Counter-intuitively, I do notice that some of the best ideas and most prolific writing periods happen later in the evening as I'm starting to get ready for bed. Not sure why, but it is the best, most creative time of day by far. That time before bed is a veritable goldmine of zippy ideas and snappy remarks. It's so great sometimes I can be seen bouncy in my seat as I type away. I'll sit there with nary a break and just bang the keys one after another loving the click clack sounds they make and slightly less so the actual words typed. I'm a huge fan of click clack sounds and I feel that my life so far has sort of been one humble man's harrowing, death-defying search for more and more things that make those sounds. A story I like to call "Dallas Buyers Club" as it will hopefully lead to more readers. So I just sit there clicking and clacking away having a grand ol' time and feeling equal parts proud, joyful and creative with undertones of guilt (not sure why, it's always there sort of like a thin layer of moss or wax, which I also have in my inner-ear - wax not moss. I should clean it at some point as the blockage is causing me to mishear approximately every 8th word making for lots of hi-jinks). Then when all is said and done, I save my work and go to bed only to lie down, close my eyes and start to dream again (usually in that order).

Ideally I am trying to make all of the readers laugh (you're welcome!), but let's not kid ourselves (or at least, let's take a break from kidding ourselves for the rest of the week- I just think a break would be a good idea. Plus I'm getting fairly tired and with a few days off we will all look forward to the next episode), I want to make myself laugh first and foremost. It would be great, clearly, for all of us to be laughing as me crying and you laughing seems mean and you crying and me laughing seems vindictive and having us either all crying or all angry sounds more fitting for a different author (although I may play one of those "cards" later on - the "all crying one" could be good if we want to come across as more sensitive so our girl/boy friends see that we care and the "all angry one" could be useful if the time for the revolution has come - I'm guessing that if we are all laughing for the revolution we will be deemed with hysterical and unfit to fight and locked away until sufficient time has been set aside to 'study' us and if we are all crying for the revolution we will probably be given the job of sewing uniforms). So when I write I am trying to make myself laugh- not necessarily out loud (my laugh is a bit of a sniff to tell the truth) but I'm aiming more for a full-body laugh that includes everyone especially the typically grumpy body parts (I'm looking at you chin and shins). Not that I need to be laughing, but having said that, it totally takes away from the pain of all of my gaping wounds both mental and physical (the gaping physical wounds are mostly figments of my imagination). So if you find yourself amused or bemused (I don't think demused is either a goal of mine, an actual feeling or even a real word, but if you want to feel it and walk around being all demused and emo, then you be that) as a result of reading things I wrote then I feel like this hasn't all been a huge waste of time (let's not go so far as saying it wasn't a waste of time at all - I mean let's not fool ourselves, or at least you can fool yourself. Who am I too rain on the parade of "wasting time" in the first place? People are always poo pooing the wasting of time and there are far worse things you can poo poo. Like poo for example (Those last two sentences were purely for the joy of my two young daughters, aged 8 and 6, if you also enjoyed them...good?)).

So I've determined that the ideas are at least partially random or at least on the spectrum (not the autism or electromagnetic wave spectra, the randomness one). The next question you may have for me is why haven't you considered some sort of wig or hair grafting? Or you may be wondering what cheeses to mix for an excellent sauce for your steamed green beans? A few others may be wondering "what's up?" and I keep telling you "not much". You should be wondering when I think of ideas (should is almost definitely the wrong word - who am I to tell you what you should be thinking? I should be consulting you! And then you could tell me what I should tell you so you could ask me the right question.) I find the best ideas always come in the middle of a hard, sweaty workout - either a pounding, cough-inducing, bad-on-my-knees-and-back run; an invigorating, heart-pumping, interval-filled bike ride or a stretching-filled, mentally challenging, wet-dizzy-mess of a hot yoga class. Not sure why, but my mind goes to weird, creative, bizarre places when my body is being worked. I start the run, the ride, the yoga and the breathing kicks in and then bing, bang, boom - idea, idea, idea! They just come to me like cute little bunny rabbits come to me in my dreams. I am running in a field highlighted by dandelions, laughing joyfully and bouncing off the ground almost as if gravity applied less to me then others, and just when it seems that I couldn't be any happier, dozens of the cutest, most adorable little bunny rabbits appear out of nowhere and I toss them in the air, hug them and roll around on the ground with them full of love, accidentally crushing a few of them (which comes back to haunt me later in the dream). I know I should try to stay present with my thoughts when I exercise - focus on breathing, think of my goals, push myself harder and harder, but these ideas attack me and I willingly give into their sensuality, their aroma, their gentle, yet firm touch which is almost saying "you, young man (they are so kind), come with us now. That was not meant to sound like a choice. Drop what you are doing and come with us now!" So I go - who am I to say "no" to these ideas? When the exercise is over, the first thing I do after showering is get dressed. It just makes sense in this day and age. After that I take out my phone or run to the computer and I quickly get all of the new gems down never quite remembering all of them. Some of them are lost forever. And it is for those fallen, dying, unrealized ideas that I proudly and bravely march on (actually that is completely false - I feel nothing for them at all) and continue to write.

And then, at some point, after a small bit of editing, botox and revising, I am done a new piece of writing. The sense of accomplishment is unreal. When I'm done a whole piece of writing, I look dramatically at the screen, press "publish", and push back from the desk with feeling. I jump up, pump my fist, and back away from the computer with arms raised. I almost expect a ticker tape parade or if ticker tape machines are obsolete, I'd settle for simply a tape parade with high quality double-sided tape being my first choice and duct tape being less so. I envision myself finishing a race; panting, keeled over, face flushed and suffering from both cramps and dehydration. I look around the empty room wishing I either had someone to high-five or that it is more socially acceptable to hug yourself. I settle on either high-fiving the wall (big mistake!) or hugging the wall (super-embarrassing to be caught in the act of if anyone enters the room, even the cat. I did ask for a store mannequin for my birthday, but did I get what I asked for?!?!? Nope - everyone thought I was joking! It's me, people!). And by the way, finishing a new piece of writing is not anything like giving birth, so I'm not even going to explore this analogy (wow - I'm shocked!) and I'm ignoring the urge to go into a huge gestation tangent as it is too early in the morning for that, I just ate and I'll need to spend more time researching in the field first. 

The Restaurant: Part 1

This is the first part in a semi-fictional three-part series about my first job. I use the term 'semi-fictional' so I can make the characters and situations even more cartoonishly silly than the really were. This is not to say the actual people and events were boring at normal, just that I love using any liberties I can - that's right, any liberties. I also used the term "job" as it was a job. In my nine years at the restaurant, I was a busboy, dishwasher, cashier, line cook, bartender and assistant chef. I worked with so many really great characters - I could write a play or a book. Instead I have settled on this, mostly as it is an easy and lazy way to tell about my experiences. Now, as I said, all of the stories are true, albeit retold in my unique prose that is often rife with sarcasm and hyperbole. Not that the original stories wouldn't hold up on their own, just that I can't seem to write any other way - that's just who I am. And instead of adopting the common convention of changing the names to protect the innocent, I have decided to not do that. There will be no innocent-protecting here! I mean I need to take at least a small break from protecting things at some point during the day.

I worked at the restaurant for nine years back in the waning years of my youth and into early adulthood. At the time the experience wasn't amazing but it provided a source of money which up until that point hadn't been plentiful. My first hourly pay was laughably small in the standards of those days, and would be criminal today. I could have searched around for a better, more satisfying line of work, but this was highly convenient and filled with mostly easy tasks and responsibilities. The biggest challenge by far was learning to work with such a wide array of characters, mostly in supervisory roles overseeing me and the other bottom-rung folk. At the time, many work days were very challenging- learning to navigate through the demands of superiors, the never-ending orders and being young and lacking both confidence and experience. My current self would tell the younger me that learning to work with people you don't like is reality and it prepares you for the real world and that it will better set me up for being an adult. My young self would tell me that that was all well and good but that I should shove it. My current self would be confused as no version of myself has ever or would ever really say those words- then again this is a pretend conversation I'm having with a no-longer-around me, so I can say and do anything I want. Today, with these days so far in the rear view mirror, it is easier to look back and use perspective. The bad times have blurred and faded and all I am left with are the fun anecdotes, the oddities and the scars (all emotional - relax). And the stories! 

I began my time as a dishwasher. The year was 1987 and I noticed that a number of others had jobs and I figured, what the hell, I can't sleep, eat or play tennis all the time. Plus it would be great to have some money! I know idea that my starting wage would be $4.37 per hour and that it wasn't even debatable if that was fair compensation for what we were expected to endure - it wasn't close. Dishwashers, or the dish pigs or the grunts were the lowest of the low, not even allowed to face the public, like a hideous gargoyle or someone with an embarrassing rash. A dishwasher was everyone's lackey. Need something done, even something gross and demeaning? No worries! The dish pig has to say yes- they have no choice- it's super easy to replace someone with no discernible skills and all dishwashers say yes to everything in the off-chance they receive unexpected recognition and are able to move up to busboy, which is akin to moving from a weed to a slightly nicer weed. The dishwashers were young, untrained and naïve. We were happy to work and had no idea of our rights or how menial our work was. Our parents were happy we were "safe" and learning about responsibility and following orders and we were happy with the illusion of promotion. The busboys were our slightly older friends who got out and we aspired to be them and to have someone, anyone, lower than us.

Our immediate boss was the head cashier. She was a lady named Rose, albeit calling her a lady, even after all of these years just doesn't sound right. Her name was either ironic or a paradox, I'm really not sure. To compare her to a rose should make the speaker lose their right by law to make any future comparisons of any type. She was gruff, surly and only pretty when observed from a far distance where she was often mistaken for a bush, a gruff, surly bush. I also would guess she would have looked pretty good through an unfocused telescope, and I was going to attempt to use one, but it was just to much work lugging it around with me while busing tables and washing dishes. It was unclear to me at the time why she worked at the restaurant as she was obviously unhappy and didn't seem to like people, especially teenage boys. Still day after day she came in, drank her coffee, ate her toast and bossed us around relentlessly and she didn't even appear to gain pleasure from that. I mean if you are going to make other people unhappy at least enjoy it. What is the fun in bossing if you don't even like it? She spent all of her free time smoking on the steps outside the kitchen. She, and the other smokers on staff seemed to have so many more breaks than the non-smokers that it was almost a constant advertisement for smoking. She also followed the horses and spent a good portion of her time looking at and discussing the results with anyone in earshot. I often wondered if she'd like me more if I also followed the horses - it would have given us something to talk about- or if I was an actual horse. During a lull in our working relationship, I briefly thought about dressing up as a horse but just couldn't find a suitable tail. Although she took copious breaks, there was just no relaxing on her watch! I mean we would take our sweet time getting more dressing from the walk-in fridge and be "unable to find" the chicken fingers in the freezer, but those excuses only got us so far. In the end, we all had to answer to Rose. I would call her motherly, but I'm trying to keep this at least marginally factual.

Now I like to give someone the benefit of the doubt, as it makes me feel better about myself and that is important. So maybe she really was a warm, caring woman on the inside, but that perspective became harder and harder to maintain as I was belittled, insulted and ordered around the way someone would treat a small mammal, especially one they were considering flushing down the toilet. Okay, that's a bit harsh- and small mammals can't even defend themselves! If she was warm and caring on the inside, then I must applaud her ability to keep the inside hidden. The most annoying aspect about her was that although we worked together for four summers, Rose didn't even know my name! She always called me "dishwasher" when she wanted my attention (usually to point out another mistake I had made) which always led to confusion - was she referring to me or the machine? Often she would bark out an order without even turning around or making eye-contact and a long pause would follow it from her perspective, as I was unclear that she was barking at me, since I typically didn't respond to "dishwasher" in my regular existence. After being called "dishwasher" so many times combined with actually spending so much time with the dishwashing machine, it was fortunate that I was raised well and had my head on straight and didn't confuse myself with the machine, although we were close I have to admit. I spent so many hours, opening and closing it, pushing in racks of dirty dishes and pulling out racks of hot and steamy clean ones, pressing the power button, spraying water and (when no one was looking) hugging it and caressing it. There were many quiet, lonely, rainy nights where the kitchen was filled with an awkward silence and only Rose, the cook and  I were still there. I'm not sure of the seminal moment when we started developing feelings for each other above and beyond our working relationship, all I know is a line was crossed and it was wonderful.

Now at some point I transitioned to busboy, which in the restaurant world is a distinct level above washing dishes. I'm not sure how or why I was given the opportunity to take one small step out of the gutter, but I must have worked hard (it's possible), been reliable (maybe), or found out where the bodies were buried (shhhhh!). Unlike dish washers, who are usually adorned with unkempt, greasy hair and wearing mismatched socks and dirty, untucked shirts, busboys must be presentable enough to be seen by the paying public. Busboys also need to be able to string together one and two syllable words into basic sentences in case a confused patron wanted to ask a question. But busboys knew that even though they were freed from their "cage" in the back of the kitchen and were given actual uniforms that needed to be mostly clean and pressed, they were still without any real voice or power. They were still essentially slaves and needed to jump if anyone asked for anything. I still remember the omnipresent smell of glass cleaner as I tried to keep the tables streak free. I also recall carrying huge bus-trays full of dirty dishes and the smell of full ashtrays before the city thankfully outlawed smoking at restaurants. I enjoyed getting out of the kitchen and being away from the eyes of Rose and the cooks, but it was more exhausting work with no chance of receiving any appreciation from anyone. In fact, the only recognition a busboy received was from within. I held weekly awards-type shows in my dreams where I was lauded for my incredible busing techniques and these accolades, though not real, propelled me through the next punishing week. 

Back in those days, the restaurant was nothing more than a glorified cafeteria and glorified is definitely a misleading word choice. The menu featured so little actual cooking outside of frying an egg, or toasting some bread. Everything was either microwaved frozen food or it came directly out of a bag or a can. Eventually management figured things out and the menu was vastly upgraded upon the hiring of an executive chef. Before that there were two cooks - Ed and James who manned the kitchen. Neither was exceptionally good at cooking nor were either passable at interacting with other staff. These two stone-like pillars of the restaurant were as challenging to work with as Rose, and though they weren't management, if you messed up even a small amount or didn't look as if you were working your hardest or gave some small bit of attitude they reported you to the management. It was as if they saw their job as half cooking and half prison guard. Neither spoke English as a first language and this meant that they easily misunderstood what you said all the time. This led to many, potentially comical situations where a busboy would emerge from the walk-in cooler with a head of lettuce and be reprimanded for being stupid when in fact they wanted some eggs. Unfortunately, no one dared laugh, as neither Ed nor James ever saw any humour in anything. They also always mistook our being tired or unexcited by the endless stream of menial tasks as attitude. In their minds, all busboys were crappy at their jobs and needed constant observation and reprimanding. That may have a large shred of the truth to it, as it was a crappy summer job after all, but their rudeness, abruptness and lack of any common niceties made it that much worse. I always wondered - "would it be so hard for you to smile or say please when you asked me to scrub the pots and pans?" to no avail. I also thought that a nice backrub or shoulder massage would have been awesome as well. 

Although the two cooks were similar, they weren't the same. The kitchen took on a significantly lighter tone when Ed was cooking. He allowed a small, highly confusing grin to cross his lips from time to time and he spoke with heightened emotions and with overly cartoonish exaggerated facial expressions which made him fun to watch. He wasn't as bad to work with as James, but he was far more unpredictable. James was always sour and dour and gruff, while Ed was impossible to read. One moment a hint of a laugh, the next he was screaming for more cabbage and the next he appeared to be actually concerned for your lack of intelligence. If he was a lion and you were his prey, he may give you false hope by helping remove the sharp quill from your paw and cleaning you before eating you for lunch. The irony is that I was concerned for his intelligence as well, or at least his emotional well-being. His emotions would run the gamut from happy to sad to angry with many stops between all within a shift and with no real obvious indications what was coming next. The trick. as we all learned, was to lap up the good times and to hide during the bad. Staying out of eye-shot worked wonders as Ed would lay into whomever he saw regardless of whose responsibility the error it was or wasn't. To get away we would often go to the outdoor storage and hang out to avoid collateral damage of Ed's flipouts only to emerge when a sufficient time had elapsed. One time I went to the outdoor storage to hide and one of the other busboys thought it would be humourous to lock in me in there. I was trapped in that room for an hour, subsiding solely on bottles of sparkling apple juice and ice cream bars. Finally I was released and, upon returning to the kitchen, instead of being greeted with any concern for my well-being or even a question about where I had disappeared to, I was subjected to a totally incomprehensible tirade from Ed. Despite moments like this, I often felt sympathetic towards him. He didn't seem like a totally bad person inside and I can't imagine that getting up day after day and coming to flip burgers and open bags of premixed salad was too exciting. 

James' daily demeanor always fell somewhere between grumpy and nasty, with the occasional morsel of bitterness tossed in for good measure. I don't think I ever saw smile, let alone unfurrow his brow. I imagine that the muscles in his upper forehead were of near-Herculean strength as they were working all day long. James was gruff with everyone: kitchen staff, management and customers. Looking back on this now, I applaud his consistent, communist approach to life. Why should anyone feel special, let allow happy or appreciated? Why should any of us see our work as anything but a bleak set of routine tasks to be completed with a total absence of joy? Clearly, appreciation and joy are totally overrated and would just have gotten in the way of the running of the kitchen. To his credit, no one ever slacked off on his watch and everyone did things as by the book as possible so as not to draw any attention of any kind towards themselves. Every once and a while a new busboy or dishwasher would come in without an understanding of how hard you they were expected to work and also of the unspoken rules of interacting with James, and a look would become plastered on his face. It is hard to capture it using words, but it was a combination of bewildered, furious, constipated and a slightly happy. The happiness made me most scared of all. It was a happiness absent of any of the usual components of happiness. It is the sort of happy I would feel if I was actually really unhappy and then forced at the threat of harsh reprisals that I had to demonstrate minimal happiness. Sometimes I would imagine James during his time away from work, before "putting on his mask" and becoming his character once again. I could imagine him as a pouty, cross-dressing performer or as a chain-smoking, hard-drinking, money-burning poker player or as a little sensitive boy with his cute dog playing at the stream with his mother watching near by. What happened to that boy, James? Where did he go? I would have loved to get to know him, or even the cross-dresser or the poker player. 

Compared to James, Ed was like a fluffy, cuddly teddy bear while James was more like an actual bear just waking up from a long stint of hibernation. Too tired and groggy to attack or expend too much energy, but a bear nonetheless and worthy of our respect and fear. I half expected him to come to work with a whole salmon in his mouth, or at least with hands covered in honey, but I'm glad he didn't, as I would have reacted and then I'd have been scrubbing pots all evening. Ed and James got along really well, but you always sensed that if James felt like it, he could have made Ed go scampering back to his cave in a heartbeat. At least Ed had his lighter moments when the kitchen was slow and things were relaxed and he would often come ask us bizarrely random questions about our lives with this look of anticipation over what weird thing the crazy busboy would say next. Ed rejoiced in our foibles and loved any juicy detail of our escapades. On the other hand, James just never lightened up. He would have made a great general - no excuses on his watch, no crying on his watch, no wasted time or effort on his watch. And he didn't even have a watch! And he wouldn't have even smirked at that lame pun either - he was a black box. This guy was an android and not the kind of lovable android that so badly longs to be human and says and does endearing human-like things all the time making us love him/her even more. No, unfortunately, he was more the kind of android that wants to enslave humanity. 

The funny thing about both James and Ed is that neither could cook at all. And they were cooks!?!?! I guess those were easy interviews. The menu was created to accentuate their "skills" and it included microwaved frozen lasagna, constantly over-charred burgers, and a "chef'" salad that no chef would actually want to be associated with (bagged salad mix, two scoops of cottage cheese and a burger patty). Aside from the regular menu, the kitchen also catered special events, thus rendering them as far from special as possible. I remember one particular evening party that we catered where Ed and James were working together and they made a huge amount of boiled, overcooked red cabbage. It made the kitchen smell like you wouldn't believe and to top it off no one touched a piece of it  -could you blame them? Even if one of the guests showed up with a craving for boiled red cabbage, they would not have taken a single bite. The kitchen reeked of overcooked cabbage and, I believe this shortened the festivities a great deal. Predictably, neither James not Ed could understand the fuss. Convention was for the busboys and dishwashers to eat last and we often got the leftovers - some nights that involved some good protein or pasta, but on this night the only thing remaining was a massive amount of obliterated cabbage. We waited and order a pizza.

The busboys and dishwasher banded together. When we weren't being attacked by Rose or James or Ed, the management would be prowling around seemingly trying to catch us slacking off. As a result, we became close. We watched each other's backs, we supported each other and we felt like a team. As the remaining minutes of a hard shift ticked down, we would clean the kitchen and unwind singing at the top of our lungs to bad 80s music. After work we would eat, swim in the pool and play billiards until late at night. No one was quite sure why we would subject ourselves to this treatment as we were barely compensated for our efforts, but the after work schedule was our routine and we loved it. Looking back on it now, I don't see why I went in day after day. There were far better jobs at far better pay. Maybe I could tell that there would be a chance it would be a great topic for a creative writing piece someday if I ever decided to document my past? Lucky for me, I was one of the better soldiers - I talked back the least, didn't just walk away and was rewarded by being upgraded to cashier when Rose retired. To say that I had big shoes to fill would be completely inaccurate, but I reveled in the new role and I know the other dishwashers and busboys were overjoyed to have one of their own calling the shots. 

Stay tuned for part 2 in this series....

email number 8 from oz

The final email of my 2003 exchange in Australia.

Well, here I am again.

Before I get into it all - it just wouldn't seem right if this one, the last one, wasn't extremely long. There is so much to say - I won't even bother apologizing for the length. I know you like it.

Hope everyone is doing well. As you are all in the midst of winter, here I am sitting in the beautifully air-conditioned staffroom of my school (I can't imagine what it used to be like inside on 35 degree days before air-con was invented). And, as of this writing, I only have a few days of work left, and then some parties, some cleaning (actually a lot of cleaning) and then I drop my car off, and then up to the airport and I'll be off and up out. But, I am getting ahead of myself  - there are a lot of stories and opinions to share from the past months.

Before I talk about recent stuff, there is one funny story that I forgot about from a long time ago. During the April holidays, I went to Canberra and visited the Parliament. What a spectacular building with a huge grass lawn on the roof and awesome views of the city. I had a small picnic lunch and then packed up my stuff into my knapsack and went in. They checked my bag and the horn thing went off and it sort of freaked me out. It turns out that I had forgotten a butter knife in my lunch stuff. I had to check this item and then get it back in the end. I mean, what harm would I do with a butter knife? I didn't even have any butter with me.

Driving for the year has been easy. Aside from the first few weeks when I had to re-orientate myself to the opposite side of the road and car, it has been a breeze. I am so used to it all, that when I see a TV show or a movie from North America - it looks so weird seeing people on the right side of the road. The one great thing about driving down in the countryside, is it is like a real life video game - especially at night. So, I am driving back from a student's place where I was kindly invited for tea (dinner) at about midnight. And country highways are already a bit narrow and can be windy. You are there, driving along, all relaxed and stuff and then you round a bend and there is a koala sitting in your lane (happens all of the time), you swerve around it and then a kangaroo bounces in front of you. And then there are a few wombats and possibly some rabbits. Then the stupid magpies (birds) swoop out of nowhere in front of you (I’ve had three fly into my car this year). It is a bit scary. Everyone has hit a kangaroo here, and I see at least two dead animals on the side of the road everyday. This morning there was a huge kangaroo on one side and another on the other side, killed overnight as they weren't there last night when I drove home. Very sad, and it makes me wonder how animals can evolve and all of that survival of the fittest stuff and that these species haven't evolved into ones that don't walk in front of these huge shiny things that kill your friends? “Hey remember when Joe got smushed over there last week? Yeah, let’s go this other way instead” Possibly kangaroos are a bit egotistical thinking they are all fast and stuff, and most likely the koalas are ripped on the gum tree leaves, which leaves wombats, foxes and rabbits  -man, they are stupid! Ha ha ha. Just today there was a family of ducks crossing the highway. Ahhh. I stopped. My killing days are over. I joked with the school at the final awards ceremony that they can all come and visit me and we can drive around and kill some Canadian animals like raccoons, skunks, squirrels and moose – it got a big laugh. I’ve killed lots of animals this year, and for that I ask for your forgiveness.

So, as I have already pointed out, I am living in a very small remote area this year, which while being beautiful and peaceful has its drawbacks. It was, and has been, quite a tough acclimation for a city guy like me to get used to. I’m used to the hard streets of Vancouver. Honestly, as much fun as it has been being in Australia (and it has been lots of fun, as you can tell by all of my stories), I am very excited about returning to city life. I have enjoyed the more relaxed nature of the lifestyle and the people down here, but there is very little to do, especially on weekends (that is why I go up to the big city almost every weekend). So, one night in my small country home, I was starting to make dinner. I cut up my veggies, got out my fish, and was already to start cooking, but I had to no gas. The gas cylinders on the outside of the house seemed full-ish, but I couldn't tell and I didn't want to fiddle around with all of the valves as I might explode everything if I did the wrong thing. And, everything that serves prepared food (like take away stands  -they call it "take away" instead of "take out" here) closed at 6pm and it was 7pm. It would take 50 minutes of roundtrip driving to get to the nearest store in the next town over, so I was stuck with no gas and I was starving. I ended up having peanut butter sandwiches for dinner, something similar for brekkie the next morning and then finally, my exchange partner's sister called me back and explained what to do with the dials and it was very easy and I felt stupid and then the gas worked. Every once and a while I have an experience like this that reminds me how different life has been this year (like if my water tanks ran out of water, no water would come out of the taps). Makes it fun. Really makes me impressed with the Aboriginees who lived outside year round and had no appliances.

Now, on the subject of the car, selling the car was quite the experience. My car, first off, is an old car. And a classic car – a Holden Commodore, which is the quintessential Aussie car. Now, to sell a used car in the state of Victoria you need to get your car to pass the “Roadworthy” test. This is one tough test to pass – they are extremely picky and you could have a huge bill to pay before selling it, and consequently no one will buy a car that hasn’t passed the test. If it passes then you know you are buying a good car. I originally advertised a price of $1500 in the local paper and said that I had passed the test, although I hadn’t got it done yet, and because the car is very popular I got lots of calls. But, I had my local mechanic look at it for me, and he said that he thought the test would cost at least $600 dollars. Luckily one person said they would give me $1000 for it and get the test done themselves. I drop it off for them on my way to the airport. I got a good deal with that.

Back on the subject of wildlife – I want to really make it clear to people how cool it is to have so much wildlife just around the place. Aside from the dead stuff, I have had koalas in my trees, ‘roos hopping around and even echidnas on the side of the road (ant-eater-ish creatures). The only thing I haven’t seen in the wild are platypus. And the birds are awesome too. Dingos are only up north, as are crocs and I saw some Tasmanian Devils in, of all places, Tasmania. I heard about the famous, almost revered, Tasmanian Tiger which has been extinct for 100 years now. Lots of great birdcalls first thing in the morning used to wake me up, but I am more than used to it now. Actually, a family of birds has made my roof in the back their home. I little cheeps and lots of noise from the porch all of the time.

“What is up with cork hats?” I asked last weekend when I saw a few people walking around with these wide-brim hats with dangling corks hanging from it. I found out that the corks are for keeping flies away from your face. Obviously an advanced technological improvement to the regular hat, which have next to no fly defenses. My next question was let’s say the fly evolves into some sort of super fly and they learn how to avoid the swinging cork  -what will you do next? This question was appropriately ignored. Pretty funny looking hats though.

Some people asked me after the last big email why I hadn’t mentioned the Rugby world cup. Just forgot I guess. It was a very big event. Canada played, as I’m sure some of you know, and they did win a game. I was cheering for New Zealand to win, but it was exciting that the Aussies did so well and that the final was very exciting. I was up in Queensland for a long weekend and since that is a huge rugby state I had no problem finding an awesome pub to watch the game in. The pub was full of British fans and there was lots of playful heckling amongst the patrons of the pub. It was a fun time. I still don’t love the game of rugby, but the final was awesome. Another huge sporting event was the Davis Cup final that was in Melbourne. I listened to it driving up to the city on the radio. Tennis on the radio is not so great. But, it was very exciting watching the final match on TV. The Aussies love their sport and they love winners. Philippoussis is not everyone’s favourite, but after winning the final match he, and the others, were treated like returning war heroes.

Tasmania was beautiful. I took a few days off at the end of October and hired a car and drove around Tassie. You could easily spend two weeks doing the same trip that I did in 4 ½ days. Tasmania was very different from the rest of Oz. Lots of rolling hills with sheep grazing. A few snow peaked mountains, and much colder weather. I landed in Launceston (in the north) and drove to the very picturesque Cradle Mountain national park. There was this big lake and a snowy mountain in the background (sort of an Aussie Lake Louise). And it was freezing! I went from home, where it wasn’t hot, but I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, to this, where it was like Canadian wintertime. Then, the next day I drove down the east coast and stopped in some quaint seaside towns and then got into Hobart that evening. Hobart was a really nice city with an excellent harbour. I had the best fish and chips that I’ve had this year down there. We don’t get Barramundi (I don’t think) in Vancouver, but it is sooooo good (and so is Gummy Flake). The next morning I drove up to Mount Wellington and it was this really hot 26-degree morning and I was driving up this winding road and I thought I saw a flake of snow, but that would be impossible as it was really hot out. And I kept driving up and up and up and I got to the top and not only was it snowing, but it was amazingly cold and windy. I was in my car in shorts and a t-shirt and I saw people scampering back to their cars bundled up beyond belief and all of my warm stuff was in the trunk. I parked the car, burst out and threw on a millions layers (or 3) and went off to see the view. Wow. This was an incredible panoramic view of the city and the harbour and the national parks. We were really high up and it was cool seeing the snow and then the bright sunny skies below. The weather systems were moving through there very quickly. And the clouds were enveloping the top of the mountain, and then moved through and you saw the view again. I then drove to a national park in a place called Huonville and did an amazing treetop walk. Very awesome trees, including the appropriately named “Big Tree” – it didn’t disappoint. But, snow, it was really snow. I just can’t believe that it was snow.

The next day I woke up and went to the botanical gardens, yes they were “Royal”, and then off to the Cadbury factory. Yes! Lots of free chocolate and Cadbury makes some good stuff. Cadbury is an Australia company – I was wrong earlier in the year when I mocked some students for saying that it was, as I reckoned that everything is American. Cadbury/Schewppes is originally British, but now mostly Australian and the Hobart factory was huge and the tour was informative and yummy. And for those who sort of reckon that Hersheys, Nestle and Cadbury are all very similar, we are wrong – Cadbury kicks ass. Hersheys is not so great. My final day in Tasmania I drove down to Port Arthur and got exposed to convict history. Let me just summarize for you – if you were a petty thief in England in the late 1800s/early 1900s, the threat of being sent to Australia and the horrible life of the convicts there, should have been enough to make you stop your thieving ways. The cells were silly small and it would have been a really bad existence. No loaf of bread would have been worth that. And then back to work…

The bass player from Men At Work teaches bass guitar at my school every Tuesday. That’s cool.

Immunization shots suck. Any type of shots, or anything to do with needles, suck. Then, what sucks even more is being afraid of needles. Really afraid. So, choosing to travel to an area of the world where you need to get shots done to go there, is almost, in my way of thinking, almost a good reason to not go to those areas. But, that would be silly. So to the doctor I went and two things (1) shots are damn expensive - $120!, and (2) I don’t know if it is psychosomatic or what, but those shots REALLY hurt (I didn’t faint like I did at school once) and I couldn’t lift my arms above shoulder height for two days. I didn’t cry, but I was crying inside and my shoulders were crying. That is the most pain I had felt in Australia, but that pain was soon to be beaten by…

So, I took a few days off of work (I work hard, and I might not be in Australia again for a long time) and flew up to the Sunshine Coast (just a few hours north of Brisbane in Queensland). The flights were free as Virgin Blue (the domestic Aussie airline) messed up on some flights early in the school year and gave me two free flights. It was awesome. Great beaches, once again and lots of great walks. I took it pretty easy and just lay around and read and swam and ate good food and got the worst sunburn on my back. I am very careful about that sort of thing and use a lot of sunscreen, and had, in 10+ months not got a real burn. Then, one morning I woke up in Noosa Heads, got a boogie board and down to the beach. Lathered up with sunscreen, lay around, read and then went swimming on the boogie board. Came out and then repeated. It was so much fun. Except, that I forgot one thing – when you are on the boogie board, your back is face-up out of the water, almost the entire time and wholly Christ, my back got burnt. I couldn't lie on, or twist, or even put by backpack on. It really sucked. I took a day off of the beach and then went swimming with a shirt on the day after. I also ran into a particularly unfriendly Aussie!?!?!?  So, not every Aussie is friendly. I was on the beach and wanted a photo with me in it and I asked this lady walking on the beach if she would take the photo and she looked at me and kept on walking. And she had her teenage daughter with her. And they were speaking English. How rude! And what sort of message is that for how to treat people to your daughter (unless they were practicing not talking to strangers). It was beautiful up there, but I sort of felt all travelled out. I just sort of feel like I've seen enough beaches, and that in the end a museum is a museum and a walk is a walk – regardless of how nice they are. And I know that once home I will miss all of this stuff, but at some point it is hard to get totally thrilled by another great view (sorry if there are people reading this who feel jealous of me and are hating my blasé-ness). I do love it all and have loved all of the amazing traveling, but at some point you just get a bit tired. The final note on Northern Australia - bug bites, bug bites, bug bites. Damn bugs. I hate them so much. Great weather the whole time though. “Sick” from school for two days and then back on a Monday with coloured skin (no I didn’t show anyone my back) – a bit suspicious…

Now, I understand the whole post 9-11 security thing as much as the next average person. But, why can’t I store my bags at the airport!?!?! Now I understand that they would want to search them and look for anything bad, but then after only finding non-sharp and non-explosive stuff, then what is the problem, especially if they are locked up and I’m the only one to have a key? What’s the problem? I do understand, really, but all I’m saying is that my life would be easier if I could have done that on the way home. 

Played in a few big and fun Frisbee things and they were great. Melbourne hosted the Mixed National Championships and the Melbourne Hat tournament. For those who don’t know, a hat tournament is where they literally make random teams by drawing names out of a hat. Both weekends were full of lots of games, great parties and a chance to hang out with Frisbee people from around the country. I am impressed that in less than a year, I’ve already met so many cool people, and feel like I have started to make some good friends – considering that I only came up to the city once every two weeks and that there were only 6 tournaments in a year. Our team had a disappointing (to say the least) Mixed Nationals – we didn’t win much, but still had a great time. I played awesome the first day (including dominating a game against that weirdo captain guy from earlier in the year who didn’t respect my game – that felt good), and then as the team’s fortunes vanishes, so did my great play. We ended up losing three games by 1 point. Ouch!

But, after leaving the Frisbee fields for the last time on Sunday, it just made me think about how great the ulti community really is. It is such a great sport, in many ways, but mostly the generosity and warmth of the people. It is also just fun and relaxed and there are so many people with wacko senses of humor. And since it is a uni game by origin, it ends up being a pretty intelligent group as well. I didn’t know anyone really when I got here and now, at the end of the year, I know so many people and when the Aussie national team visits Vancouver on their way to Finland next summer, I should have a bunch of friends coming to stay. I’m having two final parties this weekend before I fly away.

Today was the big end of year finale for school – the end of year mass. Now, as I described earlier in the year, mass is long (and I mean lllloooonnnggggg  -even for the true Catholics.) There is lots of standing and saying “and God be with you” and then sitting and listening to long passages, then standing and hearing the choir sing, and then sitting and then standing and so on. And to top it off (this makes NO sense) the students and teachers have to wear full uniform and it was 34 degrees today and the students were NOT allowed to have a drink bottle!?!??! What!?!?!?! Hey, I’ve got a great idea – how about we make them eat salt the whole time too. Or maybe, we should use heaters, instead of fans, maybe light a big fire, possibly throw water on hot coals the whole time? No water?!?!? And the mass and awards made the whole thing 3 hours! Yeah! But, it was an awesome day still. As the days have been drawing to an end, more and more students have been showing their appreciation for me and the excitement of the end of the year and my leaving made for a fast and fun last few weeks. Today, at the awards thing they said all of this great stuff about my contribution to the school and then I went up and made them all laugh with my quick run down of the year. Not only were all of the students there, but lots of parents too. They gave me some awesome framed photos and a nice book. I got lots of great photos too. Then, to wrap it up, I performed “Fight For Your Right To Party” by the Beastie Boys with the school rock band and we were awesome. People were standing and clapping at the end. Then, just before all of the students went home – I had a whole bunch thanking me for an excellent year. It all makes you feel pretty damn special.

So, I keep getting asked how it feels to leave, whether I’ll come back and what I like better Australia or Canada. And these are difficult questions to answer. Plain and simple – home is home. I am very excited to come home. But, I really feel like I’ve lived so much in this one-year and it is sad to leave it behind. People keep asking me if I am sad to leave, and I wasn't really until today when I said goodbye to many people (mostly students) who I may never see again, then I felt sad. Now, I know they are just students  - but my style of teaching has always been a friendly style and even though they are young, they are “friends” at work. Many say they will stay in touch – we’ll have to see  -I hope so, and I’m sure that a small group will. I promised that I would come back and visit – maybe in 2006 when Perth is hosting the World Club Ultimate Frisbee Championships. It is very odd saying goodbye to people you have spent a lot of time with, both at school and in Melbourne and at squash. Unlike leaving Vancouver, when I knew I would see most people again  -and there are a lot of people I really hope to continue to know. In the end – I miss home, I will miss here – which is, I think, the way you’d want it to be. If I didn’t miss home, then that would be depressing as hell to have to go back and if I didn’t miss here, then it would have been a horrible year. Life is about experience and I have experienced so much this year – I would do it again and I hope to a few more years down the road. I am so proud of myself for having finally done this and done it to the fullest. It wasn’t an easy thing to do – going away for a year, to a remote country town where I didn’t know anyone, and leaving everything and everyone I know behind – but not that I have, I have developed a large amount of self-confidence (yes, even more of that), and I have come to even more appreciate things at home. I will 100% come back here someday – and I’ll have a lot of people to visit.

What I won’t miss is the isolation of where I am living (although it is very peaceful and quiet) and I like city life better (although I have come to really appreciate country life this year). I won’t miss the math teaching – that is better at home (I have to yell for quiet at least 5 times a class with my year 7s and 8s – and less than ½ finish their homework and maybe 1/3 study for tests ever). I will miss the fun-ness of the students – great sense of humour, I will miss being the “oddity” for the year, I will miss the laid back nature of everything – it just isn’t that intense here. I miss Vancouver’s restaurants and other options of things to do in the evenings. I will miss the wildlife (seeing kangaroos and koalas on a regular basis still is very exciting), the awesome beaches and the great parks. In a short time, I’ve met so many great people – which will “force” me to stay in touch and “force” me to come back at some point. I would love to do another exchange someday (or find some good reason to be in the Melbourne area for a good period of time again – I have a whole bunch of people who I can stay with now). And I know that there are small nuances and stuff that I won’t notice missing until I’ve been home for a while. I’m sure that I will be thinking about this year and stuff that happened it for the rest of my life. 2003 will always stand out as one incredible year.

I look forward to seeing everyone again in just a few more weeks. I hope that a whole bunch of grads will pop by and say hi in January, if they get a chance. It has been a pleasure writing emails for all of you this year. It has been a great year away. Thanks for all of the excellent emails from all of you. I get home on December 29^th and I hope to see or hear from all of you in the early part of the New Year. It will be nice to be home

Cheers

Tommy