Cool As a Cucumber

People are always advising me to go away from the light and, to the best of my abilities, I always do. If you were observing me do this, most of the time you would just see a regular looking dude just inching away slowly from this massive light. However, one time I did it too quickly and incidentally created a new dance move that is all the rage in the clubs now. It would be a reasonable thought to wonder what a regular guy like me is doing with such a large, bright light anyways - it came with the place.

Out of the mouths of babes comes a whole lot of stuff I've saying super-articulately for years and no one seems to even bat an eyelash. So let me get this straight, I go on and on with all of this hyper-intelligent, nae, mind-blowing, for lack of a better term, art and get nothing from anyone. Then this unnecessarily cute, far from hygienic, young person repackages my brilliance into a few monosyllabic, googily-goo and makes everyone laugh and the world seemingly grinds to a halt. Sorry if I am not impressed, babes. It will take a whole lot more to impress me - although you are very cute, I will concede that. Ride that wave while you can.

I am feeling deflated today, mostly because you misheard my request. I asked to be flattered, not flattened. I do admire your desire to fulfill my request as even when I was screaming for you to stop, you were unrelenting in your mission to flatten me. Probably should get your ears checked and learn to think for yourself especially when someone's insides start oozing out of their body. Now that I'm deflated, I would appreciate you pumping me up - NOT LITERALLY! Put that basketball pump down and back away slowly! 

Whenever I'm confronted with a seemingly insurmountable problem, people always scoff at my indecision saying that the answers are so simple and that it's all black and white. I wish! It isn't my fault that when I am forced to choose, I always see grey options  -it's how I was raised! My parents never allowed me to sway all the way to an extreme and instead I was strongly guided  to find a middle, blended ground (which included actually blending the ground in our backyard mostly because the manure and peat moss become better distributed that way for gardening - it just made so much sense). This had it's good points - instead of being forced to choose one of two flavours of ice cream, my father expertly mixed the two together on a marble slab that he designed himself while I stood by bawling (I really didn't want my vanilla and his unsweetened, black licorice root together)  and when I couldn't decide which shirt to wear, my mother would drop everything and cut both in half and restitch them together creating some completely bizarre patterns and shirts (once I was trying to choose between a white, collared, button-down dress shirt and a tie-dyed tank top). It also had it's bad points as even when a situation arose when only a black or white, yes or no type answer worked, I still wasn't allowed to choose one which created much controversy and unwanted negative attention for me growing up. Like the time in the lunch line up when I was asked if I wanted white or whole wheat toast and me being perfectly conditioned, answered "maybe" which led to a stall that resulted in no one getting their lunch before the bell. Or the time at the doctor's office when I needed to have one vaccine and I couldn't select which arm to have the needle inserted in, which led to me receiving countless shots in countless spots on the body from the frustrated and out-of-her-wits doctor (who coincidentally was wearing a grey shirt that day). In times of disarray I often close my eyes and visit a fantasy dream-like world that I imagine is all in black and white. It is so much simpler there compared to their grey upon grey world in which I live. In this imaginary world, all decisions are really really easy as they are actually black or white. Like do you want another piece of white cake? Is that shirt black? Do you like my new white sock? And, when I wrapped this sheet around your face repeatedly did you only see black before you passed out and I put your body in the trunk of the car? (I didn't say this fantasy land was safe, just that the questions were easy to answer without much hesitation.)

I have often been compared to a ticking time bomb as a result of all of the plastic surgery I have had which gives me a very flat and metallic look which is actually, if you were wondering, a result of hours and hours in the gym (and evidence that I am not completely sure how to use the equipment properly). I also have a bad habit of absent-mindedly making ticking sounds as I creep around and calling out "IS THAT A BOMB!" before running away giggling. Plus the fact that I am always one perceived slight or one extremely irrational response away from exploding. 

Just like everyone else, I like to look my best and I don't care if it takes creams and exfoliators and combs (that's right not just one comb, I am willing to use two), I am fully prepared to put in the effort. My goal is to be so good looking that I am just about drop dead gorgeous but not quite. I'd rather live and be slightly ugly.

I spend so much of my time staring at that idiot box and I should cut back so that I can watch some more high quality programming on the TV, but I just can't take myself away from watching those idiots! They are just so endearingly stupid and constantly on the verge of doing something profoundly dumb! I also find that after hours of observing these idiots constantly outdoing themselves finding yet another depth to mentally sink to, I feel a whole lot smarter myself. Thank you, idiot box, for accomplishing a task that 12 years of school could not. I have wondered how they got the idiots into the box in the first place, and why they don't just open it and leave - I mean there is a wide, gaping hole in the front.

I am a third wheel. At home, at the restaurants, on quiet walks under the moonlight, I am always the third wheel. I happen to think I am quite good at it and maybe, I'm just saying, I may be so good at it that after a bit more studying and a little fine-tuning with a renewed focus, I believe that one day I can move up to become the second wheel, or at least explore the options for settings where only two wheels are permitted.

I'm not sure why it is so hard to have your cake and eat it too. I mean, if it is a good cake I totally get that others would want some too and if your friends are anything like mine, they are like vultures around cake and it is just not humanly possible to fend off multiple attackers from different angles all at the same time and not drop the cake. I would guess that you should buy your cake and then cover it in a cloak or something and then rush home. A simple white cake box will not be sufficient - those that want to steal your cake will see through that  (the clear plastic top makes that all too easy). Even with a cloak, I wouldn't rush too fast - it will draw unnecessary attention to you. Your friends and other passersby will wonder aloud "Why is he rushing so fast on a pretty regular looking day  - pretty suspicious, if I don't say? Probably is concealing a cake." So, walk slowly but meaningfully, both avoid eye contact so as not to draw any unnecessary attention and also make eye contact so it doesn't appear that you are going out of your way to avoid eye contact as only a cake-horder does that in this day and age and then as soon as you are home and the door is closed and locked, you may resume stuffing your face with cake. Maybe sharing isn't such a bad idea afterall?

Some time in my busy schedule of performing open heart surgeries, eating blood sausages and taking classes at the local community college in blood splatter analysis has finally opened up and I plan to paint the town red. 

I was recently told that I was as heavy as a sack of potatoes. Initially, I was quite offended as I was imagining this massive sack overflowing with enough gargantuan potatoes to barely satisfy a humongous, potato-loving family or group of citizens or just one maniacal loaner who just loves peeling them while laughing at imaginary not-so-funny monologues. After some time, I decided to venture out and explore the world of sacks of potatoes and after months of extensive research and both observing and purchasing for the sake of carrying, many sacks of a variety of sizes and weights, my conclusion was that it is still an insult of the high degree and I will exact my revenge. Looking forward to consuming less starch too as I have either developed a rare skin ailment from consuming excessive starch or I am just caked with discarded potato skins. On the upside, I now have quite the sack collection. My grandfather would be proud (but then again he was quite odd and almost anything I did made him proud).

Last week I was at an all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant and asked if I could have one of everything. I was told by the waitress to "eat my heart out" with, in my opinion, way too much pleasure especially considering the time of day. It also seemed to be a totally strange suggestion considering I had already ordered a ton of sushi and neither I nor her nor my eating companion seemed to be a surgeon capable of performing heart removals with a live patient. And could I even eat my heart once removed? Would I live long enough? What accompanying sauce would best enhance a lightly-sautéed heart? As I thought and thought and thought, I decided that either my waitress had all of these answers or...I looked around and not only had she checked out and gone home, but the restaurant lights were dimmed, the place cleaned and only a man dressed in a surgeon outfit with a gleaming smile and an equal gleaming scalpel sat across from me (his shoes were also shiny but that is neither here nor there). This is why I usually order in and am trying to cut back on expired dairy products.

I am often a bit hot under the collar, which I initially attributed to wearing collars on my shirts. I thought -Hey! If I just stop wearing collars, I will feel a whole lot cooler, and the only downside is having to shop for a lot of new shirts. However, when I switched over to non-collared shirts and turtlenecks, the heat remained. I was tempted to give up, but I have done a lot of that recently, and I was trying to not give in to that particular temptation. My new goal was to be as cool as a cucumber. Step 1: refrain from eating and/or using cucumbers as microphones in front of the bathroom mirror and/or fondling (unless that particular cucumber seems to enjoy it) and/or practicing speeches in front of all cucumbers while studying them. Step 2: spend all of my free time observing the cucumbers both in their natural habitat and in my refrigerator to see what makes them tick and be so cool (note: could probably skip the "ticking" part if pressed for time). Step 3: after completing 500 hours of observations (the minimum time required by my wife, who is trying to catch up on her PVRed TV shows, and for some reason was put in charge of making the rules), go to the library and research "the musical story of cucumbers and how they are far superior to zucchinis (a fact they are well aware of)", "all about our friend, the refrigerator, and why calling her 'fridge' is bordering on sacrilegious", "what storing cucumbers in refrigerators actually accomplishes (you would be surprised)" and "the history of humans and refrigerators seen through the eyes of a cucumber". Step 4: go play some tennis -nothing to do with the project, I just needed a break as I was starting to see cucumbers wherever I turned and they were starting to talk to me, which I quite enjoyed, until they started to encourage me, gently at first, to do some very bad things. Step 5: after completing 500 hours of library research (again the minimum time required by my wife, she stated with what can only be described as glee or possibly greed), start living the part and become as cucumber-like as possible - dress like one (vests, vests and more vests), talk like one (they often have a slight Welsh accent), behave like one (friendly, but not too friendly; smart, but not too smart; and exactingly punctual, totally and completely, smugly punctual all the time almost like it makes you so much better than everyone else) and then see if the result is "coolness". If it is, I will celebrate my new found state of being cool with a refreshing cucumber and yogurt salad and a spanking, fresh hair cut that will be the talk of the town or just make me hear more voices, which will have the same end result. If it isn't and I am still too hot, then I will still eat the refreshing salad but with a fair amount of spite and vitriol and while I will outwardly state to all present, how much I enjoy said salad, honestly, I will be overstating the fact as the salad will be quite bland and so 80s.

I used to walk around the house with a carefree bounce in my step almost as if to say "I don't care where my foot lands, it's all good".  Now? I am always walking on eggshells due to your haphazard way of discarding all of the shells. I miss those carefree days in a way that only a perfectly poached egg can come close to satisfying. Keep those eggs coming, but could you please use the compost!

Many people have told me that an apple a day keeps the doctor away. Man, do I only wish it was so easy. I'm writing this now holed up in my attic awaiting the next wave of certifiably-crazy, body-probing, needle-wielding doctors who are practically frothing at the mouth waiting to inflict pain upon me (or just reminding me in person about my next appointment, and if so, what's with the froth?). Sure you call it a regular check-up, but I can see right through that, you fiends - you just want to extract my kidney, hack at my knee and shine bright lights into my eyes and ears and other places too if it tickles your fancy. I hide in my attic, hurling apples, tower-defense style, trying to keep those doctors with their perfect degrees and slightly less perfect hair pieces out of my house.

I have no idea what like a pie in the sky is supposed to mean and it just makes me so angry! What?!?!?! Like something is suppose to be like a pie floating or flying in the sky?!?! Really!?! Have you ever encountered anything like that?!?!? That's what I thought! What is even like a pie in the first place? A tart, you say? Okay...you have a point - tarts are quite similar to pies. A quiche? Again, good point, quiches are quite similar to pies as well. Flan? Cobbler?...Alright, so there are actually a fair number of other baked goods reminiscent of pies, I stand corrected. But, that is not my point at all, my point was...ahh screw it, anyone else in the mood for pie right now?

Have you met that guy downtown who is razor sharp? Super-smart and a compelling conversationalist, and I always leave our meetings with much knowledge gained and tons of cuts all about my arms and legs. I can't decide if having my mind blown wide open and filled with brilliant idea after brilliant idea makes worthwhile all of the pain, blood and scars from the countless razors that he insists on not just keeping on his body but waving around as he pontificates.

Just yesterday, my buddy thrust a magazine article in my face and demanded that I read it and weep, which I did. As I've always said, is there any other way to enjoy a well-researched, properly-punctuated magazine article with impeccable grammar then with a good cry?

Just for once, I want to be on top of the world so others will look up at me or should I say up in my general direction as I'm assuming that if I am literally on top of the world then I'll be fairly far away from everyone else and that they will have to squint, or use a telescope or just take for granted that I am actually there and just go on with their regular lives. I'm sure that at first it will be a novelty and other's will take time to notice or talk about it, and then everyone will just forget about it and resume having fun and I'll be stuck up there on top of the world with no way to get down (they didn't mention that in the brochure) and also, I have a debilitating fear of heights and even if they provide a ladder or a hang glider or something, I am screwed. And I'll have no one to talk to and I'll be forced to create a whole cast of characters to interact with just to fight off the inevitable fall into insanity although inventing, writing detailed character studies and interacting with imaginary characters will lead instead to a gentle walk towards insanity. Also, that pretty girl I used to like to look at through my binoculars from my window, will now just look like a dot from up here, albeit a pretty dot - oh who am I kidding - all the dots will look the same up here and when I think I am looking at her I could just be ogling a dog or a mailbox or that life-sized picture of myself I painted on my roof. She won't even know I exist, which may be step up from the current state, where she knows and only tolerates me because she promised her ailing father not to abhor anyone as it added to her stress. Why did I want this privilege of being on top of the world again? So others would be forced to take a break from looking down at me and have to look up? I take it all back - keep looking down! Resume our regularly scheduled, well-rehearsed relationship where you are up here and I am down there. I don't love it, but at least I can't fall.

I really want to pay lip service! Where do I sign up?

We Always Make Beautiful Art Together

He: "I remember our first date, we walked in the park and blew dandelion seeds everywhere, only stopping when I gave in to my allergies. We lay on our picnic blanket and I was stunned by you, possibly as a result of the post-allergic haze, but also as I believed you looked like a beautiful angel, not so much for your looks, I mean you were clearly in need of week-long spa treatment, or for your gentle and loving spirit, as using that description would cause me to lose all respect from others as far as my descriptive skills go. Looking back on it now, I'm not sure why I felt you were angelic at all, but I still fell for you."

She: "And I for you. I remember shortly after when we went away for that holiday to the coast - our first real trip away together - it was such an amazing time that I'll never forget. Those long walks on the beach at night, the surfing lessons, that dude with the afro and all of the Spanish omelettes and the subsequent stomach aches which, when they receded, left a hole that only more Spanish omelettes could fill. When I think back on that trip I always see you as a tall drink of water, partially because you are quite tall and give the illusion of translucence, but mostly because I remember being so thirsty and dehydrated the whole time and you have always both struggled with excessive perspiration and had a desire to help me get hydrated."

He: "You are such a constantly thirsty person and I have always loved you for it, aside from those long evenings spent watching you sit next to the full bathtub with a straw unable to tear yourself away even when I offered you rewards and prizes of various denominations. I remember meeting your parents for the first time and getting along so well with both of them, almost to worrisome degrees. I thought I heard your father say that you had your mother's eyes, and, as I am prone to be, I took it literally, and I almost made an excuse to use the washroom so that I could run far far away. I'm so glad that I stayed and that your mother has regained possession of both of her glass eyes, at least for now."

She: "She has and all I am allowed to say upon consultation with my legal team is that we have a complicated relationship. You know, after much thought, I have realized over time that you are like my knight in shining armour sans horse. You always make me feel safe and protected and I'm glad you talked me out of digging that moat around my apartment building. I love you, but I really wish you'd put the good silverware away - it doesn't even protect you from attacks. And stop galloping around the house on the mop, it really gets old and you can't enjoy the splinters."

He: "Sorry, I just got carried away while drying the dishes. I have always strangely found drying the moisture off of the dishes that just acted as vessels for our nourishment a profoundly mystical experience. And I am attempting to give myself at least two moments of being carried away each week - does wonders for my mental well-being. And you my dear, you are as lovely as a dove. Graceful, pretty and not at all like that white, dove-like bird we saw that tried to claw my face off when we were swinging like children in the playground the other day. You are quite pale and peaceful and, call it a premonition, I'm glad we bought those new nail clippers last week."

She: "You should have just given that rabid bird your pickle you were holding that he so obviously wanted. You and your pickles - it is hard to know where one ends and the other begins. Sweetie, you always remind me of a stately oak tree in that you are impressively vertical aside from the occasional windy afternoon and you don't look at all out of place standing the yard for periods of time that are so long I am prone to refer to them as eras. And yes, I promise I won't pretend to chop you down with my father's ax as I know it brings back bad memories of the time that I nearly did. I swear I was sleep walking and that in my dream I needed to go to the shed, grab the ax and then pose for a photo-shoot for a tree chopping expose in the local newspaper."

He: "I believe you my sweet. You've always been quite the chopper of wood and prone to narcolepsy and we both knew that putting them together could be a danger to us all. You know, looking at you in this light you reminds me of the day we met when I compared you to my favourite pair of rubber boots. Water resistant, shiny and perfect for playing in the mud. I had no idea that you were just starting another round of antibiotics to deal with that debilitating skin ailment - I thought you were naturally tire-like and even then I was taken with you and just wanted to splash around with you in muddy puddles like we were little Irish children without a care in the world."

She: "Your love and attraction then meant so much to me and they still do. I've never been totally clear about why we are always Irish in your thoughts and daydreams, or why we always appear as children- a bit odd I have to admit. My skin ailment was horribly painful and I'll never forget your support which often took the form of you standing next to me yelling personal remarks and obscene insults at the skin. We'll never be sure if it were your comments, the antibiotics or when I decided to stop licking amphibians every chance I got. I looked at you, back in those days sort of like how a cute puppy dog sees a plate of noodles. Which means that I just was pretty confused about a lot of things especially how puppies view plates of noodles."

He: "I have always appreciated your comparing me to cute puppy dogs and not just one sole puppy. Anyone could remind you of a single puppy and I have tried hard to encapsulate multiple young dogs in how I carry myself and live my life, and you saw that. And your attention to detail is so heart-warming when you include my all-time favourite, a plate if noodles as you remembered my affinity for plates and also for noodles when they are placed on said plates. It reminds me of those hot, sweltering summer afternoons, when we would sit there in my apartment fireplace on, heaters on high - the two of us disgusting, sweaty messes - just eating plate after plate of cold, mostly-uncooked noodles. I would turn to you and forget momentarily that I wasn't staring into a mirror, mostly because you usually held up a mirror between us and also because I was quite delirious from the sheer amount of heat and nearly chocking on those semi-raw and sharp pieces of noodle."

She: "I also miss those pasta-eating, sweaty, mirror-holding afternoons. You would get so endearingly delirious - you once talked to my shoe for a while until I put it on and walked to the other side of the room, mostly to give my shoe a break from your monologue. When the shoe you'd been talking to "walked" across the room a look of confusion and hurt would flash across your face momentarily before you snapped out of it and stood up and did some light calisthenics. I'd look at you from across the room and you'd remind me of my uncle who was often being interrogated by the police for a series of increasingly weird and weirder misdemeanors all involving shoes or other foot-coverings."

He: "He was a pretty odd guy, and yet I always saw your uncle as sort of father figure. I recall that one time out on the kayak that he loved so dearly, he mentioned that if I felt as he did, I could refer to him as an uncle.  I was shocked. A father figure, yes, but to see him as an uncle - it just felt strange to me. I didn't want to make things awkward, but I quickly jumped out of the kayak and swam back to shore to see your father, the only father figure you had left to offer me. Nothing ever felt the same between your uncle and I again. But your love for me never relented, you were sort of like a mangy dog gnawing at a bone that used to be covered with delicious meat but had been bare for a long time. You gnawed me with your mangy love and completed me."

She: "My goal is to complete you by whatever means are necessary. In fact, competing things has always been one of my main goals in life as a result of totally misreading a horoscope when I was all alone, crying at my 22nd birthday when no one wanted to stay and play with dolls. I enjoy completing puzzles, graphic novels and unusually inappropriate graphic puzzle sets. And then you came along and I have focussed on making you whole ever since. I look at completing you in the same way a general would view leading a group of unknowing, "dispensable" soldiers into a completely un-winnable skirmish. He would know they would most likely die totally gruesome and painful deaths, but lead them into battle he would as it was what he was trained to not ask question and follow orders to do."

He: "That is confusingly beautiful and sweet my love. I am your soldier, that has always been clear to me from the day you made me clean our garage that you kept referring to as "the barracks" and as recently as yesterday when you abruptly screamed in my face while we were in line shopping for a new duvet to drop and give you 50. You are confusingly beautiful and, even more so, confusingly sweet and that was never more apparent then that day when you burned all of my pants. I vividly remember watching you burning pair after pair of perfectly-pressed, in-fashion designer pants cackling and shaking with furor and power that reminded me of my sister when she used to smash my sandcastles 'freeing me from the constraints of my narrow castle-bound view of life'."

She: "That must have been hard for you as I know, to this day, how much castles of all types mean to you mostly as you spoke solely of them on our first five dates to the point that I was both quite worried and intrigued. And I'm not sure what came over me when I was burning your pants - I love you in pants, really I do! You are nothing if not a handsome, pant-wearing representative of your gender and I realize that my actions forced you to wear shorts and the occasional pair of leggings until you were certain I wasn't going to burn things again. You are a worrisome and intriguing ball of fun much like my pet goldfish up until the moment she died when the worry and intrigue quickly went away. Luckily I had you to replace her with, and fortunately for both of us, you enjoyed doing many of the same activities and games that she enjoyed."

He: "I saw how sad you were and I tried to ease your pain by being as goldfish-like as possible all the time. It was so hard to see you cry what with the heaving and wailing and the sheer amount of goldfish crackers you smashed with your fists on our coffee table, not even stopping when the glass-top dramatically broke. You reminded me of a young child learning that the stove is indeed quite hot as mommy told you. I'm not sure why but I'm carrying around the imagery in my head and you could have been doing pretty much anything and it would have reminded me of that. Also you were wailing the words "mommy", "stove" and "hot" as you pounded those helpless and tasty crackers to a fine, cheddar-flavoured dust both freeing yourself from your loss and destroying our snack plans for the next month at the same time."

She: "I am sorry that I have ruined so many of our snacks and for the orange dust that remains prevalent in our living room to this day - who knew I could be allergic to something so specific that not even that Ear, Nose and Throat specialist had considered it as the source for why everything inside of my nose was tinted with a pleasing hue of orange. Through it all you have always been so tolerant and patient much like an usually tolerant and patient bull who takes the prodding and branding in stride and sees them less as abuse and more of an annoyance and an occupational hazard. Your view of hazards has always been so refreshing as has your admiration for bulls especially considering that your old girlfriend broke your heart when she ran away in the middle of the night, unannounced, to train wild bulls or failing that, to keep running away."

He: "She broke my young naive heart and I was kicking myself that I never saw the signs what with her collection of antlers and rare red capes. But shortly after, I met you and you changed everything for me. I started to see life in a new way and I saw a real future with you. Everything looked clearer especially after I got my eyes checked. I was down and you were symbolic of the direction up mostly due to that arrow-like hat you used to wear and the fact you had a great admiration for the atmosphere and wanted to visit it one day. 'Can't get more up than that' you'd always say when I expressed my fear of heights and my doubts of your ability to actually get to the atmosphere and what you would even do when you got there."

She:"You are so good at expressing your long list of doubts. It is so refreshing being with a man who isn't afraid of the scorn and social isolation that usually comes with demonstration excessive amounts of doubt. It's true that in normal situations, I would have taken advantage of your fear of heights and used it for profit, but from day one, it was as if you had stolen my heart most likely as you had actually attempted to harvest some of my organs while I was in a drug-induced coma that one Christmas Eve night. All of the other times that has happened in my life I have held a grudge and didn't feel at all safe any longer or at least it made holding hands just seem awkward, but with you I could only see your handsome face as you had plastered my walls with huge blown up pictures of it. I felt so loved that you spent so much money printing, laminating and plastering my walls with those pictures."

He:"I have learned that there is little that huge blown-up pictures of my face cannot solve including what to have for lunch and what show to watch on TV. I would have plastered your walls with pictures of my face everyday, all day for a year to earn your love, and I did consider it, only deciding against it as I figured that it would make your room increasingly smaller and my therapist wants me to try to plaster less and find other, what he calls "more effective" ways to communicate. Just know this, I would do anything for you, my love, my life was cloudy and dim and you came in like a ray of sunshine; bright, intense, searingly hot and blinding. In fact, I'm fairly sure that love was blind in my case as I nearly went actually blind staring at you because you were standing directly in front of the sun from my perspective for a good two hours at that summer beach BBQ. Those weeks where I regained my full range of eyesight were painful but they strengthened our bond."

She:"I agree my sweet. I was happy to help you regain your eye-sight although a small part of me was worried that I couldn't control what you saw and how much you saw it and, as we both know, that can be a slippery slope. But, our bond was stronger; as strong as one generated by the strongest of industrial glues, as evidenced by the time I actually glued your back to the floor to help you gain perspective. True you lost a lot of back hair and a fair amount of skin, but from then on, you begrudgingly agreed with me about comparing the love we feel to two objects glued together. Watching you cutely trying to sit up and roll over and sweat profusely reminded me so much of why I fell in love with you and why it is always important, as my mother always told me, to keep a lot of industrial strength glue on hand for those moments when you have to proof a point. You have always been my glue - soft, runny, tempting to see what it tastes like and great to use for arts and crafts. We always make beautiful art together."

  

The Gift of Tongues

For years, he wanted to open the flood gates, literally, until one day he actually did and...let's just say the amount of anguish, clean up and dry cleaning bills far outweighed any of the excitement.

She prided herself upon being well-spoken, a gifted conversationalist and an expert debater, but she just was unable to verbally joust to save her life. It just involved too much coordination.

He tore the cooked chicken limb from limb shortly after verbally tearing her limb from limb for her overly liberal approach towards cooking chicken and shortly before metaphorically and lovingly tearing her limb from limb as a show of appreciation for an surprisingly excellent chicken dinner.

She spent the entire afternoon asking her friend "do you know what I'm sayin'?" and kept receiving no reply which resulted in her getting very frustrated. After cooling down, she realized that she had been looking at herself in a mirror the whole time.

He has been told on numerous occasions that he looked like a million dollars and he always replied that it was part of an entire look he was going for that required a ton of preparation especially when it came to the colour and texture of his outfit, as well as giving the appearance of being two-dimensional.

She is often described as the girl next door which is ultra bizarre as she lives on a boat in a secluded port. The girl part she got, but next door to whom she always wondered?

One crazy habit of his has always been to fight fire with fire which predictably always leads to a really big, out-of-control fire resulting in multiple burns and bruises around his face and neck and the ire of the local fire fighters. He has been asked on multiple occasions why he doesn't use water or, in the case of a grease fire, salt, and he just stares at the questioner flicking his lighter absent-mindedly.

She is always telling people to picture her rolling, so one day her friends placed her in an empty barrel on top of a small hill and stepped back and watched. And then they understood (it was just hard to picture before, that's all).

He is always going on long and arduous fishing expeditions and the results are amazing dinner buffets showing off the delectable bounty of the ocean and a thoroughly disturbing amount of confidential information about the dark and seedy lives of the other fishermen.

Last summer, after a particularly exhausting and serious day at work, she literally tried to laugh his head off, after quite a lot of inner-debating over removing his head via talking or shouting. Unfortunately, as much as she laughed (and she did laugh a lot), his head did not fall off. And then she took out her ax.

For years he has cared so much about every cause, fight and injustice. He has demonstrated at city hall, attended rallies and even hosted a sit-in. But, where had all of this gotten him, he wondered. From now on, he swore, he would not give a fig about anything. THAT'S RIGHT! YOU HEARD ME! NO MORE FIGS! DEAL WITH IT!

Last Monday, she awoke in so much pain - everything hurt! She rushed to the doctor and he performed a battery of tests and exams and it turned out that there was nothing wrong with her. She was still pretty worried and decided to go get a second opinion, but the trip hadn't been an entire waste - she absolutely loved the clean bill of health she had received. She still didn't buy she was healthy, but the care that had been taken in the presentation of the information of the bill all the way down to the choice of font size and graphics used was impeccable. If she had to receive any future bills of health, or anything else for that matter, they would all be compared to this perfectly clean bill of her health, or lack thereof.

He is known for throwing his weight around. Everyone he knows is constantly equal parts bruised, disgusted and impressed with his coordination and agility for such a big guy.

She was so embarrassed. She was trying as hard as she could to be the best employee at the bank. But today, her boss yelled at her to salt the books. So, she did what any eager-to-please, young employee would do. She took out her trusty salt shaker and salted all of the books. He just stood there, stunned, looking at her like she was some sort of salt shaker-wielding maniac alien and then he yelled some more - "STOP! ENOUGH WITH THE ACTUAL SALT! WHAT ARE YOU THINKING!?!?!?" and she started to cry. Didn't he know she was extremely literal and non-joking especially when it came to salt and all salt-related activities! She had even put it on her resume - "only ask me to salt things if you actually want me to salt something, as I am unable to get any subtleties regarding salt". Thankfully, cooler heads prevailed after they went for a walk outside in the snow.

He had thoroughly enjoyed his lovely first date with her up until the utterly awkward and completely confusing moment right before dinner. She asked him if he would break bread with her and though he did want to have dinner with her, and he loved breaking bread and even more so, eating bread and had coincidentally spent the entire afternoon daydreaming about either eating bread with her or eating bread in her presence, this was a highly irregular request and it caught him off-guard. He didn't want her to be disappointed, especially because of his feeling towards her and the sanctity of bread. So he stood, lifted her in her beautiful dress and fancy shoes and, despite her screams, used her to break the bread. creating such a scene at the restaurant and a seemingly infinite amount of crusty bread pieces were thrust into the air. She had never felt happier or better understood in her life. "So this is love" she whispered.

She is always crying uncle! No, not that one - he is a total jerk who doesn't know when enough is enough with the teasing and taunting. She is crying for her other uncle - the one who loves roast beef.

He is said, by many, to have the gift of tongues, but aside from being able to perform a few party tricks, he sees it as more of a curse.

She is always telling people that she could count the number of times something happened using the fingers on one hand. This was ultra impressive when she was five, but is currently a reason to call to book an appointment to have a review of her meds, especially because the answer is always 11.

On a daily basis, since his son's birth, he has been asking his son "who's your daddy?" and finally, on his son's 4th birthday, his son replied "Dad, please stop asking. What is wrong with you?" On the negative side, he didn't get the answer he was looking for and it caused him to fall immediately into a dark place. On the positive side, he was pleased both with his son's use of syntax (quite advanced for a four year old) and his upfront nature. And it got him thinking about what was wrong with him and why he needed reaffirmation about whose daddy he was - it was not as if he didn't know the answer. The very next day, he went out in search of an answer to his son's poignant response, and a new question to start asking.

She is always in search of the naked truth, as the pursuit of the whole truth is very important to her. Plus, it is very risque and exciting.

I Am Way Out In Left Field

I spilled the beans yesterday and aside from trying to sweep up all of the ones that rolled under the oven and the fridge, it was honestly not that bad. I also have decided to stop attempting to cover up the truth so frequently, especially when telling stories involving legumes.

You know walking in the park is just a walk in the park after all. Not sure what else I expected. Nice walk though. Super easy to do. Fresh air, beautiful flowers, only one bee sting. You know one thing that is no walk in the park? Swimming in the ocean. It just isn't.

I've been told that the walls have ears. I've been told lots of things. Can't tell you about them right now, not with those walls around, especially as some of the things pertain to the new "soundproof" paint I'm planning on covering those nosy walls with.

Even if I wanted to be a chip off the old block, I don't think it is possible. I've seen lots of blocks and chips in my time and what I would give to be considered a chip, let me tell you. Then again, maybe I am thinking too literally about this (something I've been rightly accused of doing on multiple occasions before). Maybe "the block" is more of an ideal, a perfect form, like a circle; something we all aspire to be and spend our lives working towards and I am this small "chip" aspiring to be more like my "block", almost like an arc or a tangent. Yes! I like this!  The "block" may represent this huge, possibly fictitious, rectangular prism "block" collection of humanity of which I was a mere chip in my infancy (and am still a chip, just a slightly larger one). Or maybe the block is just my dad and I am his son, the chip, and that means we are similar in many ways and that I came "from" him....I guess? Based on my limited understanding of human reproduction I think this analogy is a tad misleading.

I am painstakingly a man of my word. Whatever I say, even an embarrassing slip of the tongue, a blush-inducing joke, a high-brow soliloquy or just repeating "blah" ad nauseum - I do what ever is in my power to embody those words and live by them to the extreme. Nothing I say is of no, or minimal consequence (even when I say "no consequences", although that doesn't come up too often in my highly consequential existence)! Words leave my lips, even if by total accident or in some random, completely meaningless order and I will be a man of those words. Sometimes I release words from the prison of my brain and mouth (I'm actually a little unclear where they are housed inside my body) to see if I am up to the challenge of living by them (I used to, in my younger, naive days, try to be a man "with" my words but they would have nothing of it. And upon reflection, at my ripened age, who was I to think that I could be "with" them? They are words after all and I was just a boy, albeit a wordy boy. I was always told by my teachers that I asked too many questions and my unspoken rational was that I was trying to be "with" my words.) I hold these truths to be self-evident - all words are created equal and it is my responsibility, nae my duty, to honour each word and treat is as I would want to be treated if I was said words, as someday, I may be. 

You bring out the best in me, but we swore never to mention that gut-wrenching, energy-sapping, hyper-embarrassing evening and all that you had to do to me to get it out. Some things just aren't worth the effort.

I long to be worth writing home about. I can just imagine it - we meet (it can be across a crowded room or pretty much anywhere, crowded or not - that is not the point of this aside and I would like to stay on track if that is okay with you) and something I say or do or am wearing (who would I be wearing in this imaginary event?) is so profound or satirical or offensive (could it be profoundly, satirically offensive all at once? I hope so!) that you just must whip out an actual piece of paper (they still make those?) and a pencil (kept around for solely gnawing purposes) and script a letter for the people at home who are doing nothing better then sitting around waiting for a letter containing home-writing worthy material. As you can imagine, I have been longing for this for a while. 

Man! That guy is on fire! He is so hard core and I'm not sure how he can continue to shoot hoops with such a high efficiency while actually experiencing a variety of degrees of burning all over his body! Why did I decide to try and roast marshmallows on the sideline of the game anyways? 

The other night I was home alone and my face turned white (and for those that consider me a white person, it turned even whiter then my usual reddish-pinkish hue). Actually it would be more accurate to say I turned my own face white. I just can't leave that Geisha-makeup alone for even one night and don't get me started on those fabulous kimonos that are nearly literally calling out for me to wear them.

I can't stand that guy at work! I am so angry and frustrated that I plan to march into his office first thing tomorrow, stare him in the eyes and give him a piece of my mind. Aside from the anticipated long-term neurological damage, I am sure that it will be worth seeing the look on his face. Last time he takes my parking spot, most likely as I won't be able to work there any longer as even the most menial tasks will be beyond me, what with a part of my brain missing and all. 

Everyone has always gathering around and excitedly asked me to say cheese. I have steadfastly said no to this request (although on a number of occasions I was tempted to see which cheese would be procured if I had said it) until one day a camera-wielding maniac posing as my close friend, Marcus (or it could have been Marcus posing as a camera-wielding maniac or possibly just Marcus using the camera I bought him for his birthday with his usual joie de vivre) took a picture of me using the brightest flash available on the black market which stunned me and reduced me to a catatonic state where all I said for days on end was cheese and was only snapped out of it when dressed up in a life-like mouse costume (my friends tried to squeeze my girth inside an actual mouse-sized mouse costume to no avail, so they had to buy me gargantuan mouse duds which not only fit well, but made me quite a bit more attractive, especially to my near-starving cat) and force-fed me small pieces of chewed-up cheese a la parent bird to baby bird-style. I came to and for the next month had a strange reaction to hearing the word "cheese" - it made me want to escape to the nearby mountain top and pet mountain goats (really hard to do as they mostly just want to headbutt you). In hindsight it would probably have been easier to just smile for the camera.

I am quite easy going in life and not much cramps my style - aside from actual cramps, those are quite painful and debilitating. I am working on incorporating actual cramps into my style so they will be rendered unnoticeable to all but the keenest eye.

When people tell me that that boat has sailed I'm never totally sure how to react. Should I be angry? Possibly - as strangely the mere sight of a boat sailing is usually enough to make my blood boil. Should I be regretful? Over what? Not being on the boat? I'm happier on land any day. Should I be gleeful? Maybe throw a big, boat-has-sailed party for all of the people who are so happy that that gigantic, hulking, eye-sore of a boat is finally out of the way so we can just enjoy looking at the water. As I am wondering how to react to hearing about the boat sailing away, the person who said it usually leaves as well, much like the boat. If I am lucky he was also standing in front of some water that I can now focus my sole attention on.

For years now, I've been hearing that something I said is the oldest one in the book. And for years, I have nodded knowingly when hearing that. And then one day it hit me -am I so painfully unoriginal that all of my ideas have already been printed, published and sold worldwide! This would be quite the blow to my psyche as I've been walking around for years with a huge and probably off-putting attitude that everything that left my mouth was completely unique. And what book is this?!? If things I am saying are essentially re-treads and totally unoriginal ideas, I need to find this book and either destroy it, thus making me seem more original or read it so I know what is in the book, so I can attempt to say things to people that are not in the book. So, I spent every day for months researching trying to find this book, to no avail. Eventually I gave up and decided to just say every other word of all of my ideas, instantly making them new and fresh and almost completely impossible to follow.

I've been asked on a number of occasions to fork my money over, and I always refuse. It is probably a result of how I've been raised, but I will only use a spoon in matters involving the transferring of monetary funds and occasionally a ladle, which I believe belongs in the spoon-family regardless of what my "ladle is it's own form of cutlery" neighbour repeatedly tells me.

Someone told me the other day that I was just digging my own grave. What?!?! You mean after all of my toil and trouble for years, having to deal with the seemingly endless line of weirdos and all of the patronizing and the total lack of good chocolate, I am now expected to also dig my own grave?!?!? That better be just an expression! And even if it is, what sort of loser utilizes such morbid and confusing expressions to make their speeches stand out, points clearer and conversations sound more exciting? The sort of loser who can start digging my grave post haste, that's who.

I am in the process of stealing your thunder. I had considered trying to make a deal with you for it or even just asking to borrow it for a little while, but then you bothered me incessantly about my lack of understanding of brontophobia and I just had to get you back. We'll see who is afraid of thunder now, won't we?

Ouch!!!!!! I can't believe you actually lit a fire underneath me while I was sleeping in my hammock (you owe me a new hammock too by the way)!!! When I said, I think I need you to light a fire under me, I wasn't being literal! Yes, I know I am very literal most of the time and that I constantly castigate others for their overabundant use of flowery and metaphorical language. So, I sort of get why you have started taking me at my word and I do appreciate that.. But, a fire!?!?! Under what circumstance would I ever want a smoldering fire directly beneath me? Do I want my buns toasted, you ask? Yes, but not those buns! And why did you have to make such a large fire? Did the situation really call for a large bonfire or was that just a tad bit of excitement and over-zealousness on your part? When I said, light a fire under me, I meant that I needed your help finding the motivation to get out of the hammock and stop napping when it is such a nice afternoon. Now I have 2nd degree burns on my ass! You know, I've always had an inkling that you would hurt me one day, but I never thought this is how that would go down. I guess it is my fault - what did I expect would happen when I paired a hyper-literal person such as myself, with an extremely gullible person like you and then I compounded that by treating you to a year's supply of kindling and matches for your birthday.

Once again you have put yourself behind the 8 ball and you seem so stressed and anxious. If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, that 8 ball is so small and it isn't really in your way at all. I really don't think you need to let it bother you. That huge, spherical, unmovable black rock that is on top of all of your important work that needs to be done tomorrow - that is your real problem - forget about the 8 ball. And while you are at it, I wish you would stop taking that ball from my pool table, making it very hard to play and placing it in front of you using it's proximity as an excuse for why you are feeling so stressed. Just admit it, I'm better at pool then you.

I know, I know, I know, I am way out in left field. Can I come home now?

I Am Making You Sneeze

I look at the mountains and tears start to roll down my cheeks and I smile, as I am trying to be more sensitive.

I am the mountain he is looking at and crying and smiling about - is he always like this? What an emotional wreck - how can you people stand that? Can't you find someone more normal to be friends with?

I am steaming broccoli because it is the right thing to do - the humidity was dangerously low.

Broccoli here! Enjoying a lovely steam bath. What? You say he is going to eat us?!?! I knew it! He had that look in his eye when he bought us from the store.

I colour outside the lines in my colouring book as I refuse to obey the rules - plus it is abundantly clear that I need glasses.

I am the drawing that he has so recklessly coloured in, on and around. Although he may feel badly now, he will forget about me in a few minutes, but I will be left here to suffer forever until I am put out of my misery at the recycling depot.

I water the garden on the morning of a hot summer's day greatly enjoying the smoothness of the hose - should probably go see my therapist again soon.

You know, I always felt there was something "off" about how he holds me, the hose. And that is saying a lot - I'm used to be held rigidly like an automatic rifle shooting water bullets at plants, juvenilely like something used to urinate with and even lovingly like we were twirling during a romantic slow dance. I could tolerate all of those, but, the way he held me...I guess I would call it a mixture of passive aggressive and patronizingly jovial, but what do I know from complex emotions, I'm just a hose.

I take the mammoth unabridged dictionary off the shelf with great gusto - I have no intent on reading it - that was all just for show.

If you are going to take me off the shelf, the least you can do is open me and learn something or maybe caress my binding or even a simple hug would suffice.

I am feeling out and out deflated right now- why did I choose to spend the afternoon blowing up all of those balloons after she left me?

Wheee!!!!! Wheeeeee!!!! Yahooooo!!!! It is so awesome floating in the air, not a care in the world, at the whim of the breeze. I mean until you've been an inflated balloon, you just haven't lived. And I should know, being a lifelong balloon and all. Not sure if it's an option for you, but if you can give the whole balloon thing a try, you just have to do it. 

I pace up and down in the hall and then decide to pace sideways using shuffling-type steps performed in a semi-crouch before I finally get your attention, as even you can't tune out my ridiculously distracting pacing.

Click, clack, click...I am those shoes, the ones that pace in the hall, the same ones you hear fast approaching in the darkness, I'm also the ones that follows you on deserted streets, and I'm the ones tap dancing on your grave in your nightmares...Ha ha ha! Got you! Had you going, didn't I? Relax - we are just your old, much-loved, sneakers in the front closet. Nothing to be worried about.

I eat a banana for breakfast every morning and I feel...proud?

Aye! As a proud banana from a long line of proud bananas, I can tell ye this. My great-grand pa used to place me on his knee and say "Ahoy matee. We bananas used to sail the seven seas and ruled when times were good. Yaarrr, those days were glorious and we have lived to tell the tale. Nary a banana will walk the tongue plank and be eaten, ye mark me words. We bananas will fight and no man will board us. Now where is me rum?" Did I mention, we are pirate bananas? I don't exactly know why - my great, grand pa was little off and drank way too much rum (everytime I asked dad how a banana even drinks rum, I got a smack that nearly opened my skin and made me prematurely brown and bruised). My ancestor thought he was a pirate and the rest of us just followed along - quit judging me.

I spend the weekend cleaning out my attic coming across prized family heirlooms, dusty photo albums and old Halloween costumes that cause me to laugh out loud - then I realized, I don't have an attic.

Who was that? How did he even get here? Here is what happened...he came up my stairs, he opened my door and....disturbed my dust! Will he come again? It has been years since I have felt so...loved.

I am working on a challenging math problem and although I love challenges and puzzles, it is just making me hungry for cake.

Soooo....stop doing the math problems? Duh! I'm just sayin'. As a card-carrying member of the cake, we don't love being eaten. Like it's not horrible, but it ain't that exciting for us. So, why don't you put down that math book and go enjoy some fresh air. Skip or run or do whatever you humans like to do. And if you must eat, eat some fresh fruit - sorry to be so frank, but do you really need another piece of me? Yeesh - can you get a load of this guy - sitting around doing math...and it's not like I'm just sitting around with a sign saying "Eat Me" - what? I am? Okay okay - bad example, but still. Stop Eating So Much Cake!

I can't stop sneezing and I am starting to think that something is making me sneeze - there is no way this is purely coincidental.

Sam Sneeze here. I am making you sneeze. I'm doing it now, I've done it before and I will do it again. Why do I do it? Does it serve any greater good? Is it part of some grand scheme or plan? Can I make it sound funnier and more cartoonish? Am I tight with Cameron Cough? All good questions, but I have no idea, I'm just a sneeze.

I have decided that I need to exclaim more often to get my point across, but I am having a hard time nailing the timber and inflection of exactly three exclamation points - any less wouldn't be forceful enough and any more would drive people away.

I am an exclamation point and contrary to popular belief, I enjoy quiet strolls on the beach, lazy Sunday morning brunches doing the crossword and romantic movies on the couch at home. I'm not sure where everyone got the idea that I am some loud and crazy guy hellbent for excitement and thrill. I'm more at home on a country ranch then a disco party and I prefer mild, subtle food then burn-your-nose-hair-off chili. I need a new PR guy. 

I am sitting watching a frog by the pond and get the shivers - just a pretty cold morning and the frog won't stop staring through me almost like he sees within my soul.

It gets old pretty fast. Odd-looking, constantly-shivering guys with nearly empty souls just sitting there staring at me. Where have all the good ones gone?

Ideas For Plays: The Dramas Part 1

I've decided to brainstorm about play ideas as I aspire (no, that is too strongly put...what's a word that means "kind of aspire"? Just that aspire invokes this image of me spending tons of time and energy and brain power towards that pursuit and I just don't want to mislead the reader now. I may choose to mislead a subset of you later on, just don't want to start that way. I was raised that way)...as I...ummmm....like the idea of becoming a playwright (no! I mean I do like play writing, just that saying I like the idea of becoming a playwright sounds a bit too simple and "plain Jane" and I am not a "plain Jane" - if I must be a Jane, I'd at least like to be considered un-plain, or at least, less plain or only plain on Tuesdays...where was I?...right! "like" is a boring descriptor for how I feel about being a playwright)...ummm as I enjoy thinking about ideas for future plays that I probably will never write (way to go, Paley, only took you 15 minutes to describe a very simple thing and you used, and are still using, way too many sidetracking, distracting, parenthesized add-ons, that it makes the paragraph next to impossible to follow. Bravo, "writing guy", bravo. Note to self- stop having conversations with yourself when you are supposed to be writing for others. If you want to converse with yourself, go hide in the bedroom closet like you used to before you got a blog.)

I'm starting with some ideas I had for some Serious Plays (or would it be Serious Ideas for Plays or perhaps Plays That Result in Serious Ideas, or maybe the word serious will scare people away, namely me - I'm often not in the mood for things that are too serious - we all enjoy a chuckle or a giggle, don't we...sorry, sorry, perhaps I am just wasting time and should just make with the ideas already as the casserole is almost done or perhaps the "wasting of time" is all part of the process?) I guess I could just go with convention and call them "dramas", but that is only fun when said with a true Australian accent. Plus, using the word drama, makes it all sound so grown-up ("but, don't forget that you are 43 now" - "wait, who said that?!?!" "you did, just that you used italics to make it appear to the reader that someone else is here with you, but there isn't. You are alone, sitting at the computer, attempting to shave your back hair with one hand while typing this with your other and preparing to eat an entire tray of tuna casserole, pretending to be literary" "okay, okay, okay - man, next time I talk to myself in writing, I should remember to invent a more interesting "person" to talk to, or at least someone with fewer piercing - just too much glare for the eyes.") Anyways...here we go with the dramatic, serious and thought-provoking ideas (I added in thought-provoking as it may capture a few more people who are doing a random Google search or if I include it as one of my 35 hashtags when I tweet about it). Keep in mind these ideas are straight from my brain and are "brainstorms", which means some may be great ideas and some may be beyond stupid and others may have aspects of both wrapped together into an idea that "doesn't do much for anyone". I plan to follow this up with idea for funny plays and then with ideas for totally, ridiculously, nonsensical plays and finally plays about dolphins. There will be no stone unturned. Of this I promise you.

Enjoy these "serious" ideas! (still wondering if I should have just called them Dramas, but after making you read all of the stuff above only to change it now would seem like I was wasting your time more than I actually am. Another question is whether you can ever really enjoy a drama - you can appreciate it, you can empathize with the characters, you can understand the issues  -but enjoy? I guess if you aren't finding much enjoyment in the rest of your life, you may just enjoy anything - even these ideas. You're welcome?)

One last note, I have opted to refer to myself as "the playwright". So there. It's a step up from many of the other things I used to call myself.

1)      "Life and Death" – The lights come up on 3 people on stage sitting spaced apart and having their own spotlights and they alternate telling stories in first person from my life – focusing on the tough times (for example: having a hard time making friends in kindergarten and having to settle on a rock), the heart break (like the time I was told by a girl I liked that she wanted to keep our relationship the way it was and then running away screaming and then doing this again and again everyday for a month), and the lack of enough cheese (honestly there was just never enough cheese, even when I won the local lottery and purchased a few whole wheels of gouda. I came to suspect that my roommate was either eating it when I wasn't watching or that he owned a set of hungry mice, which would explain all of the squeaks I heard in his room - I didn't feel comfortable asking about them)– the play ends in total darkness with sound-effects of wind blowing and bats screeching and after a few moments my voice can be heard saying "don't cry for me, or actually, on second thought, I would really appreciate if you did cry for me." Before you boo, remember this is a drama and dramas must be packed full of things placed their solely for dramatic effect.

2)      "The End" – A man sits alone in a room contemplating the end of his existence. As the lights come up we observe him alternating between crying, moaning and coughing (I guess we are to assume he either is sick or is suffering from allergies which makes the audience wonder why he doesn't take something for that already). We then see a series of short scenes performed around him using area lighting that show us why he is in the state he is in. 
      (a) his son was in accident - a team of doctors work around the clock trying to figure out how he got piano keys embedded in his back. Thankfully they are able to save him, but they will definitely need to pay for a new piano or make due without the high notes. Doctors are seen telling the dad that his son will never play again and the dad drops to his knees crying while the son is jumping up and down, overjoyed. The audience is left to surmise that the son may have accidentally on purpose impaled himself with keys. 
      (b) we see a scene at the local bar with the man heavily drinking and sometimes getting rowdy.Yet sometimes he drinks and becomes an amazing storyteller - we see him telling vivid tales from the war surrounded by a crowd that is hanging on his every word (and slur, remember he is very drunk) and other times he drinks and performs scenes from Swan Lake in the corner (hey, he ain't hurting anyone, plus Swan Lake is very popular in these parts of the country).
      (c) he loses his job - we see his boss calling him into the office and yelling and screaming and literally throwing the book at him. The audience is probably supposed to assume the book is both heavy and important (possibly a rare edition) and many audience members seem more concerned for the health and welfare of this very meaningful book then for the man who is clearly hurt from the exchange (the book seems to be doing quite well, yet this doesn't stop the audience from passing around a collection hat for it). The boss continues to yell and yell and it goes on for quite a while. After some time, the man gets a bit peckish sitting there and listening to his boss yelling, so he decides to start his egg salad sandwich (which coincides with a vendor walking up and down the aisles selling egg salad sandwiches - it is a great marketing plan - the vendor sells out in minutes).
      (d) we see the man arrive home and catch his wife cheating on him which makes the audience hate her even more than before (she is an easy character to dislike - she is demanding, angry, dishonest, demeaning and always makes him triple-wash the potatoes). We are left to guess who she was cheating with and what they were doing and why she is wearing a mask and snorkel, but some questions are better left unresolved. 
      (e) he finally files for bankruptcy as all he has left are peanuts - lots and lots and lots of peanuts  (evidently he invested hard in peanut futures when the market was looking good and the value of peanuts was at an all-time high and then he stupidly refused to sell even when his brother, the peanut farmer, insisted he did due to the blight). 
      The play ends with the man looking straight at the audience and asking how he did tonight. The audience doesn't respond, as it is a well-trained audience and you just never break the "fourth wall". Little do they know but the actor was really looking for some honest feedback as the director just doesn't do that.    

3)    "The Big Test" – Some students are cramming for a huge test that will heavily influence their futures. There is lots of nervousness before the test - one girl can't stop laughing, another guy is pacing up and down, two others are so nervous that they forget they are characters in a play. Each student takes turns talking directly to the audience as the others freeze in the background and they tell us what is on the line and the consequences for them if they fail (one boy needs to pass to enter college, another girl needs to pass or else her parents will disown her - although she admits she may have misunderstood their conversation as she was at quite a distance and was solely reading facial expressions and body language, yet another kid needs to pass or else he can't become a store mannequin placement adviser, and another girl needs to pass as failure is not an option - the audience believes her completely, which is exactly what the playwright wants). We see them writing the test and each takes turns reading questions out loud to assist the audience as they can't read the paper from where they are sitting (this appears to all as a blatant example of cheating and we all wonder what the teacher is doing while this is happening - this often makes some audience members get up and leave and re-enroll at school as possibly the rules for taking tests has changed recently and have become much more lenient). Other kids respond to each question with their thinking in their head – they don’t communicate with each other (the sample questions and the answers have the unintentional result of making the audience feel pretty slow and uneducated and wishing that the playwright would just cut to some pratfalls and other immature teenage boy humour about female body parts and flatulence just so the audience can have a welcome break from feeling so dumb). Intermixed with that we hear their thoughts and emotions during the test, plus comments and reminders from the teacher about how much time is left. As the test is winding down the questions get more and more profound and more and more personal  and just as we start to realize that this is a science fiction sort of thing where citizens must all take a test when they turn 18 and it places you in society and determines what role you play and if you fail you are eliminated, we notice that all of the audience member have been strapped to their chairs and the actors are walking around giving us test papers and chanting slowly and robotic-ly "now it's your turn...now it's your turn". The play is most likely a metaphor, because I heard that the use of metaphors is good.

4)      "My Relationship With Frieda" – A typical boy-meets-girl, boy-loses-girl, boy-is-sad, boy-contemplates-enlisting-in-the-army-but-decides-to-collect-bottles-caps-instead relationship from beginning to end. The play alternates scenes between the couple meeting (let's have that take place at a coffee shop so that this hackneyed cliche can be as hackneyed and cliched as possible, leaving just a hint of another level of cliche just in case) and slowly getting seriously involved (one particularly poignant scene of their courtship involves the couple standing far stage left as a prop girl pours bucket after bucket of ice water on them to simulate a rainstorm) and then breaking up (an attempt was made by the playwright to have both characters try to convince the other not to break up with them and yet have both characters want to do the breaking up - this scene elicits much groaning from the audience, although the groaning could be contributed to the "cheap" cheese the theatre owner has opted to use on the nachos) and this is intermixed with scenes where each discusses their view of the relationship with their small group of friends and/or parents almost like a reality show. This play jumps all over from past, present, future and some "other" time and place that no one is totally sure about - there is a good chance that the playwright also had no idea and included these scenes as a means of distracting the audience so that it would delay the realization of how bad this play actually is. The break up occurs under a harshly red spot light that seems to make everyone present quite angry and then a year passes and the two characters bump into each other at either at a polo match (if the two are to be upper-class), a laundromat (contractually obligated to have a scene in every fourth play take place at one), a retail store at the mall that sells designer gloves (so someone can be slapped by a glove, also part of the contract), or at a public stoning (the play may be a period piece) and they have an awkward conversation (during the initial read-through, the actors had a ridiculously awkward time reading this scene and the director had to put in many long hours at rehearsal working with them to seem less awkward to moderate success) but agree to meet for coffee later on. Friends/parents from both sides are against it  - "let's say the coffee is too hot and it scalds your tongue - remember that nothing good happens when a tongue is scalded - it just hurts" says her father; "how can you be sure that she hasn't spent the past year travelling, studying and researching coffee and has been biding her time and awaiting this opportunity to bring you to a coffee shop, demonstrate her near-encyclopedic knowledge of coffee resulting in much embarrassment on your part" says his mother, and yet he goes and she doesn't show up – THE END (maybe change the ending as even I, the playwright, am booing at my own lame ending). OR (this is much better) - maybe the play mirrors an actual relationship that the playwright or one of his family members has experienced only not-so-subtly changing the facts to make it more interesting, humiliating and attractive to Hollywood-types and to attract them, the two do meet, share a romantic kiss, and then ride off into the sunset on a white stallion while a group of Flamenco guitar players play.

5)      A Play in a Play Idea – 2 to 4 people are in a scene in which their characters have strong emotional attachments and arguments with each other (think soap opera stuff ...did you really think about soap operas right now after I suggested it? Cool! Now think about really cute guinea pigs and which Guinea they would root for in a soccer tournament - Guinea-Bissau, Equatorial Guinea, or The Republic of Guinea...my work is done here). We see the scene stopped and the director (and stage manager perhaps?) come on stage and give directions, ask for stock market advice, shake off their legs that had fallen asleep in comical fashion etc.) Offstage everyone is an entirely different personality but the high emotions of the play and jealous relationships offstage start eating away at them until the offstage is more intense then on. In fact the offstage intensity is so real, that the playwright had to take long breaks writing these scenes (plus the non-fat, no-sugar Vanilla frozen yogurt that tastes oddly like cold cardboard with a hint of vanilla was also calling his name, something he wishes it would stop doing). The whole play takes place on the stage - in rehearsal and out of rehearsal - it was considered to have the whole play literally take place backstage, but it was determined that the audience would get really bored just hearing the play and not seeing anything and would wonder why they hadn't stayed home and just listened to a radio play as at least they could soak their feet in Epsom salts at the same time. The play could end with a murder or two (why stop there? kill them all!!!! Oops, did I actually write that?) and then the audience realizes that the whole thing was a play (that is the one or two audience members who didn't figure it out immediately realize this). The on-stage/off-stage bits are opposites early on, but when the off-stage parts change and evolve the play itself could change to make it more like what the off-stage life was originally like. The original play could be 2 couples in love or 1 guy and two girls, and he cheats and they fight over him or 2 guys and a girl and the director is romantically tied to someone. Maybe the stage manager likes the director and the ones who didn't get along on stage are married off-stage etc. Or maybe on stage all of the characters are super slow and not all there and offstage they are super-intelligent beings who mock their on-stage counterparts to the point where the on-stage characters hate their off-stage versions of themselves so much that they start to plot against them.Whoa. This, play within a play format is far from an original plot ploy, but is just so much fun. A strong consideration was to add a few more "in a plays" to it until we get in so deep that the characters who are only "in a play" are rendered speechless and look to the brainier-appearing audience members for help. I mean it is not easy to talk to a character who is in the play that is in the play, but to talk to a character who is in the play in the play in the play in the play is really really really hard to do. I mean what do you talk about? This idea thankfully did not come to fruition, but one can only wonder if it is just a matter of time knowing how the playwright loves over-complicating everything and then laughing at the resulting lack of comprehension (this idea is a small example of that).

6)      "The Basketball Player" - The play is centered around George, a budding basketball player, whose dream is to play professionally. The entire play is George, standing centre stage, dribbling a basketball near a stage mic, which greatly amplifies the sound. After a few minutes, an audience member stands and yells "ENOUGH WITH THE FREAKIN' DRIBBLING!!! AT LEAST TAKE A SHOT OR DO SOMETHING, ANYTHING ELSE - THIS IS DRIVING ME CRAZY!" George doesn't even flinch or look up and continues bouncing the ball. After another few minutes, most of the audience just can't take it anymore and leaves, except for one young boy, who sits, transfixed and mesmerized by the ball and by George. The playwright had considered the unforeseen twist that maybe the boy was the actor and George was actually in the audience, but that just made no sense at all (which strangely was a good enough reason to scrap the idea, as often that is all the playwright needs to expand upon something). Another idea was that maybe the boy was an actor as well, maybe George at a younger age before the night the UFO was spotted. Regardless, the audience is 99% gone and enjoying a sub sandwich right now so all of these ideas are moot. Possibly the dribbling of the basketball is a metaphor for something, like a commentary on the slow decay of morals in this modern time in which we live or more likely the play is being used by a psychology grad student as part of their research.

7)  "The First Date" – A very jittery guy is on a first date, and it isn't going well. He is so nervous and is fighting so hard to hide it that he is coming across as stone-like. He knew he'd be nervous, but was aiming more for cutely nervous rather than nervous-to-the-point-of making-everyone-concerned nervous. His date is a beautiful young woman who is very naive and confused - she asks questions like "what is a date?", "why did that person just bring us a basket of buns and rolls?" and "who did you say you were again? Are you here about papa?" About 5 minutes after the audience has given up on this couple making any real intelligible conversation, the two character's figments show up. (For those not familiar with this sub-genre, a figment is essentially the inner-self of the character who can communicate and relate with their "real" self and the audience, but cannot be seen by the other character. Figments can see and talk to each other too. Figments are often utilized to voice what characters are actually thinking about, but are too shy to say. Other times, playwrights use figments to voice their own political or philosophical ideas that are often not popular and could, if spoken by the actual characters, lead to censure or imprisonment. The playwright thinks that if these radical thoughts and ideas are spoken by figments, that aren't real, he will get off Scott free. He is incorrect.) Anyways, the nervous guy and his date’s figment come out and survey the scene and upon noticing how comically (yet, not at all funny) the date is going and that they have almost lost the room, quickly huddle up and decide to try and salvage the play by performing card tricks, parts of their stand-up routine and fielding questions from the audience about sexual health. But, in the end these two figments are the heroes and they help the two characters through their date and us through this play (plus they handout some very useful and educational pamphlets on contraception). The moral of the story seems to be to always bring along a friend who can act as your figment by making your unintelligent, incomprehensible, ridiculous thoughts seem more socially acceptable, brilliant and funny. If you are fortunate enough to date someone who also has a figment, you can allow the two figments to court each other and work everything out, while the two of you eat buckets of fried chicken without a care in the world. The only risk is that the two figments will fall madly in love and abandon you completely. Unlucky for you, but lucky for the owner of the friend chicken place around the corner.

8)     "Death Visits" – One night smack in the middle of the prime-time TV schedule, Death shows up at a guy’s door and motions that his number is up and it is time to go. After a few moments spent making sure that this isn't some sort of elaborate prank, he realizes that this is actually Death personified and that, much as popular literature and fan websites have predicted, Death is not one for fooling around and that he is gravely serious.  The man, trying to stall, invites Death in for a glass of milk and some cake, but Death isn't in the mood for cake, especially as he is experimenting with a non-Gluten diet right now. Clearly nervous and not at all in the mood for a guest in the first place, the man then proceeds to offer Death each and every food, beverage and spice in the house which Death says no to - this portion of the play goes on for 25 minutes. The audience cannot be sure if it is solely the man stalling and trying to delay the inevitable, or if it is just the playwright's inability to decide where he wants this play to go. Finally, Death agrees to a plain piece of tofu, mainly to get the man to shut up. Sitting at the kitchen table together, the man breaks down into inconsolable crying -wailing that he doesn't want to go and has so much to live for. The crying is loud and embarrassing, and Death, although quite used to his line of work, starts to feel badly and also just wants the man to stop making so much noise as the neighbours may grow suspicious. Death gets up and comforts him saying things like "it's not so bad, it will be okay, you are only dead" and "just think, I could have been here to sell you magazine subscriptions that you don't really need but end up saying yes to mostly to get rid of me and then the magazines just pile up and up until your wife/girlfriend complains and complains for you to recycle them or something" and "shhh, if you're really quiet and well behaved I promise we'll stop for an ice cream on the way." The man pulls himself together and excuses himself to go to the washroom to tidy up. Once in the washroom he paces up and down devising a plan for escape. Upon returning to the dining room, he offers to play Death a game of chess and if he loses he will go and if he wins he gets an extra month to live. Death is hesitant as this is not his first time around the block and he has had many an offer similar to this one. Death begrudgingly agrees to a game of chess. The game begins and it is very close. As they had not established any time restrictions, the game (and the play) go on for some time. Coincidentally the local chess championships is going on next door to the theatre and is easily more entertaining - the players joke, are animated and take multiple breaks as they launch into musical numbers more befitting the Broadway stage. The playwright tries to take credit for the actual chess match as well and tries to disown his play to no avail. In the end, Death wins, but comes out looking like a loser as he celebrates way too much and then he receives significantly less applause than the man does at the closing curtain. 

9)      "The Jungle" – The entire play takes place in the jungle. This involves tons of work for the props and set people to create the environment and the heating bills are off the charts as the director constantly has the humidity set to 40% (somewhat similar to a hot yoga class - in fact, with the humidity so high and the audience in a constant state of dripping sweat, improptu hot yoga classes have been known to randomly break out amongst the audience members while watching the play). A number of birds, butterflies and monkeys were released into the studio during the rehearsal period and over those three months have made the place home - warning - rows M and N are home to some new baby monkeys and their mother is super protective. Prospective audience members are promised to feel like they are in the actual jungle while they are watching the play so along with the animals and the humidity, vines are hung throughout the theatre and there is this hard-to-place smell that is 100% jungle and 100% disgusting (the playwright is aware this adds up to 200% and his reasoning is that no one calculate percentages accurately in the jungle, especially when trying to get rid of the smell of monkey feces). Before the curtain comes up we hear screaming humans and screeching of monkeys and roaring of lions followed by the crackle of a BBQ and the sounds of someone enjoying a lip-smacking meal. And the smell of the BBQ is intoxicating (now is a good time to remind everyone that the playwright has just opened his new BBQ restaurant across the street from the theatre - and no, lions, monkeys nor humans are on the menu - we asked, and evidently all three are illegal to serve and we are told, morally reprehensible as well. Who knew?). The lights come up on our main characters - a set of four Americans next to a rusty old jeep. Jungle noises and music are played quite loudly for the first scene and we see the characters miming conversations that seem to tell us that they came to Africa a year ago as a break from their boring lives as accountants and they were on a lovely safari when their jeep broke down. It is really hard to tell what happened next - possibly they traded their money with a bunch of gorillas who promised them transportation and safe passage to the nearby village only to urinate on their money and then use it as part of a burning ritual (it is fairly unclear and we are left to wonder why they don't just turn the sound down so we can hear the actors who are forced to yell over the noises and music). The audience begins to get very frustrated with the lack of audible dialogue - also the music is on a 2 minute loop and if we have to hear the same songs again for the 10th time someone is going to lose it (my money is on the heavy-set guy with the receding hairline and the massive goatee or the little old granny in the front row). Just as we can't take it any longer the music fades down and we hear the characters planning their next move. Hank is in charge and he is trying to convince Sheila that they either need to start walking that way or eat Mark. Sheila is fairly okay with either plan but doesn't want to give Hank the satisfaction of knowing that she agreed. Josie has a wicked sunburn (not part of the script - she fell asleep on the beach on an off day but she is a spectacular improv performer and has incorporated this into her part) and is trying to find some aloe vera. All the while Mark is hanging out with some zebras he "befriended" - honestly, he hasn't been quite right since the night they had to eat their shoes to avoid starving. Just when the characters appear ready to turn on each other, a strange man appears. He is clean shaven, is wearing a pressed suit and has either been blessed with naturally pearly white teeth or has spent a lot of money on whitening strips. The man emerges from the bush and claps his hands loudly three times causing everyone to immediately drop what they are doing and focus on him. He clears his throat and, speaking with an unplaceable, yet exotic sounding accent offers them some gum. Who could say no to that? The five of them sitting around chewing gum, having a grand old time, almost forgetting their predicament. Then the suited man jumps up and asks them if they want to come away with him to a land where everyone are fairies and elves. This is the end of act 1. Act 2 opens with the four of them back at their accounting firm, sitting at their desks chewing gum. The End. The audience is left to wonder not if that was a waste of time (it was), but if the playwright is simply running out of ideas at this point and is solely trying to satisfy some sort of minimum word requirement for a creative writing blog (he isn't...I mean he isn't solely doing that). And why is the second act so short? A common feeling is that the play was meant originally to be one act, but the playwright needed to take a break as his leg was falling asleep so he decided to end the first act to always remind him of that time he was writing when his leg fell asleep.

10)    "The Reunion"– A guy and a girl run into each other 15 years after graduating together from high school. They catch up and reminisce and go over mistakes they made back then or things they wish they had done differently. Both were really popular but now lead empty/unfulfilled lives. They spend the entire hour-long play looking back at missed opportunities and depressing shortfalls over the past 15 years. They talk about how they liked each other and just never acted on it, which makes them even more depressed. At the end of the play, with tears rolling down each of their faces, he asks her if maybe, just maybe, they were to go out now and fall madly in love then it would all have been worth it - the heartache, the failures, the firings, the cheap and disgusting simulated cheese. And just when the audience starts to perk up at the thought of a happy ending, they both decide that it would be too much work and they go their separate ways. For some odd reason many people view this play twice and bring raw eggs by the dozen with them the second time.

Stay tuned for The Dramas: Part 2 coming soon....

While She Wishes, He Wonders

She was at the retail store trying on clothes and looking at herself in the mirror and was wishing she was buying a mirror instead.

He was walking in the woods and enjoying the peace and quiet, the fresh air, the escape into nature and he wondered if now was a good time to start smoking cigars as he was trying to add distinguished to his list of personality descriptors.

She was chopping onions and tomatoes, making gazpacho, wishing she had the chutzpah to explore the wonderful world of bisques.

He sat by himself on a smooth rock on top of a local mountain so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he barely noticed the amazing panoramic views and he wondered if he should be as concerned as he was about how the rock got so smooth.

She was trying to decide what present to ask Santa for Christmas and she wished that just once she could be the present.

He was jumping down the street attempting to solve quadratic formulas while he jumped and he wondered if anyone else on earth was doing the same exact thing he was doing right now and if the two of them were to meet by some stroke of luck that maybe they would become the bestest of friends, always together and they would spend rainy afternoons huddled together under the big oak tree.

She lay on the beach in her new bathing suit enjoying the sun as screaming kids ran around in the water and she wished that she could gather all of the small crabs together and direct them in a fabulous "Thriller"-style dance routine.

He spends his days speaking gibberish wondering why no one asks him over for dinner except for that odd woman at the library who only speaks in a completely unintelligible language.

She stands on the end of the 5 metre platform at the aquatic centre knees slightly quivering and she wishes that she could bend space and time or at least learn to make a grilled cheese without burning the bread.

He is called "insane" by his friends all the time and he wonders if he should start acting the part more of the time. That will show them.

She frantically and dramatically pounds on the keys of her piano for hours on end wishing that she owned an oboe.

He is being visited by friends over the weekend and he wonders why it took so long to grow a mustache of such high regard.

She only buys blue sweaters as she wishes she can pile them high on her bedroom floor making a "sea" of sweaters.

He twiddles his thumbs as he basks in the moonlight and he wonders what is the big deal with basking anyways.

She finally completes her 5000 piece jigsaw puzzle that has taken up her living room floor for the past three months and she wishes the floor would be as happy to see her as she it.

He always enjoys opening and closing the driver's side window in his car yet he wonders if he "should" enjoy it so much.

She goes shopping often and over a series of weeks and months buys 595 cans of clam chowder soup and methodically constructs a pyramid of cans in her kitchen wishing that some divine power would simultaneously open up all of the cans and that the resulting soup wave would wash her away.

He has decided to go back to school to become a doctor but he stands, paralyzed, outside the door of his first class when he wonders if the nurses and other doctors will miss him when he retires one day.

She wants to exit quietly and unceremoniously but wishes that someone had given her a pop up card. She loves things that pop up, especially inside cards.

He longs for sleep and is just about to drift away all-the-while wondering if he should purchase a new pair of sandals, but this time for the sole purpose of wearing them.