My Bio

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Handful of Roasted Cashews

He had grown up being told that his bark was worse than his bite. He had always resolved to change that one day. Harder than it sounds, though, what with that bark of his.

She often goes out into her yard, lays on her back, gazes up at the clouds and wonders "why?" and "who?" and "clouds?"

He covered canvas after canvas with a variety of shades of blue until his guest bedroom was full of these pictures of blue. Once he was done, he would put on a warm sweater, pour himself a cup of tea, grab a handful of roasted cashews and sit there, staring into these blue worlds he had created. It was, at the same time, the oddest and most normal thing he had ever done.

She awoke with a start on the midtown bus heading east surrounded by stuffed teddy bears, fermented food products and the best damn jingle those television ad execs will ever hear.

He sometimes wonders why he runs - is it for the exercise, the piece of mind or to escape that pack of hungry wolves who in turn seem to be running purely for the exercise and piece of mind.

She was known back in high school as a "girl most likely" type which was as much of a curse as it was a blessing, mostly because she went out of her way to make sure that it was and because she just couldn't settle on whether she was a girl most likely to convert her backyard into an impromptu pig farm or become an investment banker or a creative mix of the two.

He had been told from an early age that he should "never bite the hand that feeds him" or "never bite any hands at all because, like, who does that?" or "stop licking your lips while threatening to bite my hands all together or there will definitely be no ice cream!"

She was known among her circle of friends as the one with no neck, which was either playfully ironic, vastly incorrect or both.

He came home and carefully removed his shoes. He placed them on the floor, among the other pairs and went downstairs. A few hours later, he walked by and, while it could have been just his imagination getting the best of him, he could have sworn the shoes were huddled closer together, whispering about him. Later that day, he walked by again and he could swear that he heard his name followed by laughter followed by an amazing impression of him, or at least the best a shoe could have pulled off on short notice. Finally, on his way up to bed, he passed the shoes again and could have sworn that they were not only conspiring against him, but also rallying the boots and slippers to join the revolution. In the middle of the night he woke up with a start and at the foot of the bed were his pair of shoes. Trembling, and barely able to control his shaking, he slowly realized what he had to do - cease consuming expired dairy products.

She awoke, all of a sudden, on a train having no idea where she was, where she was going, how she got on the train in the first place and why her compartment was full of men named Steve.

He fondly remembers his youth picking corn on hot summer days, picking corn on warm summer nights, and picking corn as summer turned to fall. And in the winter, he danced.

She sat at her dining room table and cut strips of green paper with her trusty scissors. Next, she carefully cut out red circles. Equipped with her stripes of green and dots of red she waited and waited for the next set of cryptic instructions from her boss who also happened to be a rubber tree plant.

He sat on a chair in his backyard and closed his eyes. The wind blew, rustling the leaves on the trees. A light rain began to fall. His skin was soon covered in goosebumps and his hair became damp.The day was slowly consumed by the evening. And through it all he sat on his chair, partially out of pride, partially out of loyalty and partially because he had spontaneously and aggressively told his girlfriend that he "planned to sit on that chair all night long and that there was nothing she could do about it".

She was told by her co-workers that she was glowing these days, which she appreciated. She kept the secret of literally bathing in olive oil to herself because she was sure they wouldn't understand which, knowing her co-workers as she did, would invariably lead to tons of exasperated confusion, mystified bewilderment and chaotic uncertainty around the workplace.

He went to the store to buy some glue. He didn't just buy some glue, he bought all the glue. And then, then he started to make everything sticky.

She fills pages and pages with nothing but passive aggressively-drawn commas and intentionally improperly-used semi colons as her way of saying "take that mom!"

He often closes his eyes and escapes to a world full of the most high-maintenance, over-the-top demanding and completely demeaning fairies and elves that, while beautiful and a welcome break from the boring redundancy of his real world, just makes him wish his imagination did a better job.

She regularly and quite gleefully pours salt into wounds except for those horrible, soul-searching moments when she runs out of salt and she is forced to take a break, sit down, reflect upon her decisions and wonder out loud "HAVE YOU BOUGHT ANYMORE SALT YET, FATHER!"

He finally took his therapist's advice to look within himself which, while quite informative, led to a super long and drawn out conversation with his parents about exactly what he was doing in the garage with flood lights, large amounts of gauze and the bathroom mirror.

The Last Beach Day of Summer

There is this moment.

It happens each year.

I find myself standing there.

Looking out at the blue, blue ocean.

Feet sandy.

Hair blowing in the gentle breeze.

The rhythmic crashing of the waves.

My kids are in front of me, laughing and playing in the water.

Pleasing smells of barbecue are in the air.

My wife sitting on our beach chairs, reading, dozing, sipping wine.

Grandma and grandpa having just left for the evening.

The sun has begun its descent as time ticks down on another day in paradise.

And it hits me hard.

This is the last beach day of the summer.

Where has the time gone?

Just weeks before, summer announced its presence.

We were free.

Days upon days upon days we lounged around in the morning.

No rush, nowhere to run off to, no plan.

Then we'd snap into action and pack the picnic basket, grab our suits and hit the beach.

We spent our days swimming, paddling, and building castles.

Skipping rocks, throwing frisbees and playing games.

Not a care in the world.

Everyone is just happy.

As much as I live in the present, I find myself thinking of the past.

Summers are jammed full of moments of deja vu.

It's like we've been here before, in these exact spots, doing these things together.

Only this time our little kids are older and bigger.

"We aren't little anymore," they correct me.

I just want to stay in this moment and ignore reality for a bit longer.

Forever, in fact.

I don't want there to be an end to this, but it will end.

Moments are fleeting.

I know that.

The sunset creeps on us as the weeks go by.

Earlier and earlier it gets darker and darker.

A chill enters the air in the evenings that we haven't felt in a long time.

Autumn is on the horizon.

I'm sad.

Full of melancholy and ice cream.

I'll miss this, this time together.

So much.

With the end of summer, comes long, busy, exhausting days.

Always tired, always rushing, always aware of the time.

Homework to do, things to practice, lessons, and shopping and bells ringing and cars honking.

So little time to just sit.

Or stand in one spot and breathe.

Feet in the sand.

Sun on my back.

We will be reduced to ships passing in the night.

Or some other cliched expression directly implying that we never see each other even though we do.

As I stand there on the beach, on this final day with the seconds ticking down until the final gasp, I don't want to leave.

Leaving means the end.

"'Til next year," a fellow parent calls as they exit.

He's right.

But, I often feel like I'm on borrowed time.

Next year, the kids will be bigger and older.

At some point they won't want to spend their summers dancing in the waves, jumping off the dock, hanging out with their dad.

At some point I'll be older too.

We all will.

And I won't have the still youthful, go go energy on these long days that I feel defines me.

These days will be but memories of those days when the kids were young.

Those amazing, summer days at the beach.

Those days that we felt would never end.

And that one day.

When I stood there, surrounded by my family, enjoying all that was around me, just not wanting to let go.

That final day of the summer.

Back to School

September.

It's that time of year again.

The leaves are turning colour, the air gets colder at night and I'm getting ready to wear nothing but white seeing as Labour Day is almost upon us.

And, it's the final few days before school starts.

Time, predictably, has flown.

Just the other day, I was fleeing leaving school on the final day of work in June, ready to pick up my kids and meet my wife and literally eat some ice cream. The long expanse of summer was in front of me and I almost believed that it would go on forever.

The past two months have been a spectacular combination of lazy mornings, late evenings, throwing frisbees, family barbecues, playing tennis and slow, timeless afternoons flaked out on the sand with the ever present melodic gentle waves providing the soundtrack.

And now? Now, it's about to get real...again.

Soon the alarm clocks will have to be set, checked and double-checked, outfits that don't give others seizures prepared the evening before, and detailed schedules arranged and organized down to the very minute including lessons and activities and appointments that suck up every ounce of free time before rinsing, gurgling and spitting them out.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I feel like I've been here before.

42 times before, to be exact.

For the majority of my years on Earth (plus some of the years when I was stranded on the moon), as summer ends, life in a classroom resumes.

As beach blankets and sandals are stored, backpacks and pencil cases are dusted off.
As sunscreens and sunburns and the sun itself become but a memory, the rain begins to fall with great regularity.
As life transitions to math homework and spelling tests and notices from parks and playgrounds, courts and surf, it just feels right even when it feels so wrong.

It's the order of things.

It's my personal, life-long order of things.

It's the way.

From Tiny Tots to preschool to elementary to secondary to university to teaching to a masters degree to counselling to having my own kids and wife all decide to strangely go to school as well that I'm choosing to see as a complement, September has meant school.

Aside from a year of travelling, a year of exchange teaching in Australia and that amazing year when I was one, the end of August has always indicated one thing; pencils, books and teacher's mostly really pleasant and encouraging looks aside from those times when I didn't listen and follow instructions and, thus, deserved whatever I got (okay, that was three things...maybe I made a mistake or maybe I was practicing my division skills. Think about it.)

Not that it's all bad. Seasons come and seasons go. To attempt to refute that would be an exercise in futility unless you knew some of my friends. Autumn is my favourite. Mornings are crisp, days are warm and it is easier to sleep in the relative coolness of the breeze. And I enjoy my work, the kids love school and my wife is like a rabid attack dog that rips strangers to threads, only the type that enjoys teaching teenagers about science and math.

And the first week of school is always exciting.

Wheeee!!!

New clothes, new students, new beard (that's an inside joke, that makes much more sense when you look at the place on my face where a beard would traditionally be worn, and even then, it's just not that funny a joke).

The first few weeks fly by as the family literally springs up ready to learn. "We don't miss summer at all," we tell ourselves in unison like an almost-unwatchable family from a completely-unwatchable sitcom. Its all going swimmingly until we speed over a speed bump one particularly tough morning when I get up after a horribly inconsistent sleep that makes the use of the word "sleep" ironic at best.

You know those mornings, where you burn the toast and scald your hand and pack a set of lunches that NO ONE WILL EVER EAT! The kids have magically devolved into immovable, unrouse-able, barbaric, do-not-disturb beings (still cute, though) that will never be able to get up, eat breakfast and look sort-of-presentable within the next 45 minutes. Every moment from the second I wake up at 6:30 until I somehow arrive in my office the second the bell goes to start school is jam-packed with the panic of being late which goes a long ways towards explaining why I frequently spill my lunch.

Afternoons are passed, in a stupor, gazing longingly out the window as a smiling woman goes for a jog, an old man playfully walks his dog and the sun beats down on a seasonably warm day that would easily be mistaken for summer if I wasn't trapped, sweating in my office.

Grrrrr.

Was I ever so dumb to be glad that summer was over? I look at myself in the mirror and decide that, yes, yes I was. I would smack that adorably, sad, dumb look off my face if I wasn't so adorable and dumb.

Gone are the wonderfully laid-back mornings of a few weeks ago.
Gone are those lunchtime debates over "how should we use the next 5 hours today?" "That's right, any way we want!"
Gone is the flexibility and freedom and fiduciary duty (I know, I know - it makes no sense at all here, but I needed a third "F" word to use in this spot and it seemed the "funniest". Don't believe me? You try saying it out loud a few times without laughing. Note: much funnier when wearing a large set of fake eyebrows.)

But, time waits for no one.

You know who else waits for no one? That was an actual question. I really don't know.

I like school, I do. Though if it comes up in court while I'm being attacked by a tall, dark, handsome, legs-for-days and exotic-looking attorney I'll deny all plausibility (always wanted to say that before). But, I do like it.

I've always felt at home in a school, but never enough to actually make it my home, and once back in the flow of the routines and subroutines and sequences of program instructions that perform a specific task that almost make it seem like I'm actually inside of a computer (thank you, Wikipedia!) it's all good. 

It is just so jarring when summer comes crashing to a halt and I have to wear actual shirts with actual sleeves (in the summer, I'm quite anti-sleeve) and shoes and comb my hair every morning!?!? (to be honest, I use my hands to carefully arrange my locks as well as the hairs on my head).

So as I sit here in a cafe on a Friday afternoon I am both aware that I won't have the luxury of doing this again for months, but also that I believe I'm ready for what inevitably comes next.

Summer, it's been good.

We had fun, you and I.

You tickled my toes, wrapped me up in your warm arms, helped my world glow and made me feel young again. I'd call you the father that I never had, but that would make things weird and awkward (especially when I hang out with my actual father who is doing his best, thank you very much. I mean, he's no summer, I'll grant you that, but...I think I'll stop before I go too far).

Take it easy summer.

You deserve a break, until next year.

I can't wait.