notes on a white board

Alison Kuipers wrote a good novel a few years back that consisted entirely of notes between a girl and her mom with conflicting schedules -- the kind of notes that get stuck under frig magnets or scribbled on bulletin boards. I enjoyed the story of love and loss and humour and growing up, but couldn't help wondering how it would have played with male characters. Would a boy and his dad express their feelings and interests through notes? Well, Ed and I have been sharing a kitchen and white message board for more than a year, and the answer is ... well, what do you think?

We Scrimgers are not afraid to communicate. The board is often full of writing. We are not fond of feelings, however. Or should I say we are not fond of mushy feelings. No LOVE YOUs or TAKE CAREs. But we do not mind expressing our displeasure. The suggestion WASH DISHES was up there for two days when I was away a few months ago. When I came back the dishes were still undone, so I turned a suggestion into an order by adding an exclamation mark. WASH DISHES! Came downstairs the next day and Ed had added a third screamer and a curse: WASH DISHES DAMMIT!!! I confronted him later. He was yawning and I was making coffee.

What is going on with the dishes? I asked him.
I'm waiting for you to do them, Dad.
I was surprised.
That was my note, I said, pointing to the white board.
No, I wrote it, he said. I hate the dishes piling up. See, there, that's the way I write my M, all loopy like that.
Huh, I said. I was sure I remembered writing it. I did the dishes and rubbed out the note.

Later that week the board was co-opted to record the results of home-made crokinole tournament played on our dining room table. Ed and his friends picked countries to represent, and I was interested to note the progress of Macedonia (Ed) against Brazil, Sweden, and Cote D'Ivoire.

Not the stuff of story, eh? I know. Not many movies of the week based on these plot lines, specially when people's choice Macedonia went into a tailspin and finished fourth.

Currently we have a shopping list on the board. You could read it as a poem, I suppose. Or a piece of cryptic prose. HOT SAUCE, BREAD, FEAR. I know where to find hot sauce and bread, but wonder about FEAR. What does Ed want with it? And where can I buy it?
Unless it's BEANS.

sandwich generation

Epic conversation last night -- my son and my dad on technology. I was in the middle, aware of the incomprehension on both sides. They were fish and bird, and I was the worm between them.

Sam began by describing a new game he and a buddy were playing on the PS3. It involved -- well, it doesn't matter what it involved, killing aliens or filling holes or stealing cars or mining for gold or something. The point is the PS3 platform. My dad wasn't interested in a video game dispenser, but when Sam explained that you could also use the PS3 to watch movies he started waving his hands.

Are you saying that this device of yours does more than play games?

We were in my parents' living room. Sam and Dad were both on their second or third drinks, which may have influenced the conversation. The baseball game played along quietly in the background.

Totally, Grampa. It's like a computer. You can use it to get Netflix.

I was thinking of ordering Netflix. But I thought I could use it to watch the movies on TV. Dad to me.

You watch Netflix on TV, but you need the PS3 to connect your set to Netflix, I said.

Stupid system. What kind of world is it where you need a zombie game device to watch a movie? All these machines hooked up to all these other machines. It's worse than 1984. Dad.

Yeah, I know. Me.

You should get a PS3, Grampa. Sam.

Hmph. How big is it anyway? I don't want a great big box sitting on the floor.

It's ... Sam.

Is it bigger than a breadbox? Dad, smiling. This was a phrase from my childhood. Many a game of Animal Vegetable Mineral revolved around this question. On TV the batter swung at a breaking ball way out of the strike zone, and missed.

What the heck are you talking about? Sam.

A breadbox. You know, a box where you keep --

Whoa! Slow down, Grampa. Sam was laughing now.

Don't you know what I'm talking about? A breadbox is a wood or metal box you kept on the counter. The boy knows what a breadbox is, doesn't he? Dad to me. I shrugged. The batter fouled off a pitch.

They used to keep bread in a box? So weird! What kind of a box? How big was it?

What do you mean? It was as big as a breadbox.

I finished my drink. The pitcher threw a belt-high fastball past the hitter, who was so upset he slammed his bat onto the plate and broke it. The inning ended.

Why, Grampa? Sam had his hands up, pleading.

Why what?

Why did you keep bread in a box? Why a box? Why not leave it in the bag? Or in a drawer? Why take up counter space? Why go to the extra trouble? Who were these people? Sam, to me.

Yeah, I know.

We were people who could turn on the TV and watch it, said Dad. We didn't need a box to connect to another box to connect to the internet to get a movie on the TV. Who's crazy now?

There was a tire commercial on TV. A car spun out of control on an icy road.

A PS3 is about the size of a square cake pan, Dad, I said. And, Sam, a bread box was about the size of a microwave oven. And I need another drink.

school daze

I've never been busier.  More to read, more to write, more miles to drive, more people to try to satisfy (do NOT go there) -- and the same old amount of time.  Thank heavens for coffee, for not needing much sleep, and for low standards.  These last (the standards, I mean) are in fact invaluable.

All this is by way of apology for not posting more often.  I think of you guys sometimes.  I want to talk more often, really I do.  Only every time I turn around or look up I find another deadline ready to pounce on me.  Deadlines are like mountain lions.

You want to know about school?  Well, it's really fun.  I sit at the back with the cool kids.  I mark up my textbooks and pass around notes.  We trade lunches and everything.  I can hardly wait until birthday season! 

Seriously, it's more work than I thought, and the other students are way more talented than they have any right to be at their age.  I suspect them of mentally patting me on the head when I make a comment.  Poor old fellow, let's humour him.  He thinks we're back in the 1980s.  While I am struggling to keep up at school, I am also trying to finish a book about a kid with an accidental tattoo, and a kid who falls into a comic ...  and do some mentoring o my own ... and of course there are still my kids to drive around, and when I go too fast there are speeding tickets to collect.

Last time I was stopped I tried to tell the officer how busy I was.  She listened with a smile of sympathy.  You shouldn't be driving around at all, she said.  Say, do you want me to charge you, and confiscate your license so you can stay home and rest?
She was laughing, but I tell you I was tempted. It'd be a totally great excuse for not doing the week's assignment -- and a DUI or something might get me some more respect in school. Scrimger the bad ass.

3:20 moment

The saddest moment of my kid year was always Labour Day Monday, 3:20 pm.  At that precise moment the holiday ended.  Today might as well have been a school day, I would think, year after year.  If it had been a school day, I would have the same amount of time off as I do now.  I am already back at the grind.  Hello Grade 3  (or 4 or 7 or 12).  Three hundred more days until summer. 

Cheery little fellow, wasn't I?  No wonder I didn't get invited to many late summer barbecues.   (Sure, I'll have another hot dog.  Who cares about indigestion?  Holidays are over.  There's nothing to live for except the present  ...)

In fact, it was even worse than that.  I lived the entire season in a state of diminishing expectations.  I would divide the nine or ten weeks into little playtime-sized pieces, and count them like a miser:  how many were gone, how many remained. I loved the first week or two of July, but as the month stretched out I would be increasingly aware of time passing.  In the middle of August I would think:  Only a couple of weeks left now.  It isn't really a summer-sized holiday any more.  More like Christmas.  Another week and summer would be the size of a March break.  (March break?  Why, that passes in a flash! It's barely a holiday at all.)  I would play harder, faster, in an attempt to get more out of my shrinking freedom.  In the last week I would count down the days, until there was only a long weekend left.  Then a weekend.  Then a holiday Monday.  And then ...  3:20.

I told Ed about this last week -- one of those early morning coffee and toast musings.  I don't know what I was expecting.  A laugh, a head shake, a moment of sympathy.  He stared at me over the comics page.

What a weirdo, he said.

mmmff

Sometimes I don't know whether to be impressed or appalled. A particularly daring move at an intersection will elicit my mental applause even while I am slamming on the brakes. A mean but truly funny comment at a party will leave me speechless. I would never allow myself to drive or speak that way, but my hat is off to those who do so dare. I guess I am both impressed and appalled -- impalled.

Which brings me to today's incident. I was at the Y, huffing away, adding my own internal dialogue to the soundless TV screen (a movie with Nicolas Cage and a brunette who spent part of every scene with her hand to her mouth. Her lines were easy: Mmmff, she would say. What kind of mmmff do you think I am?) when a young woman in impeccable workout gear took the machine next to mine and said, That's not all! in a loud voice.

I looked over but she was focussed straight ahead, talking on her blue tooth type phone. I know it's ridiculous, she said, punching buttons on the treadmill. But there's more.

And there was. For the next twenty minutes she spoke without stopping or moderating her voice. It had been a tough shift at her restaurant, and she had every detail fresh in her mind. It did not occur to her that we (I was not the only one in earshot) might not want to hear about the picky patrons, jealous co-workers, missed orders, lousy tips, etc. None of us told her to shut up. I think an older guy wanted to, but she didn't give him an opportunity and he was too nice to interrupt.

I have to say, I was fascinated. She was a storm, heedless and destructive but entertaining, in an awful schadenfreudey way. (Imagine living with her?) I gave up on my TV movie, which had developed a boring office plotline (What is the mmff on those sales figures, JB?) and paid attention to the totally unself-conscious public monologue. Not the incidents so much as the idea that she thought this was okay behaviour.

On and on she went, swinging her muscular arms, working the treadmill hard, and talking all the time. Nothing wrong with her cardio shape -- just her personality. She had no sense of other, no concern for the world outside her own experience. Total self-absorption. I was ... impalled.

bros

After-dinner conversation overheard through my office window. Ed and a friend on the back porch, talking about a concert in Toronto the following night ...

ED - We're going to miss the last train home. For sure.
FRIEND - What're we going to do? I don't want to leave the show early.
ED - I know. How about staying overnight?
FRIEND - In the city? Could get expensive.
E - No man, my brother and sister and grandparents live there. I'll just call up.
F - At 2 in the morning?
E - Well, not my grandparents.
F - Cool. But there's like five of us. How big a place does your brother have?
E - Doesn't matter. There's a couch and a floor and a bath tub. Better than nothing.
F - What about your sister?
E - Maybe. But it's easier with my brother. We can just show up. Mind you, he gets up real early to go to work. He's going to be pissed.
F - You sure we can do this?
E - Totally. You don't have a brother, do you. Trust me, we can do it.
F - Oh. Okay.

A beautiful late summer evening. The breeze was picking up, carrying with it a hint of earth and cool. The boys were talking excitedly about a TV show. I smiled and went back to work.

shame

Back from Vancouver now -- the city of shame. Everyone I talked to there referenced the hockey riot a few weeks back. They all shook their heads. They all swallowed in embarrassment. They all talked about what a change it had been from a year previously when the entire city had united in a moment of shared good feeling. Get over it, city.

An exciting trip for me, I have to say. Caught up with some old friends, talked to some very nice audiences, stayed in a hilariously sleazy district, visited a nude beach, and found time to hit two great bars. If you get the chance, visit the Alibi Room down at the eastern end of Gastown. More hoppy IPAs than you can shake a stick at. And there's a place on Commercial Drive called Bier-something that has a fantastic mussels and beer special. Don't mention the hockey riot, though. They'll apologize for hours.

All right, all right. I'll get to the nude beach. I had never been to one before. Not even as a twenty-something travelling around Europe. Somehow the opportunity never came up, or if it did I was always sick or asleep or something. My friends would go and I would listen, yawning or vomiting enviously, to the stories they told when they returned to the hostel. So when I was visiting UBC and saw an arrow pointing own and a sign -- CLOTHING OPTIONAL BEACH -- and I had a free half hour, I thought, Now is my time!

I confess to a teenaged heartlift as I approached. What kind of wonders would be unveiled? (All right, I guess I knew what kind of wonders -- but not the precise ones.) I wondered if I'd be too embarrassed to disrobe, or if people would laugh and kick sand when they saw my pathetic scrawny torso? Imagine my chagrin when I found myself part of a small but impeccably dressed group of beachers. Every one of them (and I checked) wore shorts and tops, dresses, bathing suits. There was a guy in a vest and bowler hat, for heavens' sake. Not exactly like the picture there but you get the idea. Clothing was optional, and they had all opted yes. My heart sank back down to middle-aged territory. I walked along the shoreline, totally in fashion in my shirt and rolled-up trousers.

Maybe Vancouver should be ashamed of itself after all. That recumbent couple at the hockey riot were way more risque than anything going on down at the nude beach.