prepare ye the way

I am torn. On the one hand I have always thought of pranking as essentially mean spirited. I am not fond of jokes at the expense of more or less innocent people. Getting back at the bully is one thing. Pulling the chair out from under a serious guy so that he sits down hard -- well, it's humour that's playing for the other team. There's an element of bullying in it.

That's on the one hand. On the other hand, I am genuinely amused at my son's seasonal project. He and his housemate A-Bomb (regular readers of this blog will recall that I took A-Bomb's shoes with me to Slovenia, which upset him) have decided to act out an Advent Calendar of pranks. Each day a different jape, leading up to the big day when their exams are over and they all go home for Christmas. What makes this Advent project so funny (I am wrestling with my conscience here) is that all the pranks are played on the same guy. Poor Dino, a fellow housemate, has been subjected to tripwires, mitten substitutions, noisily stuffed pillowcases, knapsack shenanigans (a long long string with a boot attached to the knapsack, so that he was jerked backwards a half-block from home when the trailing boot caught in the doorway). Their latest prank involves hiding five alarm clocks in his room, set to go off at ten minute intervals. As Sam tells it, the entire house reverberated from Dino's cursing when the first alarm bell went off. His reaction to subsequent bells got funnier, and funnier.

The success of Sam and A-Bomb's project revolves around two things. First, their seriousness. The very idea of an Advent Calendar devoted to torturing a fellow housemate is, well, funny. The application that the two guys put into their daily tasks speaks volumes. In a way, it shows how much they care. Second, and even more important to success, is the character of the victim. Dino is an enthusiastic lovable guy, tall, gawky, and good-hearted. His relentless victimisation is funny not because he does not deserve it, but because he takes it so well. To my mind, Dino emerges as the star of the show.

And Sam and A-Bomb owe him. Buy a big bottle of what he drinks, guys, and put it under the tree.

what'll it be, dear?

I was having lunch in a family restaurant last week. You know the kind of place: vinyl booths, hot turkey sandwiches and fountain coke, pay the cashier on your way out. And busy waitresses -- usually of a certain age and body type -- wearing white shoes and smiles. I'm writing today in a kind of homage to these waitresses. It seems to me that they represent the purest example of what I can call eglitarianism.

I can't think of anyone other group (they're almost a caste, aren't they?) with only one form of address for the whole world. No matter who you are -- pop star or pauper, male or female, grandparent or babe in arms -- you are "dear" to them. That friendly caring word is on their lips no matter whom they are addressing. You, me, Osama, Queen Elizabeth, Batman, everyone. If the Prince of Darkness ordered a hot turkey sandwich from a family restaurant, the waitress would smile and say, "And what'll you have to drink, dear?" And when he ordered boiling hot baby's blood, or whatever, she'd purse her lips and say, "I'll check for you, dear, but I don't think we have any."

Heartwarming, isn't it? Who can object to being called "dear" by a motherly woman? Not me.

The only other stereotype with something approaching a uniform salute would be the outlaw biker gang --only the term they use for everyone is not, "dear." I can't imagine that a family restaurant staffed by outlaw bikers would do very well.

saving private scrimger

They say that war is vast stretches of boredom punctuated by short periods of intense fear. Nothing happens, nothing happens, and then suddenly EVERYTHING is happening and maybe you don't even survive to the next bit where nothing happens. Sounds about right to me. I imagine firefighting to be something like that. And police work. Stacks of forms to fill out, months of practicing, and then maybe an hour when it's all on the line. Makes for good drama, whether you focus on the build up or the action, because the audience knows that at any given point the characters could be involved in a life-or-death struggle.

The stakes are high for doctors and lawyers too -- if they make a mistake, people die or go to jail. And these profesionals live intensely collegial lives, fighting and bonding with each other in the workplace. The human drama unfolds from nine to five. Again, good theater.

Writing is different. For all the romance associated with the arts, the daily life of the artist makes lousy viewing. I've been busy as hell for the last few days, but it occurs to me that nothing about my working life could be used in a story. What did I do? you ask. Well, I tapped away on this keyboard. That's what I do when I'm writing. When the work is going well, I am tapping away at the keyboard, muttering phrases out loud and nodding to myself. When it's going badly, I am tapping a little more slowly, muttering profanities, and getting up from the keyboard to make another cup of coffee. In between times, when I'm not tapping away, I am staring into space.

That's it. And that's all of it. I mean, I don't even talk to anyone. No wonder that Ridley Scott is not out there with a writing life movie. (Tap! Stare! Yawn!) Yes, that is a Jane Austen action figure in the picture. It is marketed ironically.

The only way you can sell a creative biopic is to set the story away from the typewriter or the easel. It helps if the artist has a surprising and deeply engaging personal life -- fighting hard, loving disastrously, keeping crocodiles in the bath tub. Sadly for you, reading this, my extra-curricular life is only marginally more interesting than my working life.

The best I can hope for is a spot in someone else's story. If a fire breaks out at my place, I could get a supporting role in some firefighter's triumph and/or tragedy. If a war breaks out at my place, I could become the object of a mission. Saving Scrimger. I like it.

OK, now I have to get back to work. Don't bother looking -- there's nothing to see here.

superpower update

And now an update on the world of superpowers. Certain subjects seem to be eternally fascinating, and my son Ed and his friends spend an appreciable amount of time talking about which superpowers they would like to possess. (Different strokes for different folks. As a kid I used to have lengthy discussions with my friends about the perfect chocolate bar. And I remember a long evening at my ex-in-laws many years back, talking about which would be the best way to die.) Anyway, if you are interested in the mindset of smalltown youth in Southern Ontario, allow me to present ....TIMESTOPPER.

You got to admit, Dad, that's the best one, Ed told me. The ability to wave your hands and stop time is about as cool as it gets.

I agreed that time stopping was a useful skill -- provided of course that time had not stopped for you. So what would the hero's name be? I asked. How about TIMETOPPER? Or MR TIME -- except that sounds like a villain. And what he or she wear?

Ed rolled his eyes. He and his friends were not interested in the accessories of superpowerdom. (Kids today have no follow-through. My friends and I had the wrapper, the pricing, and the advertising slogan for our perfect chocolate bar.)

I asked for some more examples of cool powers. Well, we all thought teleporting would be pretty decent, he said.

I agreed again. So, your perfect superheroes would have dominion over space and time, I said. Two pretty enormous concepts. Good choices both. I was about to ask about summoning the superheroes in time of need -- whether a searchlight beaming an image of an hourglass onto the night sky would be too cheesey -- when Ed started to laugh. I asked him what was so funny.

It's Frederico, he said. (It often is. The boy marches to his own drum machine, which is permanently set on Random.) Frederico thought it would be brilliant to be able to .... Ed laughed again ....to have objects appear in your hand.

I didn't get it right away. Ed explained. Frederico wants to be able to open his hand and have, like, a bird appear. Or a million dollars. Or a sports car. Whatever he wants.

My first thought was to laugh along with Ed. It's easy to laugh at Frederico. Only he would choose a sports car, or a roast chicken, over the ability to control whole dimensions. But now I wonder. The boy may have reached a deeper understanding of power than we knew. What he wants is ultimate creativity. To make something out of nothing. His idea of a superhero? God.

I can hardly wait for the comic book.

not going to miss you

My computer is malfunctioning. Funny how important they are to us, and how little we care for them. This despite our propensity for anthropomorphosis. How many people are truly devastated by the loss of a pet? (Even goldfish -- my daughter Thea was traumatized for several moments when hers passed over to the Great Bowl in the sky. I hardly see the family dog any more, but I know I will think a few thoughts about the old guy when he goes.) Well, pets are almost human. But cars sure aren't, and yet many people truly seem to identify with their vehicle. Not just caring for them, washing and waxing, but naming them, seeing them with personality traits (doesn't like the cold, wants to run, temperamental in wet weather) and clearly thinking of them as extensions of their own personality. I for example am a ten-year-old Toyota with a cracked windshield, badly in need of a wash..... (You know, now that I think of it, there may be some truth there.)

Why do we care so little about our computers? We use them daily, are lost without them. They are personally ours in a way that cars aren't -- containing scads of very intimate data. And the language is there. We talk about computers having viruses. My computer is in the shop because its RAM is corrupt. So, why don't I humanise that? (It'd be easy. I mean, the RAM could be a small-town politician, open to bribes by visiting data from the internet.) But I don't think of it that way. I almost miss my little plastic soldier more -- the one mutilated by Ed's friend's in a moment of mindless kid-dom. Poor headless Grenade Guy.

I don't miss my computer for itself. I miss what it does. This loaner is fine. If I have to buy a new computer, I am sure it'll be better than my old one. Faster, more powerful, and cheaper. I'll be happy to upgrade.

Hmmm. Maybe cars are like us, and computers are like our jobs. Or maybe cars are the reality of our lives, and computers are the fantasy version. Wouldn't you like a personal upgrade?

why oh why oh why-o

Turns out I was right about the decapitation of Grenade Guy -- Frederico did it. He saw the scissors and couldn't resist using them on the plastic soldier's head. I asked him why he'd done it and he shrugged and laughed (what would that be -- a shraugh?). Ed looked disappointed, but not at Frederico. At me. You're not supposed to ask why. Motive is such a grown-up question, and, the way grown-ups ask it of kids, implies blame. Why'd you do that? is grown-up shorthand for: Why'd you do that, you idiot?

Because in grown-up eyes kids are often idiots, and do things for no reason at all. If a typical grown-up question is: Why'd you do that? the typical kid answer is: I dunno. And, like the grown-up question, it is a short-form answer. The long form is: I dunno, and why are you getting so worked up about it anyway, leave me alone can't you? Sheesh! For the longest time all conversations with my son Sam were punctuated by the phrase: Chill the bass -- his universal response to perceived agitation. To worry about or even question anything is, well, in bad taste.

Listened to the new Kaiser Chiefs album with Imo in the car yesterday. The single "Never Miss A Beat" captures the attitude prefectly. The song is anthemic in its way.

What did you learn today (I learned nothin')

What did you do today? (I did nothin')

What did you learn at school? (I didn't go)

Why didn't you go to school? (I don't know)

It's cool to know nothin'

It's cool to know nothin'

Listening to the song, I had a smile on my face. I like the idea of a slacker anthem, and the Chiefs do a good job being ironic and serious (would that be serionic?) They sort of believe the words and sort of don't (however sincerely they may attempt to exemplify the slacker attitude, but it's hard finicky work putting out an album).

Closing, it occurs to me that all questions beginning Why did you .... have a negative subtext. You're not asking why because you think the other person did a great job. Why'd you cut your hair? does not imply that it looks better now. It means that it looked better before. Why are you reading this blog? implies, don't you have anything better to do?

So do it. See you next time.

goodbye grenade guy

A strangely apt entry today. Normally I do not notice special days -- barely notice what day of the week it is. My job does not involve time off so I am not looking forward to any arbitrary date (except of course No More Parkas Day -- you know the one, usually in April, when it is actually Warm For the First Time In a Long Time, and I leave my computer and go for a long walk in a light jacket. Anyway, it's a moveable feast). But today I was going to talk about the headless army man, and then realized that it is November 11th.

Coincidence?

Yes.

So anyway, there I was reaching into the fridge for milk this morning, when I noticed that my army man looked different. I found him in the corner of a closet when I moved into my apartment a year or two ago. I don't know if he was in there by accident, or if the previous occupant of the bedroom had had the closet set up as a POW camp. I dusted the little green guy off and put him on the kitchen windowsill as a watchman. (Yeah, that's him in the picture -- or his pose. I figured anyone trying to climb in, he'd lob his grenade and I'd wake up.)

And now he was missing his head. Poor Grenade Guy, I thought, dropping him in the garbage. Victim of a brutal and absolute act. When Transformers lose body parts you can always snap them back together, but army men are more integrated.

I didn't wonder how it happened. I knew at once. No Holmsean insight required. I keep a pair of scissors on the window sill to snip the ends off the milk bags. My son Ed and his friend Frederico drop by from time to time, to hang out, drink chocolate milk and eat chewy bars. I figured one of them had seen the scissors and Grenade Guy and put two and two together to make, well, nothing.

I'll ask this afternoon. I don't think they'll lie. Denial is a huge part of boyhood, but this isn't worth denying. I wonder if they'll be able to accurately describe their motive. I suspect it's a kind of smorgasboard. Boredom, love of destruction, a side of naughtiness, a spoonful of cruel humour. Boys will be boys.

Ain't that the truth.