A gentleman driver, who is easiest to describe by sticking to his most striking features–he sported but three teeth and a greasy combover–collected us from a deserted aeroport to transport us to our second port of call on the island: the remarkable Jade Mountain (I know–ain’t no flies on us).  The 30 kilometre trek clocked in at over an hour, so we had some time to get to know him.  His knowledge of the island was broad, if not entirely accurate, and delivered with such a curious accent that I would have been charmed by any claims he might have made regarding the flatness of the Earth; however, when talk turned to musical preferences, he was quick to volunteer his favourite style: Country and Western–or as he called it, “C&W”.  He let me know that “C&W” held such great influence over him, that it acted as a meal replacement.

To be honest, I don’t know why I clarified with “New, new country music” because–sorry Faith Hill and Tim McGraw–I don’t even listen to just plain “new country”.

If “C&W” is all one needs for their daily vitamins and nutrients, then why is Garth Brooks such a fatty?

The answer is simple: he ain’t real Country & Western!  Someone dig up Montana Slim, the nation’s chubbies need him!

I thought you might get a kick out of an experience I just had passing through airport security in Toronto. As luck would have it, I was rocking out the FFWD Hammer & Sickle shirt when my security screener asked, in a thick Soviet accent:
“What’s this mean?” (referring to my shirt)
I told her it was just a shirt advertising a weekly newspaper from back home.
She then wanted to know why the hammer and sickle were there. I told her it was because the political leanings of the weekly were seen as “socialist” or “leftist” in the town I was from, and so it was kind of a joke. My screener began to tear up and, with a shakey voice, replied that only someone too young to have lived through “the hammer and sickle” would make fun of it. That it was awful-that the regime did awful things-and that therefore both me and my shirt were awful!
I apologised, but her tears of sorrow had already become tears of rage, and she said I was too ignorant to understand.
. . . so I shouldn’t have been surprised when I was “randomly selected” for a thorough search, where my bags were pulled apart, dare I say, in a manner not unlike the old KGB.

I think I’ll think twice before wearing this tee in the future; particularly if I think my day’s activities will lead me to contact with any Russians, Poles, Ukies, or McCarthyists.

(*the photo below sports the offending shirt, as well as a flag that was made for me by a 12 year old boy I had the pleasure of meeting during one of my stints working at summer camps in America. He made the anti-Commie flag, and when I probed him as to why, his only response was: “Because I hate Communists”. . . I think someone’s grandpa drinks. He gave me the flag at the end of summer because he figured I was the one who “got” him the most, and he knew I loved it. I did, and I do)

I thought that I would join a barber shop quartet for a year–just to see–and I haven’t found the music all that inspiring.  For me, that is. . . but boy do we sound good!

Which I found surprising, because straw caps and candy-striped vests have generally been the uniform of “game changers” in the world, right?

Who wouldn’t find an endless stream of songs discussing strolling with your “sweet baby” or negotiating love deals with “Mr. Sandman” inspiring?

Maybe her Quartet was just singing the wrong songs.

Ewok Celebration Song

I once held a conversation with a particular gentleman who became so full of an insatiable curiosity about the state of his armpits, and whether they were sufficiently odourized, that mid-conversation he placed his fingertips beneath his pits, dug them around, withdrew them and filled his bronzed chest with their savoury scent.  I know this sounds not unlike a Saturday Night Live character’s eccentric behaviour; but what this gent did, which trumps Mary Katherine Gallagher, was to recognize that his hands were now somewhat soiled with sweat.  His solution was to then spit on his fingertips, rub it around, and then dry them on his socks.  All without missing a beat in the conversation.  To say that I had a focus issue during our discourse would be an understatement.

If that is a pig’s trick for personal hygiene, then what I witnessed at the gymnasium recently takes the whole goddamned cake.  A small elderly Asian man a few lockers down from me–naked as the day he was born–decided, on what seemed to be a whim, to check whether it was time to do laundry.  How he appraised the cleanliness of his wardrobe was to snatch his underpanties to his face, finger them until he lined up the posterior region, and bring them close enough to his face that had they been a stamp, he could have easily licked them.  He took two very deep breaths–which is something I avoid around my own ass, or any of my own ass’ various unpleasant products–then scrolled his drawers so that he could give the crotch the benefit of all his olfactory senses as well.  If I had have dropped dead at that very moment, the funeral director would insist to my parents that they opt for a closed casket; the look of disgust on my face would be so etched that even death could not erase it.

Some may be wondering what the final verdict was on the underwear, and to that I wish I had a conclusive answer, but I don’t.  He simply tossed them into his locker and slammed it closed.  If I were a betting man, I’d say that meant that they were good enough for a few more days wear and tear.

But really. . . if you’re going on smell alone, how large must be the margin for acceptance?

In fact, I spend a great deal of my time trying not to let my bare feet touch the floor.  When not obsessing about athletes foot, I have a fighter pilot’s focus on my own gear–both the gear I carried in, and the gear I was born with–with the idea that my great focus will mean a swift turnaround time.  I’m certainly not like some gentlemen–generally men who have greening Marine tattoos and bellies that prohibit any clear and unobstructed view of their own genitals–who could while away an entire day sitting on a bench that, in time, will stick to their sweaty scrotum like a cheese slice wrapper (as it has done to countless other scrotums in the past with, one doubts, anything like a thorough clean between exposures), their feet bathing in the stagnant fungal water of body runoff pooling on the tiled floor.  Just the thought makes my feet itch, and my dinner rise a few inches in my esophagus.

BESIDES all the unsavoury characteristics I’ve mentioned, my particular gym is rife with fathers who think its hunky dory to trot their pre-pubecent daughters into this morass of soggy dongs and drip-dried chodas–a practise that, pardon if I sound too much like Adam in the Garden of Eve, will have a profound affect on these young girls psyches.  Not profound, as is implied in the sentence:

Doctors Banting and Best did not yet realise the profound affect their discovery would have on the daily lives of millions the world over, and for many generations to come.

Profound, as is implied in the sentence:

A profound sense of grief overtook Tom, as he realised the designs those two girls had for that lowly cup–a cup that no amount of bleach would ever clean.  A cup so profoundly dirty that it would have to be dropped in a Goodwill box if it was ever to get a fresh start employed in someone’s pantry as a cup.

In short–a men’s locker room is no place to raise your daughters.  I didn’t think this would have to be stated explicitly–but apparently to those living in the Marda Loop/Killarney region it does.  So to them I say:

Soon enough your daughters will have plenty of opportunity to get boys’ tiny pink wind socks dangled in their faces; leave at least some mysteries for their teenaged years.

There I was. . . in a piping hot shower, letting the water cascade over my rippling muscles as they ached slightly from countless repetitions of the free weights.  My body covered in a thick lather. . . the gentle hiss of  running water. . . I was nearly ready to forget about the misery of communal showers until I heard singing. . . . singing that was coming from someone very nearby.  I opened my eyes, and lo and behold, there was a naked man standing right next to me.  Only just a moment ago I had been the sole occupant of the showers–but now, with our feet nearly touching, I was no longer alone.  Of the 6 remaining showerheads–mine being the seventh and left most–this gent had decided there was strength showering in numbers, and so installed himself to my immediate right. Not only that, but the gentle hiss of running water was barely audible beneath what was. . . singing.

I’m a bit shy (something those who have seen me in one of my unitards will appreciate, thanks to the relatively unflattering snugness of spandex as it clings to curves both large and. . . not as large) so my immediate response was to cheat my shame more towards the wall.  I had to do it slowly, like a snake charmer trying to avoid an adder’s bite, so as to not appear too prudish.  His singing, I must admit, really filled the room–tiled as it was; and I’m not accustomed to such overt musical interludes in a public shower.  I do enjoy a bit of merry caterwauling in the shower, as did this particular gent if his gusto was any indication of an emotional buy-in to shower sing-a-longs; but it was one of three other things–things outside of the act of singing–that I had the most difficulty adjusting to.  The first being his song choice–”True Colours”, by Cyndi Lauper.  Slow dancing songs I used to softly sway to in high school are not the stuff of showers amidst fellow your fellow man, in my opinion.  The second was how thoroughly he was cleaning his schlong.  And when I say “schlong”, I mean “an item he was massaging lathered soap into between his legs that looked like a pork tenderloin fresh from the butcher’s block”.  The last slightly awkward detail of  the trio was his eye contact with me.

For those who have not yet had the singular experience of showering ‘au naturale’ with strangers, let this serve as a lesson in shower protocol: do not make eye contact with others.  And most certainly do not make said contact with tenderness in your eyes and sing:

“so don’t be afraid to let them show
your true colors
true colors are beautiful
like a rainbow”

Because unless your message is something along the lines of “this pork tenderloin–this massive schlong here–can be yours–all yours–right now–and I won’t laugh if you cry” then it most certainly will be misinterpreted as such, and you need to be aware of this.

My response to being serenaded was to smile–politely–and reach for my towel.

It isn’t that I’m opposed to shower sex, or men with large wangs, or Cyndi Lauper; I’m just not too keen on all three at once.

I’m not particularly keen on any two together, truth be told.

In fact, when a man with a cricket bat for a cock is part of the equation, even just one of those items can be quite overwhelming.

I think I’ll start showering at home.  In my clothing.

Our second evening at Sandals–a place where Americans go to tan until they’re burnt purple–we managed to get a reservation in their swanky French restaurant, La Toc.  The joint has a dress code–no shorts, no sandals (ironically enough, being at a Sandals and all)–and the good-faith presumption on behalf of management that you’ll be sober enough to sit upright and not make an ass of yourself when they serve the frog’s legs.  Fortunately, little policing is done to moderate the “polite dinner conversation” and thank heavens for that.  You see, for some, there aren’t enough rules in the Bible, nor rungs on the evolutionary ladder, to prevent them from behaving like a well-dressed animal.  In this particular case, behaving like an animal is likely the most polite way of putting it.

While Babs and I sat chatting, and not chatting, I tweaked to a conversation that was going on just over my right shoulder.  Two English couples were engaged in some polite, Get-to-Know-You kind of chit chat.  The where-you-froms and what-do-you-dos that are so common in a place like Sandals as folks connect with new drinking partners and excursion buddies.  These two couples clearly hailed from different social strata: the first were refined, West End types, who could likely quote a sonnet or two by Shakespeare; the second were coarse, East End types, who likely heard the Bow Bells as they drifted to sleep after throwing plates at each other during a particularly animated family dinner.  Of  the second couple, the man was of particular interest; all 5 foot 5 inches of him looked like he had tumbled out of the craft wagon drunk on a Guy Richie film: big wire-framed glasses with hard little eyes, and a thin, downturned mouth.

For the purposes of this retelling, WE will stand for the West Enders, and exclusively the wife, who drove the conversation boldly along; EE stands for our little East Ender troll–his wife spoke not a word.

EE- I could tell you stories about my youth that would curl your hair.

WE- (rather doubtful) Oh really?

EE- When I was a lad, me and me mates Billy and Michael used to go down and help the shepherds sex their sheep.  An’ when we was done helping them shepherds, we’d get those lambs to suck on our cocks.

No.  I am not making this up.

Upon hearing this statement–which, I might add, rolled off his tongue as casually as the alphabet–my head started to spin.  I was completely intoxicated with the absolutely abominable remark he had offered to his fellow dinner guests–casual acquaintances, by my estimation–and I had to hear more.  What followed was a moment’s silence, and then:

WE- Excuse me?

It was clear that she either: 1) could not believe her ears; or, 2) was so gobsmacked that he had actually said what she thought he had said, that she wanted to give him a chance to take it back and pretend that he had really just said, “Smoke cigarettes underage”.  The ungulate pedophile took his guest’s exclamation to mean that she was hard of hearing, and so repeated himself, with greater volume, and more careful diction:

EE- Suck our cocks.  We’d get them lambs to suck. . on. . our. . cocks.

My mind officially blew.  I couldn’t resist it any longer, and turned around to let my eyes rest on the man who was about to take top spot in my roster of dinner party anecdotes.  What I saw, was a scene of surprising composure.  EE was blinking at those assembled; the rest of the dinner guests were staring intently at their soups.

Finally!  I had a story in my arsenal that Babs hasn’t heard 3 times–so I turned and anxiously brought her up to date, to which she promptly replied that I was a big, fat, exaggerating liar, with a peculiar way of trying to introduce some kink into our honeymoon.  I swore up and down that not even the darkest reaches of my imagination could concoct such an absurd tale of childhood sexual exploration–I mean, I’ve heard of lonesome soldiers finding comfort in the warm inviting cloaca of a hen, but this. . . this is something totally different than buggering a chicken.

It wasn’t until a roving photographer passed by, snapped our photo, and was then told to sling his hook by the table of Britons behind me that Babs became a believer.  EE piped up, as the shutterbug flitted away:

EE- I’ll tell you what–if you like photographs, I’ve got one of me and Billy and Michael and them lambs!

I turned around, this time to catch the other three dinner guests gazing longingly at their salads–dreaming of a time when they were carefree and drunk, sitting at the swim-up bar, far away from the dinner table, La Toc, and visions of fellating lambs.

FAST FORWARD to the next evening, and the incredibly named Sandals’ Manager’s Honeymooner’s Sunset Cocktail Party.  I had fought off the desire to international calls to my brother–indeed, calls to EVERYONE I KNEW–and tell them about the dinner conversation I had overheard.  For those that know me, a new tale is nearly the most exciting thing that can happen in my life.  I don’t tell jokes–I tell tales.

After twenty minutes of idle chatter, and two glasses of sparkling wine, one of the Playmakers (the Sandals version of a social convener–a brilliant chap named Ricky) told those assembled that we all had a chance to win a “Candlelight Extravaganza” (retail value of $250!!) in exchange for the funniest wedding day story.  The first couple to leap at the chance got things off to an abysmal start by opening their story with, “This story isn’t actually that funny” and ending with the morose punchline of, “. . . and after three people had been rushed to the hospital in 36 hours, my uncle said we needed to get married  before someone died”.

In the right hands, their story could have been at least mildly diverting; in their hands, it was a bit horrifying.

The next couple–a chubby little pair–told a story, between fits of giggling that wobbled their twin chins, of how the bride had given her husband an apron because he loves her cooking.  In my less-than-charitable mind I surmised that even without the apron, there was ample evidence that her new husband loved her cooking.  His breasts, for one, told me that–at the very least–he loved someone’s cooking.

Babs began pestering me, as the Playmakers began doing a “Going once!  Going twice!”, to tell a funny story.  The stories in competition were awful, and that I could certainly do better.  In a panic–and wishing to please my wife–I called out that I would like to add our story to the contest–although it was of our honeymoon, and not our wedding.  I then, to the chagrin of animal lovers everywhere (and no–I don’t mean the type of folk who love playful kittens and waggy-tailed dogs–I mean the other kind. . .) told the story of a gentleman, and his pals Billy and Michael, and what they did to satisfy their darkest urges.

About halfway through I realised that telling a story, at epicentre of a resort, on an amplified speaker system, during the dinner hour, which detailed the sexual assault of lambs was perhaps not the most thoughtful idea I had ever had.  Indeed, the “author” of the story could, at any moment, stroll by and hear his youthful indiscretions being retold by some cheeky Canuck with an improperly functioning social filter–but once I’ve started, there’s just no stopping me.  When I finished, of the 9 honeymooning couples and 9 Sandals staffers, only Babs and one other couple showed any sign of having enjoyed the story; all the staff thought it was hilarious.  Luckily for me, a vote by applause was taken to determine the winner–and the judges of whom received the loudest applause were the staff, so we walked away with our very own “Candlelight Extravaganza”.

The next night, when we returned to our villa to enjoy the aforementioned Extravaganza, we found candles lit on the main floor, flower pedals strewn up the stairs, a warm candlelit bath drawn with more pedals floating in the perfumed water, and this:

A- “I was sooo drunk on your beer last Thursday!  Soooo drunk!”

B- “Oh yeah?  Did you have a good time getting ’sooo drunk’?”

A- “You know it!”

B- “How’d you feel the next morning?”

A- “Pretty damn good!  I’ve got a hangover cure that always works!”

B- “Oh yes?  Do tell–I always love adding more hangover cures to my knowledge database.”

A- “Bread!  Eat bread!  Eat some bread before you go to bed!”

B- “That’s it?  That’s pretty simple; but it works, eh?  That’s what saved your bacon last Thursday?”

A- “Yup!  I woke up Friday morning on the floor of my kitchen with a slice of bread in my mouth and I was like, ‘Damn! How’d I get here?’”

B- “. . . uh. . . so you didn’t actually swallow the bread?  It was just there. . . still in your mouth. . . when you woke up on the floor of your kitchen?”

A- “Yeah!  Crazy, huh?  I was trashed!”

B- “But no hangover. . . right?”

A- “Yeah!  I was ready to go again Friday night!”

B- “But you never actually swallowed the cure, right?”

A- “No–it was still in mouth!  I was like, ‘Wow!  How’d I get on my kitchen floor?!’”

B- “Then it sounds like your hangover cure isn’t to actually eat the bread. . . but more just let it soak in your mouth.”

A- “Whatever works, right?”

B- “I guess so.  Do you think sleeping on your kitchen floor helped?”

So, dear reader–I offer this suggestion.  When next you’ve drank to excess, try what worked for my friend: bit of a lie down on the cool comfort (and generally easy-clean surface) of your kitchen floor, with a bit of bread under your tongue.  That is, of course, unless you have a better idea.

An old-timer with fewer teeth than fingers bid me welcome, then quickly proceeded to bid me give him some beer. This is not a habit exclusive to Wayners; I’ve been flagged down by folks on the side of the road to ask me not for assistance, but for free beer. I’ve developed 101 different ways to laugh them off–and this time it was easy.

B- “I’m calling on the Innkeeper, and the last thing I want to do is start pedaling free beer in the parking lot and undercutting his business. I’ll tell you what–make an appeal to him if you want to get your hot little hands on one of these freebies.”
O- “Awww! Is it any good?”
B- “Now what kind of a salesman would I be if I told you it wasn’t?”
O- “Haw haw haw haw!”
B- “It just so happens that I can tell you it’s exceptional and still have a place saved for me in Heaven.”
O- “She sure looks good! Maybe you could just sneak me one?”
B- “Not a chance! I’m willing to bet everyone in the bar is watching us–I mean, I did pull up in a bright green truck. I’ll give you a church key this same green for you to remember me by, though.”
O- “You a redneck?”

This kinda caught me unawares. I’m used to guys pushing their luck for free beer until I walk out of earshot. Perhaps, I thought, he was trying to buddy-buddy his way into my beer tickle trunk.

B- “Well. . . . I grew up in a pretty small town in Southwestern Ontario that wasn’t renowned for its liberal ideas.”
O- “Then come on over! I’ve got a xeroxed page of nigger jokes and redneck jokes for ya! You’ll love’em!”

Then he started to laugh, either because he was thinking fondly of the jokes on the page, or because the barium discharged from the local coal mines into the water had driven him insane. I half-heartedly laughed and told him that my boss would kill me if I sat around looking at jokes all day.

Inside the sales call went smooth as could be expected for a place that serves primarily the OV crowd. But I wasn’t getting out the door without another close encounter with the locals. . . this time, in the washroom.

To say that this washroom was the size of your average phone booth, outfitted with a sink, two urinals, and a toilet, would not evoke the aroma; for that, I would have to say, “The washroom was no bigger than a phone booth that, on thursday nights, doubled as a change room for the local Junior D hockey team”.

As I bellied up to the urinal and let loose the fluid cargo three coffees and a 90 minute drive had amassed, I no sooner wondered what it would be like if someone else were to join me in the pause that refreshes (as my father used to say) when I had my answer. One of the 7 locals on hand decided (likely knowing the size of the facility) that he could wait for relief no longer and joined the ‘outsider’ for a whizz. Either that, or he wanted to make sure I wasn’t stealing the shit tickets and climbing out the window without reading some nigger jokes and bidding adieu.

This fellow pee-er cozied up next to me. From behind, we must have looked like two sardines sitting in a tin, dressed for Halloween as those great monsters: Humans!

I have to say–and I preface this with the comment that I’m neither a homophobe, nor too queasy about my personal space–that having my arm pressed up against another man while taking a pee–indeed, having his zipping and own wiener-handling motions set my own urine steam all aflutter, is unsettling.

And then we started to talk.

P- “Well! Snow’s a coming!”
B- “So I’ve been told by the weather man. . . but he’s been known to lie like a rug.”
P- “Har har! Ain’t that the truth! . . . . For Sale!”

With this abrupt change in subject, I felt suddenly even more ill-at-ease. What on Earth could he possibly be selling to another man (whom he is touching) while stood at the urinal, both with bishops in hand.

P- “. . . . Last Chance Saloon. Real Estate ad over the pisser! Maybe I’ll buy if I have another couple! Har har har!”
B- “Har har har!”

I tried to put myself away with as little motion as possible, not wanting the close-quarters and interference to cause my shoe to become the surrogate for his urinal. . . put the next challenge presented itself immediately. The sink was directly–and I mean DIRECTLY–beside the other urinal. . . basically at the right height to wash this other gent’s balls in. I contemplated not washing my hands; but as a salesman of a type of food product, I felt this would set a bad example for Good Beer Folks attention to quality. Not that hands covered in ball sweat and a mist of urine would cause listeria; but still, not a positive thing.

Placing my hands beneath the tap, I calculated that they were now, roughly, 20 cms away from this other man’s penis. Again–no disrespect to those who enjoy having their hands in this kind of proximity to another man’s fleshy wand–but I didn’t even know his name. A quick rinse was all they got–a “Fine afternoon!” was issued to my bathroom buddy–and I was away. Vaulted through the “dining room” and safely to my vehicle without reading the xerox of jokes, giving away any free beer (save the samples to the Innkeeper), and successfully avoiding touching another man’s saber of love. My trip to Wayne, at a paltry 20 minutes, had been eventful.

Now, whenever I pee, I am overwhelmed with lonesomeness.

While this question may have been relevant prior to my 19th birthday, those happy carefree days and drunken nights as “R.W. Munchkin” have long since passed. Now when I’ve bought and drank in excess of my need, I have only “B. Goddard” to blame.

Now, if Marty McFly was an RBC customer. . . there could be an interesting conversation.
“Current date of birth? Uh. . . negative 46″.