From A to B

My darling–the love of my life–Betty (the 1968 Chevy truck I drive) required a spa day a couple of days ago because her front tire was going to fall off.

No kidding.

While waiting at Stampede Pontiac GMC I found myself wandering the halls while the mechanics counted how many nuts and bolts she had discarded on the highways and biways of Alberta, and I happened to make a fast friend in one of their self-described “crack salesmen”. The way he was behaving, I first thought he meant crack cocaine; he actually meant crack in terms more akin to the A-Team–a crack squad–successful, without rules.

I hate talking to salesmen who fly into their automated pitch, and this guy was at full boil when I turned him to simmer by saying:

B- “Hey, pal, I drive a 1968 Chev truck, everyday. You haven’t got one thing on this whole lot half as cool as that–so I think I’ll likely stick with what I got.”

In the background, I was sure I heard Betty’s anti-sway bar drop to the floor with a clangclangclang.

So instead, this young man decided to give me an education on the ins-and-outs of car sales. To him, all customers in Calgary who were over 50 fell into one of three categories: those who listen to Neil Diamond; those who listen to Kenny Rogers; and those who listen to Johnny Cash. He told me that if he could figure out which one they preferred, he could sell them a car. I then got tricky and asked him:

B- “What if they like all three? What do you sell them then?”
S- “. . . I just have to figure out if they like one of them.”
B- “. . . oh. . . you can likely tell if some old gal’s into Neil Diamond if her panties are hanging on the rearview mirror. Ha ha ha!”
S- “Yeah. It’s a bit harder then that.”
B- “. . . ha ha. . . I. . . was mostly kidding.”

This near-humourless dude then went on to describe the nuances of two different Slayer concerts he went to 20 years apart. How did he get into this conversation?

S- “You look like a guy whose into metal! You like Slayer?”

No shit–I was in a cardigan. I had a feeling that anyone under 50 fell into one of three categories for him: those who listen to Aerosmith; those who listen to Debbie Gibson; and those who listened to Slayer. For some reason, he took me to be the latter.

My dear brother C was kind enough to relay a story he knew I would love, for I have a well-known penchant for stories that involve electro-muscular disruption–but I’m getting ahead of myself!

Beer shows, as we have all learned on this very blog, accentuate both the positive and negative in all God’s creatures; which side you fall on depends largely on how big a douchebag you are in real life. Some folks aren’t douchebags atall–they are the jolly drunks I would let my mother meet; some folks are aleady kind of douchey, and it’s these particular individuals that should avoid beer shows if they can–for once they fill themselves to their gills, they become precisely the kind of douchebag that starts ‘cruising for a bruising’. And, in some cases, ‘cruising for a non-lethal transmission of powerful electrical pulses’–but I’m getting ahead of myself again!

One of our dear good beer folks, who happens to be a girl, could likely–in a police line-up–point out two such douchebags who were paying customers in a recent beer show; and she would likely tell you that they had a lot to say about her appearance, and none of it would appear in a Jane Austin novel. No–she would likely tell you that these guys spoke like Penthouse letters reads–and she wasn’t particularly enjoying their descriptive brand of conversation. So my dear brother, another good beer folk, brought them to the attention of festival security, and the Police (who are never far away during beer shows).

To make a long story short, they were escorted out; but not before registering their indignation. When one needed to retrieve his jacket from within the show’s gates, the police were momentarily separated, and it’s the choices our douchebags made at this vital juncture that would truly elevate them from small d douchebags, to Douchebags.

Douchebag #1 (D1) began making certain inappropriate overtures to the female cop left to babysit him. They were in poor enough taste that D1 was told to keep his opinions and sexual position suggestions to himself, lest he get a snoot full of pepper spray. A small d douchebag would have shut his trap; a Douchebag would have taken that as an invitation.
Gentle readers, you are a clever and gifted lot, and have all likely skipped ahead to what is surely the inevitable RSVP to the perceived “invitation” (for, let’s face it, I rarely tell happy bedtime stories on this blog)–but! the story will get much better.

So D1 gets the spray.

D1- (to the lady officer) “I eat that shit for breakfast!”
LO- (removes her night stick, extends it with a flick of her wrist, and issues a blow to the head)
D1- “I love the rough stuff! Do it again!!”
LO- (removes her tazer from it’s resting place, makes sure her aim is true, and discharges the non-leathal weapon)
D1- (falls to the ground and promptly pisses his pants)

It was at this moment–as if things could possibly get any better!–that D2 arrives with his jacket to find D1 twitching in a puddle of his own effluence. The spectacle is more poetically described on the website of a manufacturer of tazers as an exhibition of a tool “specifically designed to stop even the most elite, aggressive, focused combatants. Rather than simply interfering with communication between the brain and muscles, the (tazer directly tells) the muscles what to do: contract until the target is in the fetal position on the ground”. I think using the words “elite. . . combatant” is a bit of hyperbole, but it does sound exciting.

What D2 found attractive about D1′s circumstance is left for the judge to discover in the pending criminal trial; but I doubt D2 enjoyed falling into “the fetal position on the ground” in a puddle of his collected beer samples. What I do know, is that I enjoyed telling you about it.

As part of my swinging bachelor routine, I go out to bars, restaurants, and cultural functions by myself. This is generally regarded by folks at bars, restaurants, and cultural functions as sad and pathetic. I can see it in their eyes.

Last week I attended a swank art auction at arts central in town here to raise money for ACAD. I was wearing the same outfit I would eventually wear two nights later at another art auction–but in a different city–because I liked the way it made me feel. People really love the jacket. It’s what I imagine having really great fake tits feels like! Everyone’s eyes on it–twinkling with wonder and amazement–and fleeting flashes of jealousy! I digress. . .

Ah yes–I was decked out in my yellow and black thatched pattern jacket, a bowtie, and some nice Converse high tops–very daper! And I was trying, with all my heart, not to look: 1) bored; 2) lonesome; and 3) sad and pathetic. It’s not easy–but this amazing jacket helps.

So after about an hour of standing in one spot nursing a glass of wine, this guy walks up to me and says:

G- “Are you art?”

I mistook this to be a really awful pick-up line. Really awful.

B- “Well–hah–my mother thinks so! Ha ha ha!”
G- “So. . . you’re not one of the auction pieces? Are you some installation art?”
B- (cluing in)”Ah. No. No–I just dress like this for the attention.”
G- “Oh. Sorry. I just–we thought because you hadn’t moved from that spot for the last hour that you were art.”
B- “No. Just too lazy to move. Ha ha ha.”

He walked away. I tried to resist the urge to move–even just a little–for fear of looking guilty of standing in one spot too long and being called on it.
I was eventually asked to move by the event organiser who gave my spot to the auctioneer–whose jacket, incidentally, wasn’t as nice–and his bowtie wasn’t hand tied. Looking at my replacement, I felt an arrogant superiority: no one would mistake him for art.

I have a blazer that is particularly striking. Given to me at the end of my tenure at the University of Waterloo’s Theatre department, I had a lot of sentimental attachment to it. It still features a cuff button I broke in a production of “Taming of the Shrew”. I love it. Our Wardrobe Mistress, whom I always had a crush on, was kind enough to give it to my upon my departure from the department.

It’s yellow and blue thatch pattern, with a fox hunting motif on the liner. No kidding. And tonight, with my black slacks and tie-your-own black bowtie, I owned the city’s fashion scene.

And of the legion of compliments I have received over the years (because when I wear it out and about, I wear it–it does not wear me) I received the finest one this evening in the Edmonton Coast Plaza Hotel’s lift. Three girls, returning from the bar, shared the elevator with me–and once the doors closed, one of them got up the courage to comment:

A- “That’s a sweet suit, man!”
B- “Thanks.”
A- (busting out a rhyme) “That ain’t a suit, it’s a goddamn warhead! It’s spittin’ nukes like American war dead!”

I thanked her and departed–I was only on the 6th floor, and we got on at the Lobby; however, I was pretty impressed what she was busting out. I like the idea of thinking of my blazer as a warhead.

I’ve been displeased with Ma Bell recently. I live in Calgary, on the top of a hill, and yet for the first time ever, I’m getting a ton of dropped calls.

I used to laugh at the commercials touting “Fewest dropped calls!”–”Who are they kidding!?” I would scoff, “No one has dropped calls!” That was when I lived in Toronto, where I’m told Lucille Ball once picked up radio signals in her fillings.

Calgary–dropped calls.

Finally, at my wits end (and more than a little humbled by my once cavalier attitude towards the subject), I picked up the phone and called Bell. It didn’t take long for things to hit a stand still.

For the sake of this conversation, I shall remain B (it’s my blog); Bell will be Z.

Z- “Have you tried standing by a window?”
B- “My entire house is windows. I have to wear pants ALL THE TIME I have so many windows.”
Z- “. . . well, we don’t guarantee reception in your house.”
B- “I never used to have this problem elsewhere.”
Z- “Where else have you used Bell’s services.”
B- “Toronto.”
Z- “Well–that’s Toronto. It’s a big network.”
B- “No wonder people hate Toronto.”
Z- “. . . “
B- “Because it gets all the good stuff, eh?”
Z- “. . . “
B- “So how come my pal, whose on the Rogers network, gets 5 bars in my house, and I get one?”
Z- “I don’t know. We don’t guarantee signal in your house.”
B- “Is that what you tell businesses who are considering your services? That you don’t guarantee reception in offices–so maybe/maybe not folks will get their calls?”
Z- “No.”
B- “So–what? Should I just go sit on a tack?”

I always ask customer service reps, when things aren’t going my way, if they’d like me to go sit on a tack. It’s a habit I’ve picked up, and it beats telling them to “Go take a long jog off a short pier!”–only, I would use more swears.

Z- “No. I’m sorry, sir, but I can file a report. . . “
B- “Where’s the nearest relay tower–or whatever you guys call it.”
Z- “I can’t tell you.”
B- “It’s a secret?”
Z- “It’s–”
B- “It’s a big tower–it ain’t much of a secret!”
Z- “I can’t tell you because–while you may not go and vandalize the tower–others might.”
B- “What might they do? It’s a great big bloody tower?”
Z- “It’s not information we give out for security reasons.”

Since 9/11, every single mother-loving Corporation boils anything they don’t want to tell you down to “security issues”. My comeback?

B- “What? Would I go toilet paper your tower? What could someone possibly do to your tower?”
Z- “It’s our policy, sir.”
B- “I mean, how mad have people gotten at you guys in the past that you now classify your towers as confidential? They’re great bloody huge towers! With lights on them! Usually sitting at the highest points in town!”
Z- “It’s policy. I will file a report, but there’s nothing we can do–we do not guarantee signal in your home.”
B- “This is a crock.”
Z- “Are you calling me from inside your house right now?”
B- “Yes.”
Z- “Has you phone dropped the call while we’ve been talking?”
B- “It just did, smart ass.”

And with that less-than-clever reversal of his little nipple tweak, I hung up.

Next time Bell calls me asking for something, I’m going to tell them that “due to security issues” I can’t speak to them at that time. Then I’m going to say, “Wait–how did you get my number?!” and pitch a real big fit.

In my old age have I begun to take for granted the leisure of making out in my own home? Forgotten how my spine would tingle at the sound of footsteps heading towards the basement stairs? Or the blind fumbling in movie theatres?

Apparently I have, because tonight with legs and heads rolling across the screen during the late night screening of “300″, I could only look upon the mass of horny Edmontonian teenagers with mild revulsion as they pulled at each other’s laps. Despite the nudity, and the sweaty, heaving bodies of Sparta’s finest–not even a tingle did I feel. Not a twitch. Only sadness that this is what teens are forced to resort to; and all the while, with an armrest between themselves and their beloved.

Are you there God? It’s me, B.
Could you please send Edmonton a boring romantic comedy?
Maybe something by Penny Marshall?

I make a yearly pilgrimage to whichever local rep cinema is playing the “World’s Best Commercials”–and have since University. But the quality of this programme has steadily declined over the past few years, making it nearly on par with what I see in between snippets of “America’s Next Top Model”–so I don’t know why I continue going.

Yesterday, I fulfilled my yearly obligation and took in the Commercials during a matinee at The Plaza here in Calgary. Little did I know, it is the one show in a rep cinema that parents drag their children to, I suppose in some misguided attempt to reclaim the cool their children robbed from them at birth. To any parents reading this thinking that it’s great to take their children to see commercials (mostly in other languages) may I make a suggestion? Don’t.

A family chose to sit directly behind me in what was a half-full theatre, then proceed to have a hushed discussion about whether it was okay to consume “outside food and drink”; one of the young, moralistic daughters had read a sign upon entry stating that such behaviour was verbotten–and now it lay on dear ol’ Dad’s shoulders to tippy-toe around why it’s alright to break some rules (which I desperately hope will come back to haunt him in a few years when the virginal daughters want to stay out past curfew with “a friend”).

Before the show, Dad used a joke he clearly prepared beforehand for the occasion. One of his daughters asked him some question and he answered:

P- “Ancient Chinese secret. Har har har!”

He thought it was a doozie.
No one else got it–so he finally had to explain that it was a line from an old Tide commercial where a customer asks a lady at a Chinese laundry how they get the whites so white, to which the lady responded “Ancient Chinese secret”. The daughter still didn’t get it because she didn’t know what Tide was–which he explained was “like Clorox bleach”. Which it isn’t. The Mom corrected him by saying, “It’s not like Clorox, it’s like Cheer.” The daughter didn’t know what Cheer was either.

M- “Tide’s in an orange bottle.”

Holy friholy–I was about to explode. I desperately wanted to turn around and say, “It’s laundry soap. Tide and Cheer are laundry soaps–so they’re like laundry soap. That’s the answer to your daughter’s question!”

Dad’s crummy joke was dragged out with a 5 minute explanation and by the end, the joke well and truly overplayed, and the daughter none the wiser because Mom and Dad are idiots.

As the lights dimmed, questions began pouring out of one of their daughters like Grandpa’s flatulence.
D- “Where’s this from? What’s it about? Is it a car commercial?”

It didn’t end. Fresh questions every 30 seconds–with mom reading subtitles and country names–in fact, reading aloud any printing that appeared on the screen.

The questions were painfully stupid. With a giant product shot on the screen of a Sony Handicam, the daughter actually asked:

D- “What’s this commercial about?”
M- “Sony Handicams.”

Yeah–no kidding. The whole screen is taken up with a Sony Handicam–why didn’t Mom let her daughter solve that mystery alone? Exercise her critical thought processes a bit. I mean, unless the kid was blind, describing precisely what is on a one storey screen isn’t going to help cure the kid of her case of the stupids.

There was a particularly abstract Pirelli Tires commercial done all in Italian, featuring John Malkovich as a preist and Naomi Campbell as a Hellspawn that provided a challenge for Mom because she was no farther ahead than the rest of the audience in understanding what the Sam Hill was going on.

There was one short reprieve from the questions when, during a commercial featuring a Transvestite prostitute (one of the funniest in the reel), the obvious question came up:

D- “I don’t get it.”
(pause)
M- “I’ll explain it to you later.”

Fat chance, kid. That’s the #1 parental avoidance technique in the book.

Just thinking about this matinee has exhausted me. It took all of the patience I could muster from my years as an Anglican Altar boy to not turn around and say, “Jiminy Cricket! Will you shut your gosh dang mouth?!”

I recently rode the bobsled at Calgary Olympic Park.
The ride lasted 59 seconds, and we reached speeds upwards of 123.4 km/h.
According to my calculations the experience cost roughly $2/second; at that rate, it would have been cheaper for me to go to a hooker.

ooooooh! Did I just zing myself?
Snap.

I wouldn’t say that I’m generally what people would describe as the “suspicious type”. I have have the same boyish charm that I did in Grade 5, the same dopey eyes, the same crooked little smile–hell, I still get my hair cut in the school boy style (parted to the right). In fact, about the only thing that garners suspicion are my bowties, and it’s always from members of the opposite sex, who look on wearily as if I may try to convert them to Mormonism.

Even my lime green pickup truck Betty, a classic ’68 “Vanity Model” Chevy, attracts nothing by adoration.

Yet today, there was something about B that made the long arm of the law put on his leather gloves and approach me with caution in a parking lot. I should say “long arms”, as there was a pair of Smokies giving me the 20 questions treatment.

I had thought nothing of the Cowtown Police paddy wagon driving the wrong way down a one way street behind The Palomino; the cops rarely observe traffic laws, and I didn’t figure that they would pick today to start–it was cold out. I was toasty warm in my pheasant hunting curling sweater, a nice burgundy paisley bowtie, Arnold Palmer cardigan, light brown fedora, and sharp dark brown slacks. I felt like my mother’s pride and joy on two legs! But that inflated opinion of myself would spring a leak when I noticed the coppers from the paddy wagon milling around Betty’s nose. As I strolled over to put my parking chit in the windscreen, the one po-po startled back into the other, and things took an unfamiliar turn:

PP- “This your vehicle?”
B- (tipping my hat back)”Sure is! What a beauty, eh?”
PP- “Over the last 40 minutes I have observed you at three different locations around the city. Once at 14th and 11th. . .”
B- “Well, I actually saw you guys at 10th and 12th earlier, if that’s what you were driving about 40 minutes ago.”
PP- “Yes. And I am curious as to what you’re up to.”

“. . .what you’re up to?” Is that real copspeak?

B- “I’m a beer salesman for Steam Whistle Brewing.”
PP- “Is that your homebrew?”
B- (I tried not to get snippy)”No. It’s certainly no homebrew. We brew a pilsner beer in a National Historic Site at the base of the CN Tower–”
PP- “Yes–”
B- “Our brewmaster is from Pilsner Urquell, the original home of the style–”
PP- “Yes–fine. So what are you doing?”
B- “Well. . . typical salesman type things. I drive around to retailers and licensees. . .”
PP- “Yes–Is it typical for you to make so many stops?”
B- “. . . yes. I’m the only guy for the entire province, so I’ve got to keep moving.”
PP- “I see.”
B- “Can you call my boss and tell him that you’ve seen me all over town; he’d be awful pleased to hear that I’m working so hard.”
PP- “Thank you.”
B- “. . . keeping warm?”
PP- “Yes. Thank you.”

Jumpin’ Jeepers! What kind of crime spree would I be able to fashion in a bright green pickup truck while wearing a bowtie? I don’t mean to flatter myself, but I have a university education: if I was going to go on a bloody rampage, I wouldn’t wear a silk bowtie.

There is an instant camaraderie people feel with me because, well, for two reasons I think: I drive a classic Chevy pick-up truck (affectionately named Betty after a much-adored brewer back home) which is bright green–so it’s cheery; and I wear a lot of bowties (so I look completely harmless).

This camaraderie means that, over time, I’ve developed a casual relationship with all the vagabonds downtown.

It’s tough to fly below the radar in a bright green truck.

One of the kindest of them all, Gummy Pete, keeps me updated on his continuing battle with certain injectable unpleasantness. But like all relationships, there is still so much that i don’t know about him!

Thankfully, during this -30 degree weather, we had a chance to catch up. Outside.

After the obligatory update on his progress with vice (I get to see his arms as Exhibit A and B) I learned that Gummy Pete worked the carnival circuit with his parents for some 10 years or so (favourite ride: The Scrambler; favourite food: corn dogs; favourite game: none, they’re all fucking scams).

He then asked me for whatever I could spare.
It just so happened that I had a big bag of Gummy Bears leftover in my truck to spare.

B- “How about these Gummy Bears?”
GP- “Uh. . . sure. I like sugar.”
B- “Then they’re yours! Are you going to be able to handle these little gummy buggers?”
GP- “?”
B- “Well. . . I mean, your smile has been brighter.”
GP- “Oh! The teeth? I’ll just keep working on them until I can swallow’em whole.”
B- “You sure? Don’t choke. I don’t want to get a knock on my door at 2am, the police looking grim, hauling me downtown to ask me when the last time was that i saw you.”
GP- “You won’t.”
B- “I’m serious. I don’t want to be an accessory to murder. I’d stand out like a sore thumb in a line-up with a bunch of Gummy Bears.”
GP- “That’s funny! Can you imagine? Getting put in a line-up like that? Har har har!”
B- “As a matter of fact I can.”
GP- “HAR HAR HAR!”
B- (looking grave, serious)
GP- “HAR HAR HAR! You’re a funny guy!”
B- “Thanks. You’re the only one who thinks so. That’s why I save all my best material for this parking lot.”
GP- “HAR HAR HAR HAR!”
B- “Pal–I have got to go. No offense–and I know this will make me sounds like a prick–but it’s pretty damn cold out here. I gotta go, or my yet-to-be-born kids will have blue toes.”
GP- “HAR HAR HAR HAR HAR HAR HAR!”
B- “Go out on top–Thank you, and have a good night!”

it wasn’t until I got in Betty that i realised I had used my sworn enemy: the ‘now don’t take this the wrong way’ cliche; however, for the first time in the history of the cliche, I don’t think that it was taken the wrong way. Why? Because I think he agreed with me: I DID sound a bit like a prick; and it was pretty cold.