Blithe Spirit

          I can’t wait!  The Calmar Prairie Players are having their final rehearsals before the big opening on May 6th.  Our small but vital volunteer theatre troupe annually presents a weekend of dinner theatre and this year’s performance will be more entertaining than anything discussed on Entertainment Tonight. (Not that I watch it, of course but Cupcake likes to keep up on important current events and Mary Hart’s practically impossible to completely shut out).
         The play is the classic ‘Blithe Spirit’ written by Noel Coward; a terrific mix of supernatural thriller and British comedy. Sort of like a cross between ‘Ghost Whisperer’ and “Fawlty Towers” only without the hotel or Jennifer Love Hewitt (Dang!).
         The plot involves a fictitious, wealthy writer named Charles Condomine, played brilliantly by East of 60 stalwart, Andy Toms and his incredibly believable English accent. (Okay, so he is actually British.)  In the play, Charles sets out to have a séance with his current wife, Ruth, (wickedly portrayed by Calmar school teacher Angie Podgurny) along with another couple, Dr. and Mrs. Bradman (Calmar newbie Mike Keindel and Prairie Player veteran Tammy Bateman portray the pair to a ‘T’) Charles needs background material for a book he is planning about a homicidal medium. The working title of his anticipated tome is ‘The Unseen’, although I think he would be better served by; ‘Small Medium At Large’.
         During the séance, however, the psychic they hired, a Madame Arcati, (hysterically brought to life by Calmar Dart League’s ace shooter, Cindy Thornton) accidently brings back the spirit of Charles’ first wife who died tragically seven years before. Paula Bancroft, who in real life is a nurse at the Devon Hospital, brings a seductive edge to the role of ghostly first wife, Elvira. Much hilarity ensues as Charles is the only one who can see or hear his ectoplasmic ex. Kelly Ainsworth rounds out the cast as the Condomine’s young maid, Edith, who is injured when Elvira tries to kill off Charles so they can be reunited in the hereafter.
         The cast is a mixture of seasoned vets and those who are, shall we say, more lightly seasoned. At least half of the cast had their first taste of thespianism in the Devon play ‘A Christmas Carol’ just this past December. Having had such success with their small roles in that East of 60 production, they were bitten by the acting bug so severely, they needed calamine lotion. The only real cure for them, however, was to audition for the Prairie Players in January.
         Little did they know that being part of a seven person play is VERY different than the 42 character classic they’d experienced previously. Role size in theatre is measured by the number of lines you’re entrusted with and that yuletide extravaganza had a bigger cast than King Kong with a broken leg. Even with multiple roles, there were very few lines to go around, other than for Scrooge himself. For example, in that production, I got to play Marley’s ghost, Old Joe the Pawnbroker, and the butcher that Scrooge sends for to deliver the prize turkey. My total line count was maybe 30. Contrast that with ‘Blithe Spirit’ where the lead characters have hundreds of lines and it becomes a whole different ball game. If nerves were curves, the cast of ‘Blithe Spirit’ would resemble Catherine Zeta Jones… except Andy and Mike. Not that they’re not nervous too but I just can’t picture them as ‘curvy’.
        That’s the joy, however, of community theatre. No matter how professional-looking our shows have been described as, the actors are just ordinary folk from the area that have decided to try on acting as a life’s adventure. They are farther out of their comfort zone than Dave Chappelle at a Ku Klux Klan convention.
         I could go on about their enthusiasm, creativity and talent, blah blah blah, and every word would be true, but the real reason these people have stuck with it is the same reason I became addicted. The creative outlet is nice and providing a little culture to the hinterland is arguably laudable, but the main reason we act is that it is simply a ton of fun. Our practises never cease to fill the cavernous Calmar Legion with the sounds of mirth. We clap for each other and support each other as we struggle with our roles that we are valiantly trying to learn. In that way, it is like slow-pitch or hockey or choir or any pursuit adults engage in to escape television and sameness in their lives. It is about being part of a team of friends achieving goals together and becoming greater than the sum of its parts. Except with acting, there’s way less running and skating.
         Co-directing this play, along with ‘But Why Bump Off Barnaby’ alumnus, Leah Keller, has been an interesting experience. I admit I miss being up on stage but it is fascinating watching the play develop like a Polaroid pic. Each nuance the actors bring to their role is like a new colour in a magnificent portrait. Sadly, even Leah and I have to wait until opening night to see the image completed. For tickets, call SS Office Services in Calmar; 780-985-3600.

Red Green Saves the Day

          Do you remember that part in the Tom Hanks movie ‘Apollo 13’ when the oxygen tank ruptured and the astronauts in the ill-fated craft were doomed if Houston Control couldn’t figure out a way to save them? Three engineers were shut in a room and had four hours to devise a solution using the available materials they knew were aboard the ship. Almost like a Hollywood movie, the creative engineers at the mission control center devised a plan to staunch the leak and ensure an adequate atmosphere for the ride home.
Well, guess what? Hold onto your hockey helmets, folks, I have some news that’s bigger than Chef Gordon Ramsey’s ego. (Okay, maybe not that big but still...) The momentous news is that the engineers who helped save the day were with the Canadian Space Agency; as Canuckish as Alberta beef smothered in poutine and Saskatoon pie with a side of mussels! The trio were recently being honoured by NASA at the 40th anniversary of the near-disaster in a ceremony at the Canadian Air and Space Museum in Toronto.  (There’s a Canadian Air and Space Museum in Toronto?)
Well, actually, the engineers, Bernard Etkin, Barry French and Philip Sullivan, weren’t exactly the engineers in the movie. They were, however, a vital resource for the experts at NASA and in constant communication with them from their offices at the University of Toronto. The northern-based brainiacs were given the task of calculating the various internal and external pressures that would be at work in the perilous re-entry. Apparently, these calculations were extremely complicated and if wrong, would have caused the spaceship to either be crushed like an empty beer can in a redneck’s hand or blown to bits like rocket-powered rollerskates from Wile E. Coyote’s Acme catalogue.
What was not reported by any known sources internationally, or at least any I happened to notice while trolling the news sites, was that a special envoy was procured by the Houston brass to act as a liaison; bridging the gap between the U of T eggheads and the team NASA had working on the problem.
In a Pipestone Flyer exclusive, which I received in a brown envelope slipped under the door of my palatial office in the Pipestone Flyer Building in downtown Millet, we get to learn the identity of that unsung hero.
This advisor is such a giant in the annals (Ha! I said “annals”) of Canadian icons he practically bleeds maple syrup. He was the ideal individual for the job as he is recognized across the land for his expertise in crisis management.  His half hour documentaries were a rarity, indeed; a Canadian TV show that was actually popular with Canadian viewers. For the first time ever published, here is a transcript of the conversation between those brilliant Canadian scientists and those frantically trying to save those brave space pioneers in the crippled craft as facilitated by the eminent expert brought in as their go-between.

Canadian Engineers: According to the calculations, we have arrived at a figure of 73995.922 X (83462355.4876345) + 82622793.09436636/837652580(-9372562.9653792).
Red Green: Now here’s what you want to do, fellas; get yourself a good, sturdy roll of duct tape and start wrapping that oxygen tank. It might take quite a few wraps but it’ll hold. I once used duct tape to attach the chassis onto the frame on a ’59 Pontiac. It lasted over three weeks!
Canadian Engineers: Make sure they factor in the equilibrium constant of 7820298.8375/456453792.9373. This will be critical in maintaining the constants required during the shifting external pressures.
Red Green: Okay so now, if it gets hard to breath, just poke a hole in the duct tape over the oxygen leak. Still not enough? Make the hole bigger. If you feel light headed, though, put another wrap or two over part of the hole. Try and avoid smoking while doing this.
NASA Emergency Team: It’s okay, we warned them if they want to light up they have to stand outside the vessel.
Red Green: Make sure they don’t just stand just inside with the door opened a crack. That oxygen stuff is dangerous.
NASA Emergency Team: That’s a big ten four, there, Red. Anything else we should know?
Red Green:  Just one more thing. The coefficient of the Manheim variable is 97653.86/513447.82256.
NASA Emergency Team: Oh thank you so much for saving the day!
Red Green: Well, if the women don’t find you handsome, they better find you handy!

In the end, the Apollo 13 crewmen made it safely back for a splashdown in the Pacific. (The Atlantic was booked that day apparently.) It was nice to see the incident had a Canadian angle to it, as well. All too often our efforts are overlooked on the world stage. It was nice to see these Canadian mathematicians honoured for their contribution. Funny that it took forty years to do it.
Just a note to readers, parts of the above may have been slightly fictionalized for dramatic effect.

Broadzilla Vs. Mothra!

       The other day I was busy lounging on our bed, watching Cupcake put away our newly washed wearables. I was resting up in case I was needed for more male-oriented activities such as puttering in the yard, operating power tools and, defending our home from foreign invaders and/or dangerous four-legged predators such as mice. I find the bed is an excellent vantage point in which to observe the end of the laundering process, including the long shrouded mystery of how to fold T-shirts properly. I've watched Cupcake fold clothing hundreds of times and am no closer to acquiring the fabric flattening facility than when I first took a slight interest. I'm so bad at it; it is the one job my wife won't let me do. Shucks.
        Nonetheless, as she reached toward a stack of towels to remove a bit of laundry lint, all of a sudden she was filled with terror. The piece of fluff she had grabbed at turned out to be a great, big, fat hairy moth. The poor little lepidoptera instantly realized the threat from the descending attack and launched itself into the air; zigzagging like a drunken motorist, right at Cupcake’s horrified face. She could not have looked more alarmed had it been a giant blood-sucking bat. The screaming was awful; eardrum piercing, shatter-cheap-crystal pitched, loud-enough-to-be-heard-in-a-nearby-galaxy-type screaming. To add to the spectacle, amid the shrill shrieks, she mangled her hairdo; slapping and clawing at her head.
        Being the kind, caring, loving husband that I am, I began to laugh so hard I almost fell off the bed. I really wanted to help her and hold her and tell her everything was all right but that look on her face was so priceless, I couldn’t contain my mirth. I hadn't seen that wild a look in her eye since that time a giant dust-bunny blew across the living room floor and she thought it was the vanguard of a rat infestation. Unfortunately, I soon found out that only being a caring and supportive husband on the inside was of no value. I discovered that, not only should I not have laughed, but I should have taken measures to make sure moths could not enter our home EVER and that the whole incident was my fault.
        "But sugar-lump," I said in astonishment, "you're the one who tried to catch him in the first place. If you'd just leave them alone, they will leave you alone. Oh yeah, that's bees, isn't it? But still, it's not like the moth was going to hurt you. They don't bite, you know. They have no stinger or teeth. They just barf on fabric to dissolve it then suck up the pre-digested mush. You don’t need teeth for that."
        "I know moths don't sting," she raged, "but I'll have you know they lay eggs in your hair. And for your information, I wasn't trying to catch it. I thought I was picking up a piece of *&^% fluff."
        I was shocked by her vocabulary as she usually saves that sort of language for bingo. I thought it best if I tried to lighten her mood with jocularity.
        "Oh right," I laughed. "That’s a pretty tough environment to lay eggs in with all that yelling and hollering and whacking your head. Momma moth would have had to be pretty quick on her feet."
         My attempt at humour was not warmly welcomed. Her eyes appeared murderous. She spat her answer through clenched teeth.
         "It's not just the eggs but they leave that disgusting moth dust everywhere. If you were any kind of man you would have killed it instead of rolling on the floor laughing your fool head off."
         I sighed and apologised for not coming to her rescue. I knew I had been a bad boy. There is something about moths that a lot of women have feelings for that mere hatred doesn’t come close to describing. As soon as a moth comes anywhere near the average female, their first reaction is to utter shrill shrieks and begin slapping themselves upside the head. I find it odd that so many ladies take great pains to put highlights in their hair knowing full well moths are attracted to light.
         "Jeepers," I shook my head. "You should have seen how you carried on. What would you do if you were confronted with something really terrible?"
         “You mean, like your attitude?” she bit back.
         “Seriously, hon,” I tried to deflect her anger with a philosophical query. “If that is the reaction you give for something non-life threatening, how would you respond to a real danger?”
         "I guess we’ll never know until it happens,” she responded grimly. “One thing I do know is that I wouldn’t be able to count on you to save me. You couldn’t even rescue me from a moth. Now get up and shut the light off on your way out. I’m having a nap. Alone. And just so you know, I will still have this tension headache tonight.” As I glumly complied, it occurred to me that moths are a lot more dangerous than I thought.

April Awareness!

The April winds are magical, And thrill our tuneful frames; The garden-walks are passional To bachelors and dames. – Ralph Waldo Emerson


         Ahhhhh.... April. A month so vibrant and dynamic, it’s fresher than freshly squeezed milk. It is 31 days that promise warm afternoons to come and yet with the threat of the cold and snow recently passed. It is so sweet and delightful; some people even name their precious daughters after it. After all, you never hear of anyone naming their female offspring “February”, although heaven knows some women are frosty enough. (Present company excepted.)
         Most months are named after Roman gods; January, for example, was named for Janus, the god of gates and doorways and beginnings and endings. (Man, them Romans had a god for everything!), April, on the other hand has a much different lineage. It is named after Belleville, Ontario singing sensation Avril Lavigne who wowed the calendar decider committee with a stripped down, acoustic version of ‘Sk8ter Boi’.
         April has a lot going for it. It starts off with April Fool’s Day which is a quirky celebration of lame gags and impractical jokes. I only ever played one April Fools gag on Cupcake. It was early one April One and I woke Cupcake urgently.
         “I heard something in the porch,” I whispered hoarsely.
         “Well, go see what it is,” Cupcake mumbled, still half asleep, rising to the bait.
         “Stay here,” I said ominously. “Just in case.”
           I got out to the dining room and made scuffling noises. I then rapped an aluminum pot on the top of a chair making a tremendous “BONG!” sound.
           I dumped some ketchup on my head and laid down in an awkward position for effect and waited for Cupcake to find “the body”.
           And waited. And waited. Apparently she had fallen back to sleep. Finally, however, I could hear footfalls in the hall. Despite my aching body from my cramped position, I was pumped. This was going to be great!
           “Are you wasting ketchup again?” she inquired nonchalantly. “I’ll have to start buying the bigger bottles.” All fooling aside, the following day is also very important to me as it is the birthday of my dear, sweet, saintly Mom. The family just celebrated her 88th birthday with her and she is as quick witted and cheery as ever. She does appear to be shrinking, however. I remember how tall she seemed when I was a young lad. I suspect in a few years, we will have to be careful not to lose her in plush carpets.
           The next big deal in April is Cinco de Mayo or something like. I believe it is a Mexican mayonnaise festival of some sort. It’s very like Robbie Burns Day where we act Scottish and eat haggis and toss kaybers, or Saint Patrick’s Day where we do leprechaun impressions and chew Guinness stout and be Irish for a day. I notice there is no special day for the Dutch, however. (Sorry, Ted.)
          Next comes Easter, which is rather early this year. It is one of the few holidays that moves around the calendar. The timing is based on full moons, or first frosts or some other arcane method. I phoned to ask the experts how it was derived and was told there are only four people on the planet that know and if they told me, they would have to kill me. I do enjoy Easter, however. It is wonderful to observe the sacrifice of the Messiah by eating chocolate until my face has more pimples than a tweenager  in the throes of puberty.
          April is not just abounding in special, individual days; there are a wide variety of special interest groups that have claimed April as their own. For example, April is National Welding Month, Child Abuse Awareness Month, International Guitar Month, Alcohol Awareness Month (like we need a special month to be aware of alcohol) and African American Women’s Fitness Month. Those are just the tip of the iceberg. There are more groups hijacking April for their own purposes than Gillette has blades in a Mach V warehouse. It is so glutted with awareness campaigns that nobody is aware of anything. Most people aren’t even aware they were supposed to be aware and think April is just April. The fools. This must be agonizing for groups such as the National Anxiety Month people. (I did not make any of these up, by the way.) April is a month of firsts; the first dandelion, the first bit of greenery, the first firepit. But sadly it is also the end of some things. Some very fine things. There is one thing in particular I’ll miss with the appearance of April that is good and true and fine. For April brings the end to the dart season WAAAAAAAAHHHH!


 When March goes on forever and April twice as long who gives a damn if spring has come as long as winter’s gone.-   R. L. Ruzicka   

A Brilliant Plan

         Stupidity is rampant. We see it in governments, in boardrooms and sometimes, it can even creep into our own lives. Case in point; I had a problem. It wasn’t a major problem. After all, how serious can a problem be if it concerns ketchup? (That’s ketchup, by the way, not ‘catsup’. Catsup sounds like something your feline does on the rug after eating lawn grass.)
          The situation was that Cupcake had bought the ‘family-sized’ bottle of ketchup which would only be suitable if it was, say that Octomom’s family.  Being darned near the size of a water cooler bottle, this ketchup had been in our family for a while already and most of the contents had already been freed from its squirtable plastic prison. The remainder, about a quarter cup at the bottom of the vessel, proved as unyielding as Cupcake is after I’ve had a particularly good time at darts.
           Since I’m an ideas man at heart, I immediately set the thinking part of my mind (both brain cells) to solving the problem of the stubborn sauce. I considered heating the bottle under the hot water tap to make the sugars flow more freely but didn’t want to waste water, particularly water I’d paid to heat. It also occurred to me to add some water to thin it out somewhat but recalled vividly how gross it was when Mom would do that to our ketchup as a kid. I knew thumping the bottle on the counter upside down would probably have worked but the noise would have woken Cupcake who was snoozing on the recliner and would have been irked to be disturbed from her much needed beauty sleep over a condiment.
            Suddenly, I had a spectacularly brilliant plan that was efficient, effective and silent. I had hit upon a strategy using principals of Newtonian physics to overcome my obstinate obstacle. I realized by holding the bottom of the bottle and whirling my arm in a windmill fashion, centrifugal force would cause my heart’s desire to rush to the top making itself available for my fried egg sandwich. What could possibly go wrong?
            I pushed the lid down firmly on the cap and held the bottle as I’d planned. I had a good grip on the container to make sure it didn’t fly out of my hand and become an air-borne crimson-filled missile.I scanned the kitchen looking for a suitable place to test my human centrifuge idea, studiously avoiding the ceiling fan to prevent any unfortunate collisions. Then came the wind up.
            I rotated my arm so fast I could feel the blood pooling in my fingers. Sensing the bottle loosen in my grasp, I squeezed a little harder. Suddenly, the cap flew open and instantly, I had drawn a ketchup-red line in a perfect circle across the ceiling, down the walls and fridge, bisecting the floor. Actually, there was about a circle and a half as it took me a second to realize what was happening
           “Darnheckratsshootsonofabiscuiteater!!!!!!!!!” I let loose a verbal volley at my folly. Actually, the real quote would have made George Carlin blush but it is, after all, a family paper.“Huh? Wha...??” Cupcake snorted.
            She’s awake! I chided myself for my ill-timed outburst. A bolt of fear ran through my body at the prospect of her witnessing the fresh results of my lapse in judgement. I scuttled over to her and gently tucked the blanket around her and kissed her forehead.
“Everything’s fine.... enjoy your nap...” I breathed into her ear.
            She gave an unintelligible response and began to softly snore once more.
            I hustled back to the kitchen to survey the damage. The ceiling would be the hardest job, I realized, so I started on the walls and fridge. I worked quickly and quietly sponging and expunging my misdeed from the scene of the crime.
            The ceiling proved to be more challenging than watching poker on TV without falling asleep. Curse you, stippled finish, I raged silently.  Never again! When the task was finally complete, I checked out my handiwork. My heart plummeted faster than Rita MacNeil on a luge. As I gazed up at the ceiling I could see a broad clean swath across the ceiling.  Cursing ketchup, Mr. Clean and the situation in general, I slowly, resignedly gathered up the toteful of cleaning supplies and began to wash the rest of the ceiling. “What are you doing?” Cupcake’s voice froze me in my tracks. I hadn’t heard her arise from the recliner. I must be slipping, I thought to myself ruefully.
           “I’m.... uh.... uh....”
           “You never could lie well,” she crossed her arms. “Now tell me what happened.”
           In a few short, painful sentences, I explained my flash of brilliance. Cupcake was unimpressed although amused.“As long as you clean up after yourself, I don’t care what kind of idiocy you get up to,” she giggled.  “Nice job on the ceiling, by the way.”
           So you see, stupidity is everywhere, no matter how smart we may think we are. But one stupid act doth not a stupid person make.
Cupcake, however, would disagree.