Someones Watching

       Have you ever been in a room in your house all by yourself and yet, not feel alone? You are suddenly alerted, by who knows what sense, that somehow there’s some other entity in the area and its eyes are on you. The hair on the back of your neck starts to stick up like someone’s duct-taped an icicle to your spine and you look around but there’s no one there.
        Usually I chalk it up to Cupcake spying on me but when I know she’s in bed fast asleep (no doubt halfway through yet another whodunit she’ll never figure out) the sensation is unsettling to say the least. It’s not just me that has sensed this... presence in our house. Our boys have told us over the course of their lives about strange experiences, sounds and sensations they claim to have witnessed. We always did the “good parent” thing and told them it was their imaginations and they better quit stalling and go to sleep or it could go badly for their video game allotment. It shut them up at the time (a skill I have long lost) but to this day they are absolutely convinced there is, well, something, but they’re not sure what, in the house.
        Even staunch Cupcake, who’s only succumbed to nonsense once in her life (the day she agreed to marry me) and is stupendously unshakeable (unless mice are involved), has had odd experiences. When asked if she had ever noticed anything out of the ordinary, she admitted to hearing some weird, inexplicable sounds when she has been sitting home by herself (since I never take her anywhere, she had to add).“Swear you won’t tell anyone,” she confided, “because they would think I was crazy. (I bit my tongue on the crazy line... too easy.) “Shortly after our black lab, KC passed away, I am certain I heard the sounds of a dog eating from KC’s metal bowl. I turned around to where the metal bowl used to sit but I didn’t see anything that could have made that particular noise. Still, I heard it clear as a bell.”
        A chill coursed through my body as if a parade had just walked over my grave.
        “The exact same thing happened to me!” I told her, my heart pounding like the stereo of a teenager’s muscle-car. “I’m not kidding! It was exactly as you described!” We both executed a creepy-feeling shoulder twinge simultaneously.
        It’s not just weird noises, either. Things go missing in our house with alarming regularity. Sure, we share our house with two sons that couldn’t remember where they put something down to save their souls. “Nope, never seen it,” they say. “Uh huh”, I think to myself.
        Still, that doesn’t explain every incident. About a week ago I was up for work early. I was the only awake person in the house. I looked for my daily pill holder thingy where I keep it on the vanity in the bathroom. It was nowhere in sight. I searched high and low. Finally, I gave up and jumped in the shower. As soon as I emerged from the plastic curtained cabinet, my eyes immediately alighted on my pill container sitting exactly where I’d left it, on the vanity the day before.
        When I relayed the event to Cupcake, I was surprised that she wasn’t.
        “Stuff like that happens all the time to me,” she admitted airily. “It doesn’t seem particularly malevolent. What’s the big deal?”
        “Well, I get creeped out when I’m on the computer and I feel as if someone has just blown air from their lips onto the back of my head but there’s no one else in the room.” I answered, watching closely to see if she was taking me seriously, a rare event.
        “I agree, that would be a bit unsettling, but, really, what can we do about it?” she pointed out matter-of-factly. “We don’t know what “it” is. Practically everything that has ever happened can be explained away. You can’t explain a gut feeling and you can’t deny it’s there but it makes for lousy evidence to take to the authorities, whatever authorities might actually take us seriously. At most we could phone one of those stupid cable “Ghost Hunter”-type shows but what would that accomplish except to make us the laughingstocks of Calmar?”
        “Okay, fair enough,” I conceded, “there is little we can do. So what do you think it is?”
        “I’m not sure,” Cupcake looked off reflectively. “Many possibilities come to mind. It could be a person who is caught in some kind of temporal shift or alternate universe. It might be an unseen observer from another planet who does things to see our reaction. It could be all kinds of things, really.”
         “I notice you didn’t suggest it might be a ghost,” I prodded.
         “Oh don’t be silly,” she chuckled mysteriously, “You’d have to be crazy to believe in ghosts.”

SETI - Close Encounters

        A couple snippets hot off the wire caught my interest recently. (Okay, it wasn’t really on “the wire” whatever “the wire” might be, but were actually internet news websites, however “the wire” sure sounds all journalistical don’t it?) The first was a report concerning Seth Shostak, Senior Astronomer with an institute based in Mountain View, California dedicated to the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence.  (SETI, not to be confused with “yeti”, the possibly mythical mountaineering cousin of Sasquatch that hangs out in the Himalayas.) Cosmo-politician Shostak claimed they feel confident we Earthlings will be in contact with an alien life form within 25 years.  The assertion was contained in a speech given to a SETI convention in Santa Monica, California, in which the researcher made the bold prediction, adding the momentous event is very likely to be in the lifetimes of the mostly youthful attendees. (I’d bet afterward, the bulk of the attendees went home to their parents basements to play World of Warcraft.)
          ‘Holy mackerel! 25 years!? We better start cleaning up before the visitors arrive! Quick! Hide the homeless!’ was the first thought through my mind.  Then my head was filled with the voice of my father which temporarily drowned out the other voices. It was a recollection of him giving me advice regarding the news media.
          “Follow the money,” he said. “To find out why things are happening, just think of who stands to gain.” I instantly recognized that it was obvious. Of COURSE Mr. Shostak has to deliver an optimistic prognostication for contacting little green men or whatever size and colour they may be. He may even believe it himself, although that may be irrelevant. The point is, as a privately funded institution, according to Wikipedia, anyway (and Wikipedia IS the sum total of the world’s knowledge, and not Ben Stein as reported by his publicist), in order to continue to receive grants and funding, Mr. Shostak must be more optimistic than a teenage boy buying a condom for his wallet. Sure, much of the search for interplanetary neighbours consists of scanning for radio waves and there is only a slight possibility advanced alien cultures might not have some other broadcast medium, cable perhaps, but there’s jobs at stake here, including Senior Astronomer Shostak’s.
           Don’t get me wrong, by the way. I am very interested in SETI and even offered up my home computer for a time to the SETI@home research group. This organization has harnessed the down-time of an estimated 290,000 home computers which makes it the 7th most powerful computer system in the world. (The most powerful being, of course, Bill Gates’ home computer followed closely by the one that checks to see if I’ve made a car payment or not.)
           In addition to my SETI phase, I’ve always been fascinated with the space sciences. Cupcake likes to say I have space between my ears but I think she means something else. Still, I think it would be great to have friendly foreigners from neighbouring nebula show up to say “Hi!” and be on their way. But what if they like it here so much they want to stay? How would we feel about that? Would they be processed by the immigration department or would they remain illegal aliens? Would they be allowed in Arizona?
            Even worse than simply over-friendly, what if they’re hostile, mean and vicious; a planet of divorce attorneys, for example? What if they are like Klingons with no Star Fleet to come to our rescue? I doubt even Ronald Reagan’s Star Wars project could have shot down a Klingon photon torpedo. There’s so much at stake!
           On the bright side, there may be helpful aliens out there in the cosmos, committed to helping us achieve an environmentally sustainable planet with fair distribution of food; with peace and harmony in all our lives and tofu burgers for everyone. At least it would shut David “Eeyore” Suzuki up. However, I’m not sure that having some off-worlders telling us what to do would be really popular. We much prefer being bossed around, repressed and manipulated by our own kind.
            Another newsy bit to “hit the wire” (actually, the “The Mother Nature Network)” was that when/if aliens ever stopped for gas on their way to visit relatives in the Andromeda  galaxy, their interest would not be in any part of the entire body of science from the first head-bashing rock to the IPhone 4. Rather their focus would be on our arts and music. Obviously the “panel of experts” quoted in the article (their names or credentials were not mentioned, probably to protect their professional reputations in other fields) have never watched TV or listened to any of the music coming out of my son’s MP3 player. What if they don’t have fiction? What if they don’t get that TV and movies aren’t real? What would they think of “gangsta rap”? It makes you wonder why they would ever want to meet us. Maybe that’s why we haven’t made contact. They don’t want us to know they’re there. How embarrassing!

The Jetblue Blues

             Unless you’ve been living entirely out of the news loop recently, perhaps camping or just coming out of a coma, you must have heard about the flamboyant flake who quit his job at JetBlue Airlines in a blaze of media-fuelled glory. He allegedly (we news guys can say anything we want if we preface it with the word “allegedly”) got irate at a customer who smacked him on the head with some luggage and refused to apologize or some such. It’s hard to say because many of the reports of the original altercation are more vague than a politician answering questions about his college days. The flighty attendant, one Steven Slater, was said to have (almost as good as “was alleged to”) then flounced off to the galley and proceeded to commandeer the intercom to give the passengers a totally different in-flight instruction than they were used to. He told the assembled customers in general and his new nemesis in particular, to “F___ off”, swiped a couple beers (he was, possibly, an undercover Canadian) and slid down the emergency escape to make his getaway. He somehow managed to evade airport security (not a particularly difficult feat, apparently) and made his way home.  A media circus that would make P. T. Barnum jealous was, of course, on hand when police showed up to arrest him on a couple charges but he appeared happy enough when he was led off. He was obviously enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame.
             The situation has brought into focus a number of issues that require more examination than a Paris Hilton home video. The first facet of this story that troubles me is the fact that his creative resignation technique has raised the bar on leaving one’s employment. Suddenly, it’s just not good enough to yell “I quit!” and go off in a huff (or a car or bike or whatever). Now, your exit strategy has to be worthy of a YouTube video, appearances on all the talk shows and a book deal. To steal the limelight from other guys who are going to “go flight attendant” (formerly “go postal”) they will have to do even crazier and outrageous stunts to capture the public’s ephemeral attention span. What’s next? Giving the CEO a “wet willy” at the annual shareholders meeting then streaking out of the convention centre? Where will it all lead to?  This can`t be good.
             Another issue this guy’s daring departure raises is the fear this is the beginning of a trend where  service industries workers are going to  demand to be treated like human beings. On the surface, this may seem like a reasonable request given that their jobs are often stressful, low-paying and difficult. Take flight attendants for example, since we’re on the topic. Their list of responsibilities includes everything from thwarting would-be terrorists and hijackers to handing out amazingly small packages of peanuts and slinging beer. After all, an airplane is essentially a flying tavern where you aren’t allowed to toss out the drunks. (The paperwork after such an event would be staggering, much like some customers.) The attendants are both bartenders and bouncers that also hand out itty-bitty pillows when you’re sleepy. And yet many are treated poorly by their cranky customers because, in our society, like so many others, the service class is fair game for our grumpy tirades. We pay their salary, by gum, and we expect to be treated better than royalty, which airline ads with their smiley-faced actors lead us to expect. Then reality hits.  You mix 300+ parts stressed out air traveller with seven parts airline employees, add liquor and what you have is a recipe for trouble.
               If this trend continues, society may suffer dire consequences. If you are a wee bit curt with the teenaged Timmy`s toiler making your ice capp, is he/she going to spazz out and fling the delicious, icy treat in your face, then flee the scene amid the strobes of paparazzi camera flashes? The people behind you that must now wait even longer in line for their toffee coffee and Timbits are going to want blood; namely yours. We may all end up being forced to be civil to every single person in the service sector, yet another group we’ve never had to be nice to before. Where’s the fairness in that?
              The last wrinkle to this story we need to explore is the personal consequences of Mr. Slater’s great escape. After giving the paying public the finger with more fanfare than Michael Jackson’s funeral, who would ever hire him? How could any self-respecting HR manager (there must be one or two out there) trust a man known to be demonstrably willing to tell their hard-won, paying customers to eff off? Even worse, he stole beer! That`s lower than Michael Ignatieff`s approval rating. When he slid down the inflatable slide to freedom, his chances for future employment plunged downward even faster. Very few companies will take a chance on a temperamental, surly employee. There’s nothing left for him but the civil service. Poor guy.

Golfing with Bob

        I love golf, as stupid as the concept is; a cross-country driving range with a whole whack of “spot the little white ball in amongst all the little white mushroom caps and little white dandelion fluffs ” thrown in. Still, it is a sport I enjoy immensely. The fact that you’re not only allowed beer while you’re playing, but actively encouraged to drink it, is a major plus. They even send out sweet young things with cooler carts to sell it to you! Heck, I’d buy one even if I didn’t drink!
One of my favourite golfing partners (if by ‘partner’ I mean someone I ardently hope does poorly and screws up so I can come out ahead... much like a marriage partner) is my oldest brother, Bob. To say that my fine frère is a real character is an understatement in the league of “the Edmonton Eskimos are a wee bit unlucky this year”.
        I had just come home from another successful golf outing with Bob (successful in that we returned home with more balls than we left with; our principal goal) and felt a bit sore. The room was dark to keep it cool from the evening sun and I collapsed into the recliner with The Golf Network (aka Nap TV) muttering in the background. Slowly, inevitably, my eyelids grew heavier than Lady Gaga’s makeup. With the golf announcers’ hushed tones mingling with my recent adventures on the links, I was suddenly transported to the first tee off with Bob, except this time, we had a gallery much like at the Master’s, and our game was being broadcast internationally. We take you now to the first tee in this most fateful of all golf match-ups between bitter rivals Bob and Chris.
Announcer #1: Well, David, it is a beautiful day here at Thorsby Golf and Temporary Shack and here comes Bob to tee off. He is dressed in his trademark work coveralls and silly hat. The crowd shrinks back a bit, remembering how often he lets fly off the toe of his driver.
Announcer #2: Bob addresses the ball.... here’s the backswing and.... ooohhhhh, swing and a miss. He is going to call that one a practise swing and line up again. The crowd takes another discrete step back...Okay, here’s the backswing again and... oh dear, he shanked it into the water to the right of the fairway about a hundred yards up.
Announcer #1: That’s not that big of a problem to him, David, as he will just beat the weeds around the hazard until he finds a ball and then claim it was the one he lost.
Announcer #2: Right you are, Jim. That manoeuvre is almost as well known in the local golf community as the fact that Chris’ favourite club, aside from his ball retriever, is the “foot club” whereby he gives his ball a bit of a kick to get a better lie.
Announcer #1: And here comes Chris now, decked out in a Pink Floyd tee shirt and jean cutoffs, his legs covered in a thick layer of mosquitoes. They almost look like grey leg warmers from the 70’s.
Announcer #2: Here’s Chris’ backswing and.... oh my gosh! He’s hit an old lady in the gallery square in the forehead! Chris tells Bob it is an unnatural hazard and that he gets another drive. The crowd is well back now with some spectators hiding behind trees or fatter spectators. And here comes his shot and..... He topped the ball! The ball has at least made it just past the ladies tee, sparing him the indignity of that old tradition.
Announcer #1: I noticed that Chris’ club went about ten yards farther than his ball.
Announcer #2: Yes, he’s got quite an arm on him when he’s frustrated. May I, at this time, remind viewers there are a lot more interesting thing on other networks...
Announcer #1: Okay so now Bob has “found” his ball in the reeds by the water hazard and with a splendid drive off the steel toe of his work boot has landed in the middle of the fairway. The crowd applauds appreciatively at the irony. Apparently, Chris isn’t the only one with a foot club in his bag.
Announcer #2: Chris is trying out his fairway driver and... he hit the ground behind the ball! The ball has gone ahead maybe a foot. Chris slams his driver against the ground and trades it for a 3 iron in disgust. He takes another mighty swing and sends the ball forward another twenty yards.
Announcer #1: Did you see the size of that divot, David? I’ve seen smaller chunks of turf on a sod truck.
Announcer #2: I’d have to agree, Jim. We haven’t seen dirt like that flying around since the last municipal election.
         At this point, Cupcake woke me from my reverie to help set the table for supper. I was very relieved. Fame isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Jiggle Giggle

        Last week Cupcake and I decided we would try something new, something just a little out of our comfort zone, something that would get our blood coursing through our invigorated bodies. (No, I’m not talking about playing strip Boggle.) Our friend, Leah, stalwart of the Calmar Prairie Players, owns a “spa” in Devon and has a pair of wonderful machines designed to do just that. She claimed the effects on the body’s various interior systems after just a  ten minute ride, was the equivalent of an hour’s worth of exercise, albeit without the cardiovascular workout.
“Don’t worry,” I assured her jokingly, “If I want to get my heart rate up, I just try and use my debit card.” I could almost see her make a mental note to charge me in advance should I become a client.
Although a bit uneasy about the whole procedure, I was heartened when we walked in the door. When I envisioned a “spa” I was thinking of some darkened sanctum loaded with women lying about with mudpacks on their faces and cucumber slices on their eyes.   This looked more like a doctor’s office only brighter and cheerier, although it did have its scary side. While showing us around, she displayed a small room which contained a machine that looked like a trickle charger for a car battery. I was relieved when she quickly closed the door.  She claimed that machine was just for specific areas of the body. I am glad she didn’t go into those specifics.
Then came the moment I was dreading; the pre-procedure baseline measurements. She measured my thighs, my biceps, and my waist, with which she had a bit of trouble with her short arms. She wanted to measure all kinds of other things such as my jowls but mercifully let me off the hook as it was just a trial basis.
After the last measurement, which was standing on the scales (Dang!) I finally set foot on the miraculous machine. The way it works is that you stand on this wobbly platform while the trained professional punches in your vital statistics. Then after coming up with your ideal personalized regimen, the contraption generates a vigorous vibration that is designed to get your precious bodily fluids churning and detoxifying and circulating faster than a hot piece of gossip. Or something like that.
According to the literature, the use of this miraculous machine can not only improve your body tone, but have a positive influence on everything from increasing bone density to heightened lymphatic drainage. I didn’t even know my lymphatics needed draining. There were 28 conditions in all that the literature claimed to help improve, ease or cure. On this list were some pretty serious illnesses such as Multiple Sclerosis and Fibromyalgia, as well as maladies I had no idea what they even were, like the listing for “frozen shoulder”. I’d gotten the cold shoulder from Cupcake a number of times but I didn’t realize it was a precursor to a serious chronic illness.
The machine started off vibrating gently. It was weird to see my entire body jiggling in the mirror strategically placed in front of the machine. I have never been more thankful I was wearing clothing. I snuck a peak over at the adjoining machine Cupcake was occupying. Although she was jiggling too, somehow it looked better on her than me.
The machine audibly increased in tempo, as did the violent shaking of the looser areas of skin (i.e. everything but my shins and ankles). I took particular note that Santa’s bowl full of jelly’s got nothing on me.
I found that by flexing different muscles; knees, arms, stomach, etc, (yes, I have stomach muscles) it would actually transfer the vibrating energy to different parts of the body. I was quite astonished when I discovered tightening my ab muscles caused the flab in my face to shake uncontrollably. I was afraid spit would fly in every direction if I dared open my mouth.
“Ifff n-n-nothththing e-e-else I  h-h-have i-isssol-lat-ted w-w-whichch p-partss n-n-need t-t-ton-ning,” I manage to say to Cupcake with the machine at full throttle.
“Looks like all of them from my perspective,” she answered calmly, already in the “cool down” mode. All too quickly, the ten minutes was up and I got off the machine with knees wobblier than they were in the wee hours of the dart wind up.
“Wow, that was quite a ride!” I enthused. “I’m sure I had it at warp factor ten!”
“Well, actually, I noticed the machine only topped out at three,” Leah chuckled. “We save the higher settings for the advanced users.”
I was both disappointed and relieved at the same time. While I like to try everything to the max, I also didn’t want my loose flesh jiggling off my body.
We still have one more visit before the final measurements will be taken but I probably wouldn’t have shared my vital statistics. There are some things inquiring minds really don’t want to know.