Stay tuned, Opraholics

Last week I was surfing online news sites, keeping on top of critical current events, (“Two Women Injured As Bulls Flee Tom Cruise Set”) when I came upon a Reuters release with implications that could shake the very foundations of the planet. After reading the terse article, I realized life may never be the same again. No, I'm not discussing the Large Hadron Collider again. This is much bigger. The bombshell I am talking about is that they announced the date of the final episode of the Oprah Winfrey Show. Wow. I thought they would have to drag her kicking and screaming off the set. I could picture her arms wrapped around the leg of a studio camera, shrieking like a harpy, as people in medical garb pull on her legs to break her grasp. I must admit, if I had her job, that's what they'd have to do to me, too.

My sad delusions of grandeur aside, in the Harpo Productions announcement, company president, Tim Bennet said they are planning on an end date of September 2011. He didn't specify why they were announcing it almost two years down the road. I'm sure they want to allow people time to get mentally prepared for the enormous crater left in their lives at her departure. Bennet didn't mention if they were looking for a younger, shapelier Oprah to fill those giant shoes (Size 14, at least) or if Oprah's clone was finally old enough to take over the show. He did, however, hint that further details will be available in the official press release, Friday and on “ET Tonight” for the forseeable future. Why the program was being wound down (wound up?) wasn't mentioned as the short article was even shorter on details and didn't even address if she jumped or was pushed. My money's on jumping.

Of course, money's no object for Ms. Winfrey. According to sources (I think I read somewhere) the daytime TV maven is, not only the richest self-made woman in America, she is the wealthiest black person ever. EVER! She has a bigger annual income than half the countries in the United Nations. She could buy anything she could ever want, other than being effortlessly thin.

But she's EVERYWHERE! I groaned audibly in the lineup at Sobey's the first time I saw Oprah's “O” magazine. I figured she either had an ego the size of Mount Trudeau or her accountants had decided she hadn't quite saturated the market. They should know, too, since they prepare and package Ms. Winfrey in every concievable way.  I mean, you can buy Oprah jewellrey and Oprah fragrances (Eau De Talk Show Host) and other Oprah this and that. I'm surprised there isn't a line of Oprah power tools. In pink.

I did a little investigative-type journalism and “googled” Oprah Winfrey. The miraculous instant-info machine coughed up 9,330,000 “hits”. By contrast, I got four. They were about my son, Chris Jr.

Nonetheless, besides being a TV show, two magazines, five books, a multi-billion dollar business and a myriad of other things, Oprah is also a website; www.Oprah.com. (Of course.) This is only because it didn't occur to her IT people to create their own domain. This way, they could have called it Oprah.oprah. The website is full of, guess what? Oprah.

I find it interesting that I have come to know about Oprah without ever once having watched an episode of her show. I've seen bits here and there... mostly Tom Cruise jumping on her couch and teeheeing like he'd taken a trip through the giggly-weeds. But she's on during the day when I'm at work and our paths never cross. Not that I watch her when I'm home on a weekday, obviously. Daytime TV? Are you kidding? I couldn't take it even when I was hopped up on morphine following my hip op.

Still, without being exposed to the creepily powerful TV show, I still manage to see her everywhere else, getting interviewed, making speeches and being filmed, photographed and followed like some ill-fated English princess. Despite the throngs of paparazzi hacks she must wade through just to... I don't know... go uptown for bread and milk or whatever celebrities go uptown for, it isn't nearly adequate. I am almost convinced “O” and “O at Home” magazines were created because they couldn't guarantee her smiling face on the covers of the National Enquirer and other magazines of that stature often enough to sate the Harpo machine's lust for media exposure. Apparently they won't be satisfied until she's on the cover of every single magazine sold around the world from Psychology Today to Canadian Bow Hunter.

This just in... (writing a column a week in advance sucks in the immediacy department) according to her website, Ms. Winfrey claimed the reason behind her earth shaking announcement is because it “feels right in my bones”. Well, I'm not one to argue with her bones, either. I'm just not into arguing with anything bigger than me. This whole bone thing does seem rather vague, however. When politicians quit, they always say they “want to spend more time with their families”. When actors end their long-term shows it's always to “go out on top” or to “quit before it gets repetitive” or  “nobody watches it anymore”.

Not Oprah. She consults calcium. Her femur told her it was time to hang them up, although rumour has it, her tibia thought she should wait a few more years.

Stay tuned, Opraholics. I suspect this story won't be going away any time soon. Nor will Oprah.

You Couldn’t Pay Me Enough!

I think having a job is a lot like aging. As big a drag as both of them are, they sure beat the alternative. As Drew Carey said, “Oh, you hate your job? Why didn't you say so? There's a support group for that. It's called EVERYBODY. They meet at the bar. “In all actuality, however, I like working. Lazing around the house in my jammies till noon and then wasting the rest of the day would get real old, real fast. A person needs purpose, A person needs direction. A person needs beer money. A person needs to not only put food on the table but also house that table. A few utilities are nice, too. And a satellite dish.

Mind you, it is insane to work at a job you hate, given what a huge chunk of your waking hours are spent at it. Sure, I have to deal with the public (Ewww!) but I see that as a plus. One of the worst things a job can be (along with “dangerous”, “illegal”, or includes the phrase “do you want fries with that?”) is for it to be boring. With customer service, however, every conversation with a client is as unique as the clients themselves. Each interaction keeps the job fresher than a TimBit during the breakfast rush.

Of course, there are jobs no one actually likes; serving TimBits during the breakfast rush, for example, but there are far worse. There are people that make their living smelling underarms for deodorant manufacturers. There are people who provide for their families by handling loads of excrement; sucking out septic systems,video-taping sewers or writing political speeches.

Speaking of which, I think the worst job of all would be President of the United States. Can you imagine having 300 million bosses, each with a different viewpoint on how the job should be done? Having a herd of reporters (A flock? A murder? A pride?) reporting on your mistakes as you try and do your job would be a pain in the posterior, to say the least. Can you imagine all those scrum-suckers looking over your shoulder while you're just trying to do your job? How embarrassing the headlines would be! “President McKerracher Screws Up Visa Charge For Customer.”

“President McKerracher Attacks Office Photocopier In Frustration.”
“President McKerracher Quits; Tells Press Corps to Go Scribe Themselves.”

Of course there would be plusses to the job of President. You wouldn't need to carry cash on you,. The chance of the motorcade stopping at a 7-11 for Slurpees is infinitesimal. You also would get the best hiding place for when 2012 hits and it's the end of the world as we know it. (“And I feel fine.”) Still, weathering a nuclear winter, environmental destruction, a plague of zombies  or whatever may befall us with a bunch of generals, senior bureaucrats and politicians doesn't sound like much fun. Maybe with the Pussycat Dolls, it might be okay. And a dart league with free beer.

I am frankly amazed, however, that every job gets filled. What would make a person who has just gone to school for many years to become a doctor and then remain in school for another four years to specialize in proctology? Don't get me wrong. I have a fundamental respect for these brave folk... the rear guard of the nation. But man! You couldn't pay me enough to be one.

Same goes for other medical practiconers. People who give barium enemas cheerfully, professionally and as pleasantly as possible under the circumstances, (a staggering feat indeed), I think they deserve a medal.  I can only imagine how poorly I would do at it.

Me, “Here, let me just grab this hose Mr. Shmidlap and... oh my.... I don't feel SO good...  OH NO! HAND ME THAT BEDPAN! STAT!”

No amount of monetary reward could not induce me to get into such a field. It even grosses me out to consider hairdressers have to touch other people's heads all day.

I also wouldn't be a farmer for anything, either. They must be absolutely nuts. I mean; these guys even take on full time jobs to subsidize their farming habit if need be. It isn't a job, it's a lifestyle choice. They get up at the crack of dawn to get on horseback to round up the chickens or whatever the heck farmers do, even as the rest of the world lies in bed til their snooze alarms have gone off ten or twelve times. Who else would keep us in meat? Who else would gamble their entire annual income on the vagaries of Canadian weather? Who else would keep the coffee shops in business?

There are many other unpleasant vocations. There's the photo-radar tech on Highway 60, as you're  driving by Devon, who spends his working life in a truck in the ditch, helping people have a crappy day. Then there's the job that bringer of happiness and joy to all, the telephone solicitors who, in the course of their daily work, are yelled at, sworn at and hung up on. And that's just from Cupcake. I'd put her on that “no call” list but I'd much rather she let off steam on them than me.

I will leave the last word to Oscar Wilde, “The best way to appreciate your job is to imagine life without one.”

TV Schmeevee

I am not one who watches a lot of TV. For one thing, the chance of me wrestling the remote from Cupcake is... well, remote. Control of the remote control just means so much to her, it would be no contest. She would win every match, especially since she wouldn't be shy about using a chokeslam or a diving elbow drop to back up her claim to the device.  (I would use the term “controller freak”, but I have to sleep sometime.)

Worse yet, besides, apparently, watching WWE, she favours cop shows including about 12 different versions of Law and Order and CSI. As well, she watches... I'm almost embarrassed to say it, but she watches reality shows. In fact, her dream show would be to have David Caruso win all the marbles in “Dancing With the Stars”. (He could use the marbles, too, considering all the ones he's lost playing intense detective types.)

“Wouldn't you call your stupid  'Myth Busters' a reality show?” Cupcake says in defense. “You claim it is educational but all they do is blow stuff up. You call that entertainment?” “Well, yes, actually, I do,” I had to admit. “Did you see the one with the hot water tank blowing through the roof of that house? It was AWESOME!”

Cupcake ignored my outburst. Not like her at all. “You look down your nose at my shows but a lot more people like my choices than yours,”  she pointed out primly. “Apparently, you are the aberration, not me. Again. You say I have all the taste of tofu-flavoured jello but this is coming from a guy that listens to CBC radio, for crying out loud.”

Despite our differences however, to humour her and perhaps soften her up for connubial goings-on later, I will occasionally watch a show with her on our loveseat, (A misnomer if ever I heard one. It should be known as a “keep your hands to yourself” seat). I even let her pick the show although I always am careful to shut my eyes to the gorier bits on CSI. I am not as desensitized to bloody carnage as hardcore CSIers are. Watching slow motion bullet penetration of spleens and whatnot makes my stomah feel like I've eaten too much Halloween candy.

Granted, unreality shows are even worse. Programs like “Big Brother” and “Survivor” seem to me to be designed solely for the purpose of satisfying a certain segment of the population that are into voyeurism and gossip. They scratch the itch of our collective inner Gladys Kravitz (Hey, Abnah, there's weird things going on at the Stevens house again! Abnah! Wake up!) in all of us. You can almost imagine viewers of this sort of show watching the episodes through horizontal blinds just to get that “nosey neighbour” thrill.

On the plus side, I guess, it's better for the inquisitive minded to dissect and study the entrails of fake relationships, “faux-mances” and artificial environments, as in “Big Brother” rather than the relationships of their own neighbours, friends and relatives. Mind you, hoping that gossiping about TV characters satisfies the gossip craving is like hoping indulging in pornography will satisfy carnal cravings. The prospects of either one working are about as good as the chances of me figuring out “The String Theory” in quantum physics, or even more unlikely, successfully dieting.

I must say there are two sides to watching shows like “Dancing With the Stars” or “Battle of the Blades” (okay, I will admit I found the thought of Ti Domi figure skating to be more than just slightly intriguing). On the one hand, the outfits worn by the shapely, attractive, barely clad female skaters and dancers almost makes it worth the inane judging and commentary portions of the shows. The biggest downside, however, is when I am tolerating the show as best I can and my son comes in the livingroom to question my masculinity. “Jeez, Dad, you're watching this? Voluntarily? Did you forget your kahunas in your other pants?” he'd say, guffawing in cruel mirth. It forces me to consider the moral ramifications of post-natal abortion. Like when they're 24 years old.

Nonetheless, despite the fact that I find most shows she likes either disturbing, disgusting or simply disinteresting, I watch a bit of TV with her as often as I can tolerate. She does things for me which she has litte interest in, other than pleasing me. Ironing my work wear, for example. Catching an hour of inanity, occasionally, is the least I can do, and never let it be said I didn't do the least I could do.

And there are some positives to watching the old “boob tube” besides getting to say the word “boob”. I get to keep current on all the best commercials which are my favourite part of any show. Plus, I get to pig out on munchies as “Family TV Night” has always been an orgy of lax dietary responsibility, to put it charitably.

Besides, everybody knows you can get a man to do absolutely anything if he thinks it's foreplay. Even watch TV!

The Juxtaposition Syndrome

There are two hypothesis floating around which are equally frightening. The first is that governments are universally incompetant; like King Midas on “opposite day”. Everything they touch turns to poop. The other is that governments know EXACTLY what's going on but the information is so monumentally cataclysmic (not to mention bad), they don't dare tell us what it is, but feel a need to control our behaviour in some way.

There are numerous examples of this phenomenon where, whatever the issue, people gravitate to either “The government is useless.” or “The government is controlling us” camps. For example, I've actually heard people claim the H1N1 vaccine is a scam to inject microchips into our bodies so the government can keep tabs on you. I'm leery of this theory. They don't NEED to inject us with Global Positioning nanoprobes. We all have GPS-equipped cell phones already, which we willingly pay for ourselves, to the delight of Big Brother (no, not the stupid reality TV show). And if FaceBook isn't voluntary Big Brotherism, I don't know what is!There's loads of other similarily polarizing issues from the economy to the environment, but there's one issue that makes those two issues look as serious as “America's Funniest Home Videos.” I am talking about the Large Hadron Collider.

The LHC as it's known, (obviously named by scientists, not marketing people or it would have a cooler acronym) lies deep underground near Geneva, Switzerland. Being the mother of all science projects, the collider is old news to technogeeks. For those of us with lives, however, it's stayed below our radar. Here's what I discovered in my research.

The collider is a gigantic gizmo, looking suspiciously like an enormous roulette wheel, 30 kilometers in circumference or, for metrically challenged readers, 18 miles around. The nine billion dollar doohickey is the shiniest toy the scientific community has ever seen. It is designed to smash sub-atomic particles (itty-bitty bits of .... er... stuff) together in such a way, it will tell the egghead brigade gobs of information about the “Big Bang” which started that whole “universe” fad. Religious types refer to this point as “Creation”.

Opponents of the monstrosity claim the machine may potentially wipe out Switzerland, the planet, the solar system or the entire universe, depending on which pessimistic professor you prefer.

My career in the field consists of three weeks of Physics 10 before accepting it was entirely over my head, so I realize I'm no expert, but I do understand some things. I understand nine billion dollars, for example.
Nine billion dollars is one of those Real Big Numbers that roll rather trippingly off the tongue when discussing governmental expenditures. However, like the other Real Big Numbers that get tossed around, it is hard to grasp. To put it in perspective, to make that much money at my current rate of pay, (with no beer allowance) I'd have to work over 200,000 years. This is, coincidentally, the same amount of time it will take before the pension I am paying into, may actually be worth enough to live on.

Notwithstanding, over 100 governments worldwide, including Canada, has kicked in on on this fantastic device whose sole purpose is apparently to learn whether it will kill us or not.

The professed use of it is to find out what atoms were hanging around at the beginning of time. It won't help feed the poor or fix the economy or get the Edmonton Eskimos into the playoffs (apparently, the collider can't protect against a half-decent pass rush, either) or any other worthy goal. In fact, the only value it has, seemingly, is to satisfy some theoretical phsysicist’s curiosity.

Since governments generally are loathe to invest in private ventures with no hope of profit, (unless you're an automobile manufacturer) the whole “official line” on the “why” of this project seems so implausible. Governments must be insane to contribute to this wonderfully elaborate white elephant.

Or are they? Maybe they're only feeding us this Big Bang BS to polarize the population into Bangers versus Creation-philes to keep us from finding out what they are REALLY  up to.

And what might that be? What could possibly be worth $9 billion to a collection of governments that  is more important than doing things that will get them re-elected? What is so important that America tried to build one ahead of the Swiss consortium's version only to abandon it after sinking billions into it? Americans are many things but they are not quitters. What made them start the project? What made them stop? Of course the American model was known as a SUPER particle collider. Much better than an ordinary, consumer-grade particle collider, although the Swiss model also had a corkscrew, spoon and little pair of scissors.

For myself, I am undecided. It is easy to believe governments are full of dumb ideas and flawed plans. Having them as evil, shadowy know-it-alls is a bit of a stretch. Either way though, as far as the LHC goes, I'm sure it has something to do with the end of the Mayan calendar in 2012. As sure as I am  about the government's motives.

Key to the Wallet

Confucious say: Man who loses key to girlfriend's apartment get no new key.

 

Rodney Dangerfield say: I was so ugly my father carried around a picture of the kid that came with the wallet.
 

According to Wikipedia, which is almost as accurate as a dollar store dart gun, wooden keys were in use in Egypt some 4000 years ago. The article didn't fully explan how earlier Egyptians got into their cars, although I suspect they gained entry through the use of an early form of the Egyptian Automobile Association.
 

The word “key” comes from Old English (AD 450 to 1150, although I do know some old Englishmen who were born somewhat later.) It was spelled “caeg” and was impossible to pronounce without coughing up a furball.
 

Wallets, on the other hand, are much, much older. Using a form of research popularized by the tobacco industry, known as “imaginative fictionalization”, it has been postulated that wallets were originally invented by noted Neanderthal scientist and philosopher, Oot Groont, in the year, 500,000 BC (Before Cupcake). The brilliant cave enthusiast had devised a sack out of a piece of mastadon skin to carry the fire making tools and arrowheads he had just manufactured in his new quarry. It also carried change for the parking meter.
 

The word, “wallet”, is also much older than the “key” word. According to sources (that rhyme with “icky-pedia”) the word was coined in the first century, AD. They know this because they asked my brother Bob who was there at the time.
 

Like the fine folks back then, modern man (and ladies) love our keys and wallets. They come with us everywhere. They are like expensive jewellrey we refuse to leave at home because we can't. We NEED our keys and wallets with us at every moment. They are more precious than our children... almost.... although WAY less fun to replace. And expensive, too!
 

Consider, if you will, the loss of a wallet. I misplaced mine recently and immediately began to mentally enumerate all the pieces of paper and plastic I hold so near and dear. It wasn't just the credit cards and debit cards and health cards and auto cards and grocery store member cards and government cards and “air mile” cards, and a submarine shop card that only needed three more visits to get a free sandwich but a myriad collection of little bits of life. They sit largely unused, unnoticed but still treasured. It is the scrap of paper with the phone number of that old buddy I ran into at the mall a few months ago. It is a business card from a dart shop where the scrawled name upon it had promised to give me a great deal on a set of tungsten hammerheads. It is all those flakes of day to day that accumulate and we are so loathe to throw them out, let alone lose them.
 

And yes, I was choked about the cash inside the wallet, too. I had a lot of money on me. I feared that it was twenty bucks I'll never see again, although I rationalized it would have been well worth it to get the rest of the wallet back intact. To replace all those little bits of plastic and paper would have been a pain since you need ID to get ID. Where does one start nowadays? Before, you just went to a registation office and told them how you'd lost your drivers license and they'd just give you a new one. Not so now. They are so afraid of identity theft, you have to prove upside and sideways who you are and need a notarized affadavit from Ed Stelmach himself just to get a replacement.
 

Losing a set of keys wasn't so bad at one time, either. You simply swiped your wife's spare set and went to the local hardware store to get a replacement. If it cost more than a buck and a half, you felt ripped off. Nowadays, however, with computer chips imbedded in the plastic grip of the key to our precious vehicles, to replace a lost key is more than the price of a muffler. You can get a brand new windshield cheaper than an ignition key. In fact, it is worth more than my bi-weekly car payment!
 

Of course not all keys are as important to us as our car keys. There is the collection of keys we have that hang on the key ring holder in the porch. It holds about three dozen keys of various descriptions that we have managed to accumulate over the years and have no idea what they open. We are afraid to throw them out, however, because sure as Christmas ads follow Halloween, we would need one of those keys the day after we tossed them.
 

As far as my errant wallet goes, I was lucky.  This time.
 

I had inadvertantly put the wallet on my son's headboard when I was hanging up my pants after work. Since he's gone to live in the dorm, Cupcake has been slowly moving all my clothes into his closet. All the while it was misplaced, however, I developed a new admiration for my old wallet.
 

 could say although I'd lost my wallet, I'd gained a new perspective. Frankly, I'd rather just have the wallet, thanks!

OH NO H1N1!

There is much concern recently regarding the  “swine flu” or “H1N1” virus and in the public debate, there are more discordant voices than a junior high chorus in the throes of puberty. The many questions I have about the ailment are echoed by the vast majority of people I have discussed this with. Okay, so I only discussed it with Cupcake, but the vast majority of her agreed and I've found if we both actually agree on something, it's got to be true.

The questions we have are basic. How great is my own, personal risk? How can I tell if it's swine flu or regular flu? Do I need  a doctor's appointment, every time I get the flu just to find out what brand it is? And most importantly, is it still okay to eat Bac'n Puffs?

So called “expert opinion”  regarding the relative danger of H1N1 over competing flu flavours is as polarized as an arctic bear. Some say that,  although some people do die of swine flue far more people die of “regular” flu. Now that's a comfort! Others claim it's the second coming of everything from Spanish Flu to the Messiah Himself and that we're all doomed if we don't wash our hands every two minutes and cough and sneeze and otherwise issue phlegm into our armpits.

I must interject here that I am not an early adopter of the whole coughing/sneezing into your upper body thing. The reason we cough into our hands is in case SOMETHING IS THERE!  Coughs can harbor anything, from a glazed coating to a deep lunger, waiting to leap out and decorate the bicep area of your best wool sweater. Let me tell you, fellow traveller, I would much rather have mystery moisture in my palm than on my shoulder. This way, you can continue your conversation while discretely sliding your hand in your pocket since the disgusting dampness looks better there than on the outside of your pants. Do  not, under any circumstances, look at the contents of your hand at any time while it is occupied with the aforementioned bodily semi-fluid. We want discretion with our secretions. I am glad I got that off my chest.

You see, they're taking this prevention thing far too far, They don't allow hand shakes after soccer but kids touch every straw in the carton when getting a fountain drink at the store. They don't take socks back at clothing stores if worn but if you go bowling, they make you wear shoes previously sweated in by dozens, if not hundreds, maybe thousands of feet with nothing but an anti-bacterial spritz in between. Ewwww!

Reality is, germs are everywhere you want to be. Sure, you can disinfect your hands with one of those sanitizer wipes at the grocery store but once discarded, you're touching products, money, keypads conveyor belt, grocery separators, etc,  and eventually, touching your eyes, or mouth or nose. Next thing you know, there's a single microbe in your system that duplicates and copies itself almost as much as Hollywood's “creative” machinery. The little virus and/or bacteria dudes  grow in size, strength and numbers until your immunity system recognizes the threat and starts to wage war on the interlopers. There is no effort at diplomacy. There is no political squabbling over the necessity for the conflict. The white blood cells (so named for the colour of their cowboy hats) simply drop the gloves and go toe-to-toe in hand-to-hand combat with their microscopic adversaries. Make that flagella-to-flagella combat.

The bottom line is you can be a germ Nazi like Michael Jackson or those two creepers from the Listerine commercials but there are no guarantees. Poor Michael is now as dead as the careers of the Listerine schmucks.
So what can we do to keep ourselves safe?
Here are some tips. Follow them at your own peril.
DO stay home from work if you're sick. Sure, you'll get fired since the boss drags his sorry butt in no matter how awful he feels but at least you can feel superior as you stand in the lineup at EI.
DO line your pockets with plastic bags filled with hand sanitizer. Keep your hands in your pockets at all times and get others to open doors for you, etc. If you have other pockets, keep them full of tissues for wiping off your shoulder.
DO avoid all other people and anything others may have touched. For best results stay hidden under your bed as much as possible.
DO NOT listen to the public health messages relating to H1N1 and other wellness matters as they just stress you out and stressed bodies are an easier target for disease to invade.
DO NOT follow the “five second rule” for food that has hit the ground. This is especially true for food that has any moisture to it at all. The only foods that are truly safe to eat after dropping are nuts in the shell and bourbon balls which have a higher alcohol content than Roughneck beer and can kill H1N1 at ten paces.
DO NOT assume your husband has the swine flu just because he's a male chauvinist pig. MCP is far more prevalent than H1N1, Just ask Cupcake.  Just don't start with “Hey, Wench!” or swine flu will be the least of your healthcare worries.

Bonjour la Bonjour

I love live theatre. There's an edge to it you just don't get with TV. I've been onstage when the wheels came off a production; the cast all wearing their best “deer in the headlights” look, desperately hoping a castmate will save the day. It gets the ticker beating faster than cops in the rearviews. When it's live, anything can happen.

However, when my son invited me to a Red Deer College production, I was hesitant. Red Deer is a ways away and it was snowing intermittently. Plus, Matt was rather evasive about the play. “It's by a Canadian playwright, Dad,” he reassured me. “Mike Something or Other. You like Canada, don't you? Patriotism etcetra.” Matt was motivated to include me because his buddy, Dan was in the play. Matt knew if I went, we'd take my car, use my gas and eat on my debit card. Being a student he's so broke, he's been hitting up  homeless guys for spare change. He finds it much easier being an arts supporter if I supply the bridge financing.

“Maybe Mom will do my laundry while we're gone,” Matt remarked as we discussed the play.

“Don't be ridiculous!” I chastised him. “Mom has better things to do than your laundry. I've been needing some mending for weeks but she's too busy. What nerve!”“That's okay,” chimed in Cupcake sweetly. “I will do his washing. I don't mind!”

I looked at her like she'd grown another head.
“But I thought you said...” I began.
“No no! It's okay! Really!!” Cupcake hastily interjected.

Her voice then fell to a coarse whisper, “If doing laundry encourages him to come home....” I sighed inwardly. I'd forgotten the goal was to get him to visit. I'd thought we were helping him become more independant. Apparently I was wrong. Again.

“Whatever,” I shook my head in resignation, “Is this play a comedy? I love comedies! Nothing like a silly farce to hit the old funny bone, eh? Beats that 'artsy fartsy' stuff all to pieces.” “Actually, Dad, I'm really not sure,” he gulped. “It's probably hysterically funny! You know us college types... always drunk... never serious.  Ha ha! See? Come on, it will be fun.” “Okay, fine,” I caved. I knew no matter what, he would go anyway and couldn't really afford it. At least I could ensure he got a decent meal in him. His cheeks had started looking a bit sunken. After he hoovered up an appetizer platter for two and Cesear salad like it was an vacuum cleaner demonstration, we were off.

When we arrived just minutes before showtime and still managed to get front row seats to the “theatre in the round”, mental alarms began clanging loudly. Also, the set didn't look at all like a living room or anything normal. It was a series of wooden platforms piled up to look haphazard with just a single, ancient recliner in the middle. Under and around the piles of wood were shards of glass symbolizing something terribly important but I had no idea what.

“Bonjour, La, Bonjour” was the name of the play, I noticed, as I peeked at the program. The playwright was a Quebec Nationalist named Micheal Trembley, a man who, according to the bio, declined an Order of Canada.

“Oh no. It's going to be artsy fartsy!” I cringed. “So much for patriotism!”

“Shush, Dad,” my precocious offspring snapped. “It's starting.”

The actors filed down to the piled up lumber and stood on the flat portions of the platforms. Dan, playing the lead character, “Serge”, stood beside Matt to start the show. The other characters; four sisters, two aunts and a deaf father who reigned over the piled platforms from his recliner, would speak to him as the lights would engulf them.

In varying degrees of French-tinged English, the characters addressed only Serge. Each dialogue with him was charged with more raw feelings than a catfight on “The View”. Each character was like an   emotional sponge drawing their lifeblood from him. Eventually,  it became apparent he'd had an incestuous relationship with each of his older sisters (!) and they were all screwed up as a result. Or they were already screwed up and thus had the incestuous affairs. Beats me.

One sister craved food and was fixated on how fat she was getting, one was addicted to some kind of pills, while the eldest by quite a few years, was having a fling with one of Serge's buddies. Nicole, another sister, seemed the most normal, although in that family, it'd take little to win that title.

Afterward, in the hallway with Dan's parents, I had to laugh. Dan's younger sister ran over to give her brother a hug for his stellar performance. Her mother grabbed her.

“There will be none of that in THIS household!” she joked. Everyone in earshot busted out laughing.

I will say that despite the weird plot, the acting was wonderful. I actually enjoyed myself. Now if I could just figure out what it all was supposed to mean...