“Adversaries” (Preface)

Fast forward a year from Character Sketch and see where he-of-the-coke-and-classic-red-Camaro finds himself.

Rob Browning is a man on the edge, a pretty boy with deadly skill and a deadlier secret. In other words, he’s my kind of man. My first look at him was through Cassandra Stannard’s eyes. She’s the POV protagonist in my urban vampire series; the story is hers, but each segment began with a general narrative that hints at what is coming. Tomorrow’s post, as Character Sketch was for volume 3, was the prologue for volume 4, and by then the story was rolling headlong into disaster for my star-crossed lovers.

Volume 4 remains unfinished.

Since the FF novel has stalled until further notice, I’m committed to update Cassie’s story over the winter and see what comes of it. A lot will change, but the basic premise remains the same because it’s my crack at urban fantasy. It’s a rare case where I know the outcome before the beginning; for once I’ll be writing backward from the ending. It feels weird just saying that, so I can only imagine how it’ll feel in practice. I’m toying with the idea of writing scenes independently and stringing them together once I have enough to build a frame, but we’ll see. Time enough for planning anon. In the meantime, scenes like Adversaries may pop up on CR because I promised myself I’d post samples of my work and I’m really quite proud of my broken hero with the poet’s name.

Enjoy.

Do or Donut

The other day, Ter challenged me to write 700 words about donuts. She was joking; I took her seriously …

Who knew that a lump of sweet dough, deep-fried and dunked in cinnamon sugar, would become a cultural icon? That a plethora of sweet sticky syrupy centres could be housed in fluffy golden goodness? That crushed peanuts and toasted coconut would be so nummy glued with glaze to a treat resembling a tender and crumbly Life Saver? Or that a donut shop named for a hockey player would successfully thwart a coffee empire’s nefarious plot to possess every city street corner and mall outlet in the country?

Only in Canada, you say?

Damn straight.

Canadians are—or once were—universally known as donut junkies. We poke fun at ourselves because of it. Countless comedy skits are set in donut shops. Need a cop right now? Look for squad cars at the nearest Tim Horton’s. Paper cups bearing the TH logo figure at every community rink. The chain, if not the donut itself, is a part of our national identity.

Of all the donuts I sampled in my wild and indiscriminate youth, Tim’s produced the tastiest and most varied morsels around. Honey-glazed yeast, white powdered jelly, maple dip, sour-cream-cake-rolled-in-sugar, vanilla-iced-with-sprinkles, caramel apple fritter, walnut or cherry stick; you name it, it’s somebody’s favourite. My preferences fluctuated as I grew up, but my go-to in the gluten days was always sugared raspberry jelly … when it wasn’t Boston Cream. (Pump custard into a running shoe and I’ll probably eat it.)

In the days before cars had cup holders, Ter and I would buy 20 Timbits, park the box on the console between us, and eat ’em like chips while we drove. Since three and a half donut holes equal a single donut, we could indulge in a variety trio apiece and suffer no more than the usual sugar crash down the road. She was all about the honey glaze, I preferred the cake (but never chocolate. Mysteriously, chocolate cake donuts do not cut it). Our mutual favourite, however, was the legendary Dutchie: a deliciously dense ball o’ dough studded with raisins and crusted in a sugar glaze. Created in 1964, it stayed in action until February 2014, when the Dutchie Timbit was discontinued due to “low popularity”.

I can’t imagine why.

Tim’s opened a shop downtown a few years ago, and bakeries in a ten block radius suddenly stopped selling donuts. I guess they thought the competition for donut consumption would crush them. Well, heck. They should also have quit selling sandwiches, soup, chili and oatmeal, too, because over the years those items have found their way onto Tim’s menu, along with bagels, muffins and breakfast sandwiches. One upon a time, the showcase displayed a mesmerizing array of glistening chocolate frost, chunky nut crunch and plump sugar jellies, but nowadays you need a GPS just to find the crullers.

I don’t remember the last time I saw a Tim’s commercial actually pushing donuts. The latest campaign was their pumpkin spice latte, and a p/s donut was placed near the mug, but no mention was made of the donut itself. Then there’s the grilled panini sandwich, lasagne casserole and the sirloin roast baguette. No wonder the Dutchie lost popularity. People have forgotten they ever existed!

Why do I care? I shouldn’t. GF donuts, if they exist, are probably used to anchor the buoys provided to tie up your sailboat offshore. They won’t be comparable to the real deal at any rate. And, despite a powerful craving during my gluten withdrawal, I was hardly a donut addict. Who am I to dictate what goes on a fast food menu?

Of course, donuts are not exclusive to the Great White North: A box of Krispy Kremes was once smuggled across the border by a co-worker and everyone on staff pounced on it, eager to see how the American version fared against our homegrown standard. One bite was enough for me: it was neither krispy nor kremey, just leaden, soggy and diabetes-inducing sweet. That sealed it. No other donut, be it disguised as loukoumades in Greek, lokma in Turkish, jalebi in Pakistani or beignet in French, could compare to an old-fashioned cinnamon cake donut from Tim Horton’s.

 

Assuming you can still get one.

“Enablers Anonymous”

“Hi. My name is Kelly, and I am an enabler.”

“Hi, Kelly,” they replied as one.

She was an ordinary woman, unremarkable but with kind eyes and a serious face that readily assumed a friendly smile. Right now, she looked nervous and her voice trembled on the brink of tears as she surveyed the group sitting attentively before her.

“I don’t know what brought me here, except that I’m always there for everyone but myself. Friends, family, co-workers, charities, political causes; I have time for them all. I make time for them all, even when I don’t have time to give …”

A familiar litany. A common-ground frustration born of the impulse to help, even if helping was only to listen while someone thought aloud. It was why they gathered at the community hall each week, those good-hearted folk who put everyone else ahead of themselves and asked nothing in return. None of them freely told near-strangers about their problems, thoughts, fears, retirement plans, you name it, yet every one of them had heard intimate details of financial woes and health crises, of elderly parent incontinence and executive bosses’ expectations. None of them had the power to fix any of what they heard, but they heard it anyway, all the while trying to manage their own lives.

Some were moral support for sisters in bad relationships or brothers with addiction issues. Others juggled sullen teens, difficult employees, neglectful spouses and inconsiderate neighbours.

All were weighted by their own schedules—arranging for car repairs and new hot water tanks, taxiing kids to after-school activities and making medical appointments for their own elderly parents, but no one knew the extent of their stresses. They were private people, introverts unwilling (or unable) to share such personal information with more than a trusted few. Even at weekly EA meetings, they discussed how they could have/would have/should have extricated themselves from unwanted and intrusive wastes of time. How to break their collective addiction was their focus.

But when the facilitator thanked Kelly, then smiled and asked which of them would like to be her sponsor, everyone put up a hand and no one saw the irony.

Bullies

A lot of people are angry after what happened in Ottawa last week. Angry, afraid, and awakened to a horrible global truth, that we as a nation are no longer safe on our own turf. It’s taken me a few days to figure out how I feel about it.

I’m sad.

Sad that Canada is no longer exempt from the venom of radical terrorist groups. Sad that Corporal Nathan Carillo’s destiny was to be the death that woke us up. Sad that I sat in a sunny open courtyard the day after he was killed and wondered what would happen if one of the passersby suddenly pulled a gun and opened fire. Sad that guns, despite the laws that control them, are showing up in these formerly unheard of situations north of the US border. Sad that it’s finally come to this, that the least offensive country in the First World has lost her status as a safe place to be.

Sad, sad, sad.

Anger is a uniquely human response, always born of another action, deliberate or not, that threatens or offends. In no way will I plead the case of the individual who did this—he’s already moved on and discovered how horrendously misguided he was to buy into the propaganda of hate. What I will say is that I believe terrorists are, at their singular core, little more than jumped-up schoolyard bullies, so wrought with their own misery and self-loathing that they seek to empower themselves by victimizing others—usually those who are weaker than themselves, but in the case of ISIS or whatever they’re called, those whom they perceive as would-be oppressors. Canada got onto the hit list because we’re allied with the big boys. Guilt by association.

Seriously? Attacking us is like kicking a puppy. We don’t play the aggressor except on a sheet of ice, but we do heed the call for help in righting wrongs committed against innocents, and what terrorist groups do is wrong on so many levels I can’t begin to list them all. Yes, the Middle East is a hotbed of conflict and yes, if they weren’t sitting on the world’s oil supply, few governments would likely bother about them, but still. Be honest about it. Show your face and state your name. Openly recant your citizenship. Be proud to scorn your family, your nationality, and the religion you claim to revere. Man up to the consequence of your decision. If you believe what you’re doing is right and true, then have the courage to own your actions.

America does. Britain does. So do the Palestinians and the Israelis. Heck, so does North Korea. And, if you push us, so will Canada.

The world is run by ego, ambition, fear and hatred. Peace is a concept, and misunderstood at that. Peace is perceived as “not at war” and is therefore unsustainable.

Warring to stop war is insanity at its finest, but we’re in it now and there’s no going back. We’ll be forced into battle against this gang of miserable outcasts whether or not we believe it’s the only way. Millennia of history tells how this will end.

Badly.

But I won’t live in fear of the bullies. I won’t accept that people are inherently evil and unworthy of my trust. I will get angry, but I will release the anger without acting on it. Every one of us was born to love and be loved. We are what the world makes of us.

And that may be the saddest thing of all.

Ru Writes What Ru Reads

Hardcovers ...

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I also find myself adopting a French accent when speaking with someone who comes by theirs honestly. It’s embarrassing, but I swear I do it unconsciously. Even when trying to be conscious about it, Inspector Clouseau slips into my speech and the crimson to my cheeks comes shortly thereafter.

The same applies to what I am reading. That may be why I have three shorts and the novel all in progress. I am influenced by the genre on my bedside table. Two of the shorts are urban fantasy, one is historical urban fantasy and the latter is fantasy, period. I guess they could all be sheltered beneath the fantasy umbrella, but my style also tends to reflect the style of the author I’m reading at any given time. Favourites and recent examples:

GRRM? Describe everything.

Rob Thurman? Pick up the pace and fear no ugly.

Anne Rice? Go sensual or go home.

E. E. Knight? World building is hard.

Erin Morgenstern? Wrap a vivid dream in shimmering gauze.

Kate Atkinson? Use parentheses (am I as guilty of this?) until the continual asides are annoying.

Nicole Myers? It doesn’t have to rhyme!

I’m reading Blackbirds right now. Good story, erratic narrative. Then I remembered that Chuck Wendig is a screenwriter, so that’s why it feels like I’m reading a script. He uses dialogue to move the plot along, and his descriptions are blunt, choppy, the bare essentials. Character is better revealed through conversation; Miriam is a twenty-three year old punk but thinks like a middle-aged man.

No one is perfect, least of all me. Remember, Treason got 2 of 5.

Reading has taught me how to write—and how not to write. Quality is in the eye of the beholder, I know, and I think my standards are a tad higher than most because I honestly can’t understand how some of the things I’ve read ever made it past a copy editor, let alone a “real” editor. I also know that art is subjective. If you don’t like it, don’t read it. Pure and simple.

I read what I like, therefore I write what I like, therefore I write what I read. I still don’t know how to define my style, but I definitely have one. It evolved from bits of everyone listed and more, and while I may emulate a particular writer by osmosis, in the end, I know what works for me. I recently tried something outside my comfort zone and the experiment bombed. Happily, and despite some argument to the contrary, I do not write porn.

Read on, MacDuff.

The Importance of Tea (Part IX)

“Synchronicitea”

Yesterday I walked into my executive director’s office and asked if it was too early in the season to kill myself.

“Why?” he asked. “Have you become a Toronto fan?”

“I’m thinking about it,” I replied. “Philly was shut out in Chicago last night.”

“They won on the weekend, didn’t they?”

“Dallas beat them 6 - 4.”

“Fire the coach,” he said. “He’s already lasted twice as long as Laviolette last year.”

After some discussion, during which he convinced me to stick around at least until I get the semi-annual report done for him, I returned to my desk and borrowed from GRRM when filling in my “what’s happening” field in the office IM:

CHI 4 – PHI 0. Life is miserable and full of pain.

A couple of hours later, a co-worker logged in and saw my frownie face emoticon. “Team not doing well?” she asked, with sympathy.

“Nope,” I answered glumly. “They haven’t won a game yet.”

“Maybe you should change your hockey tea.”

A horrible thought occurred that straightened me in my chair. “I haven’t been drinking my hockey tea!”

She was equally aghast. “Well, that’ll be why they’re sucking!”

“That’s it,” I declared, “we’re going to David’s at lunch.”

I know, I know. It’s a mad superstition, like wearing my jersey and setting Basher just so in front of the TV, but for the past couple of years, I’ve drunk David’s buttered rum black tea on Flyer game nights. Sometimes they win, sometimes they don’t, but it’s a ritual that I defied on October 8 and can it really be a coincidence that the team hadn’t won a game in 6 tries?

It was worth it to test the theory. I went to David’s, bought 50 gms of buttered rum, ordered a cup to go for insurance because I had no time to brew it before the puck dropped, and crossed my fingers for the game in Pittsburgh last night.

Philadelphia won, 4-2.

I rest my case.

Extraordinary Miracles III

“The Concert”

Gee, maybe I am a fan!

Ter and I missed my niece’s wedding reception because we had tickets with our good buddy Treena to see Sarah McLachlan the same night. I have never seen Sarah live, though I have every album except her greatest hits—which, if you want to be literal about it, means that I have her greatest hits, just not on a single disc. I didn’t even realize that I have all her discs. 

How can someone be a fan and not know it until the night before the show? Maybe because I had not been driven to see her live? Not until last spring, anyway, when Shine On was released and I got word of a tour starting in Victoria on October 18. The email notification came and I debated getting tickets. It’s no fun going alone, and Ter isn’t enough of a fan to make me make her go with me. Treena has some of her albums, though, so I thought I’d ask if she wanted to go. Then Ter said she’d come with us just for the joy in watching us see an icon perform live in our hometown. So I got the tickets and put them away until October.

In a day piled high with extraordinary miracles, the concert was the cherry on top. First, the seats turned out to be most excellent – the only three seats in the second row up in the bowl, just shy of right angles to the stage. The set was modeled after a living room, with cozy chairs, carpets, a couch, and hanging lamps reminiscent of Christmas ornaments. At 8:00, a woman who could have been my sister walked on stage and welcomed everyone to the show. She explained the format, the band came on behind her, and this normal, chatty individual instantly morphed into Sarah McLachlan performing Flesh and Blood off the new album. Even then, it didn’t really register that I was watching her play live until the second song, Buildinga Mystery, which is one of my favourite Sarah songs and numbers among her biggest hits. I think it won a Grammy; the album, Surfacing, certainly did. Her voice is so distinct, so unique, that it stands alone among the voices of her generation, but when she’s talking, she sounds like any other Canadian girl and you’d be hard-pressed to believe your eyes when they try to tell your brain that yep, she’s the real deal.

She doesn’t need a band. Her songs are poems set to music; she can sit at a piano and mesmerize you with a range of emotion that defies description. Treena put it best after the show: with almost every song, I thought, oh, my favourite! Until the next song started and I thought, No, this is my favourite! And so on, for almost two hours straight. She broke to invite a few fans on stage and answer questions submitted pre-show from the audience; I swear, it was like spending an evening with my sister. She was warm, funny, generous, honest, powerful and absolutely perfect.

Well, except that she sang one song in the wrong half of the show. She finished The Answer and launched straight into I  Will remember You, which confused her band though they let her go unsupported and joined when they were meant to. We only knew she’d goofed because she apologized to them.

Yep, every song was a gem. Every lyric a poem, every moment a precious reminder that this woman, this singer/songwriter with the angel’s voice, is actually more to me than a mere nice-to-have in my CD collection. She started to sing Fallen and I realized with a jolt that the Afterglow album was the soundtrack for Reijo’s failed first romance, one of the most powerfully painful stories I’ve ever written. The album Fumbling Toward Ecstasy fuelled the relationship between Lucius and his half-sister Fae, particularly the songs Possession, Fear, and the title track. And yes, she performed those songs on Saturday night. I couldn’t believe my luck. She cranked that voice up to an octave undocumented on Fear—the recording of it is unearthly and haunting beyond chills, yet live (and twenty years later), she nailed it. Effing nailed it! I wanted to scream with her, but burst into tears instead.

So embarrassing.

During the intermission, Treena and I decided we had to hit the swag table. This occasion could not pass without acquiring some memento to mark it. She was as blown away as I was and, in a day of mounting miracles, so was Ter. It’s relatively easy to satisfy a fan. To elevate your status in the eyes of a casual awareness takes some talent.

Will I see her again? Dunno. Am I playing her music as I write this? You bet. She is and always will be one of the strongest musical inspirations for my writing. If I had to see her live to realize this, then her work is done. I am a fan, but in this instance I’m a fan for different reasons. I listen to her for pleasure, but mostly, I listen to her music, her lyrics, and her voice, to write my tales of the human heart in all its conflict.

I am in awe. I am inspired. I am grateful.

Extraordinary Miracles II

“The Wedding”

In all honesty, I don’t know my younger older brother’s kids that well, but what I do know of them, I absolutely cherish. His son is a diehard hockey nut with smarts that make my head hurt and who married the sweetest girl on the planet a couple of years ago. It was a summer wedding, held in the garden and celebrated by the entire Greig clan when my older older brother and his wife flew out from PEI to attend with the rest of us. They’re a good match, both Canuck-crazy and now expecting my great-niece/nephew in April.

My niece is an accountant with a personality, which makes her a miracle unto herself. She and her sweetie have been together for longer than most married couples, so when they decided to make it official, I admit to receiving the news with a measure of huh? I’m not a big wedding fan anyway, having attended enough syrupy occasions during my church days to view the ritual with little more than suspicion and, perhaps, on a subconscious level, a culturally Christian-spawned sense of failure for not having starred in my own. But I love my brother and I love his kids, so accepting the invite to his daughter’s wedding was a no-brainer.

I am so glad I did. It was wonderful.

They were married in a movie theatre, of all things. The same movie theatre, I believe, where they had their first date all those eons ago. The ceremony was presided over by the marriage commissioner, a man with the presence of Shakespearean stage actor and a gentle sense of humour. The stage was lit by a trellis made of stage scaffolding and light bulbs, popcorn was provided for the guests, and I have to say, the seats were comfier than the seats at any wedding I’ve previously attended. No cartoon, my father later lamented, but there was a short film that introduced the bridal party beforehand, and the theme to The Princess Bride played as the procession started.

I don’t know where my head was at because I didn’t figure out why my younger older brother was missing until I saw him walking my niece down the aisle. Despite remembering that his wife was mother of the bride, I’d forgotten that he was the father of the bride! I can only imagine the scene before he and his daughter took that walk—I think she’s very much like him, so emotions would be running pretty high. In any event, he handed her to the groom and the ceremony proceeded as written. The wonder came at the end, with the granting of an Apache marriage blessing and the first official introduction of Mr. and Mrs. Green. If I hadn’t known it before, I knew right then that this match is a true one of lasting friendship, love and joy. It was all over their faces, in mixed radiance and relief at having gotten through the vows without blowing their lines. I have never imagined that any member of my family in any situation could even remotely be considered cute, but these two … they’re adorable. I happily hugged him in the receiving line and he murmured, “I’m in,” with such warmth and happiness that I wanted to squeeze the stuffing out of him. “You’ve been in for years,” I replied. “Yes,” he said, grinning, “but now there’s a paper trail.” He’s so cute, and she is just vibrant. How can they be anything but delightful together?

I missed the reception due to a previous commitment, but I’m sure the party was a blast. If the ceremony was any indication, it would have been the best reception I’d ever attended. As it was, I would not have missed their wedding for the world.

And that is no ordinary miracle.

Extraordinary Miracles I

“Ter’s Bracelet”

Every day is filled with ordinary ones. The sun rises, the sun sets. The cycle of nature rotates in perfect harmony with itself. Life is a gift. These things never change. Once in a while, a day of extraordinary miracles will occur.

I had one of those days last Saturday. So much happened that I can’t squeeze it into a single post, so prepare for a three-parter, beginning today with Ter’s bracelet.

She can’t even remember where it came from; she just knows that she loves it. Three years ago, it disappeared between the house and the office. Distraught, she called me at work to say that her bracelet had fallen off her wrist and she couldn’t find it in the car. That evening, we turned the house inside out in search of the silver-chased strand of faux pearl and sapphire. Costume jewelry, but a piece that she wore almost every day. We were in the cottage then, less than 1000 square feet of space, so it should have been easy to find.

It wasn’t. We retraced the steps of her morning routine, to no avail. We scoured the front lawn thinking that it had dropped onto the grass when she walked to the car. It hadn’t—or if it had, someone had picked it up and kept walking. We went through the Tiguan again, looking under seats, ripping up the floor mats, peering into crannies where it might have slipped while she was driving. We even looked in the hatch, which was absurd but that’s what you do when you lose something precious You look everywhere, even where you weren’t, in hope of a miracle. No luck.

Nine months later, we moved from the cottage to where we are now. Surely it would show up as we packed. Maybe the movers would find it. They actually found a $20 bill behind the armoire—we still can’t figure that out—but no bracelet.

It was gone. Vanished. Ter was heartbroken.

So heartbroken that for the next three years, she consistently wondered where it had gone. And every time she thought of it, a little voice told her it was nearby. No matter how often she tried to dismiss the notion, it persisted. Every single time, she would think, what happened to it? and the voice would reply, it will be back.

Impossible. Impossible.

October 18, 2014. My niece’s wedding day. I had decided to wear my tall boots with my outfit, as Ter was borrowing my bootlets for hers. Of course I couldn’t find my tall boots, because I haven’t worn them since we lived on Rockland Avenue four years ago. I only knew that they were stashed with a new pair of runners in a garbage bag in the closet I refer to as “the garage” because it’s stuffed with everything we don’t use, plus five Rubbermaid bins of Christmas frippery. Ter didn’t even remember the bag, so when I couldn’t find it on Friday and asked her if she’d seen it, she actually looked blank. “We’ll find it,” she assured me.

So, on Saturday morning, we opened up the garage and she glanced around at the stacks o’ stuff. I stood in the hall, racking my brain so hard that I started to smell bacon. Ter wasn’t doing anything notable. Frustrated, I was about to say something when she suddenly dropped down and reached beneath the little table her dad had built a gazillion years ago. Rustle, rustle, and voila! She produced the applicable sack of shoes: My tall boots, the new runners and, as an extra added bonus, the snow boots I bought in 2010 and have worn maybe twice since then! I took the dress boots out back to waterproof them (though, miracle number two, the day had dawned sunny and mild opposed to the predicted rain and wind), and dug in to pull out the wooden shoe-shaper thingies the salesman had talked me into buying with them.

The second shoe-shaper thingy had something wrapped around it. What the …? I sat on the back stairs and blurted, “Oh—my—God … Ter, you won’t believe what I just found!”

She thought I’d found a corpse or something, but because I wasn’t freaking out, she arrived curious rather than on red alert. I looked up as she came through the back door and held out the discovered object.

Her faux pearl and sapphire bracelet.

How the heck, you ask, did it wind up in my boot? Ter now remembers raking through the closet that morning. My boots hadn’t been bagged and tagged at that point, and occupied a spot on the shelf beneath the clothesrack. All we can think is that her bracelet had snagged on something and dropped, unbelievably, into the boot beneath it. Not onto the shelf or the floor, but in-to-the-boot. Mr. Spock couldn’t calculate the odds of that happening, the aim and trajectory to make such a perfect drop surely requires more technology than a Vulcan’s über-brain to calculate and yet … Ter’s little voice was right.

It was nearby and it did come back.

We stared at it lying in her palm and I took it as a sign.

The day was about to bloom with miracles.

My Daily Tea

Coffee drinkers may not comprehend this, but tea is as much a ritual as a habit. It either defines or complements the moment. It’s something to be savoured, if not treasured, and if it doesn’t taste good, there’s no point to it. Even the vessel can be specific to the blend. Today, a writing Friday, I would normally use my tea tumbler; however, I bought a new flavour yesterday and it wants to be steeped in my glass pot, then sipped from a little tiny cup. It’ll take up more room on my desk, but when tea speaks, I listen.

This one is called Ginger Pear and is the Tea of the Month at David’s. White tea with ginger, pear, cinnamon, vanilla, apples, rosehips and a few other boosters—how can it go wrong? White tea is a delicate thing, though, hence its desire to be sipped from a daintier vessel than my clunky chunky tumbler. Being new to my collection, it hasn’t been assigned a character yet … but in a way, it sorta kinda has.

My first thought this morning was to start a piece called “The End”. The vision was so strong that it was like a movie playing in my head. I got all excited to hit the computer and let the magic happen … and then my mind turned me toward all the unfinished projects, listing each by name and suggesting that I at least attempt to complete one of them sometime before the Second Coming and certainly before I start yet another story.

Sigh.

Actually, I’m in a good spot with each of the unfinished stories; I could pick up any one of them and do something worthwhile. That said, my other plan for today was to have a Newsroom marathon if HBO would oblige with the last three episodes of the second season. I watched the same three episodes twice last week, so surely the final trio would be scheduled for today.

Nope. No joy. Rats.

Hey, wait a sec. Shouldn’t I be happy about having a whole day in which to write? When I remembered that, I got pumped up again—and a little confused about what to write. My stupid schoolmarm mind has judged me guilty of neglect, but I’ve decided to go ahead with “The End” because it was the first thing on tap when I was still half-dreaming and every guru Ter has read agrees that the first thought of the day is the most important one, the real one, the one that will set the tone and be the most successful if you surrender to it.

So, Ginger Pear has just been assigned to Cassandra Stannard. She’s serial novel material, so I’d better get enough GP in stock before it’s discontinued …

Pool Party

The winning roster for 2014/15!

Draft day at the office – at 12:15, doors closed all over the 8^th floor and things got very quiet as this year’s hockey pool draft got underway.

My strategy this time out relies more on projected stats than beauty – “Ruthie’s Rogues” were a good-looking gang in 13/14, but pulchritude only got me to 7^th spot by the end of the regular season.

“Ruthie’s Rebels” is this year’s group and, may I say, they appear to have a good mix of looks, youth, experience and potential. I did nab hometown boy Jamie Benn from Dallas. Used to be I wouldn’t pick a Star, but those days are apparently done. I doubt I’ll ever say that about the Bruins, Islanders, Devils or Rangers. I’ll quit pooling before I pick anyone, superstar or no, from any of those hellspawn teams.

Now, if we can get the Flyers to win a game sometime before Christmas, and if Voracek can rack up a few pool points for me in the process, I’ll be happy. I mean, really. Four games into the season and they’re 0-2-2, garnering a don’t-spend-them-all-in-one-place 2 points and sitting in 27^th spot. Out of 30.

%^$#*&

Hairy Eyeballs

For years, I have heard folks—particularly sportscasters—describing one guy giving another the “hairy eyeball”.

A toe-curling metaphor, surely. A synonym for “murderous glare”, “special hard stare”, even “stinkeye”, which is equally disturbing but hardly more disgusting. “Hairy eyeball”, however, takes the prize for nightmarish mental imagery in the Venomous Look department.

I once thought it was simply a particularly vivid way to describe all of the above. Then I saw this bush on the walk home from work. And every bloom on it saw me.

Now I know where they come from.

Gratitude 2014

No doubt about it, life is hard. Our mistake lies in believing it should be otherwise. An easy life seems to present little challenge, except perhaps in how to while away the endless hours of comfort, prosperity and free time. Truly, that’s a challenge I’d be willing to tackle.

I bet it would be harder than I imagine, though. Even when you get what you want, even when you have everything you dreamed of and worked toward acquiring, there will be contrast. The good life only looks easy from the outside. Winning the lottery won’t solve all your problems; it’ll just make room for new ones or, better yet, make more room for the ones you already have but have been ignoring because you believe it’s all financial. People are people, after all, and if the conflicted nature of homo sapiens hasn’t changed through six millennia, maybe it can’t.

When asked to name one good thing that happened in my day, replying that “I wasn’t bombed by Lebanon” doesn’t count. Sure, I’m grateful that I don’t live in a war zone, but I can look a little closer for the gold. Knowing that Thanksgiving was on the horizon (a long weekend, for which I am always grateful), I pondered how to approach it without getting all trite and sanctimonious. All around me, people I care about are experiencing contrast on levels that make my piddly challenges look even piddlier, so it’s easy for me to ride the gratitude train just by saying “I’m glad that’s not me” or “I’m grateful that’s not my life”.

I could get all tangled up in “not”s. They defeat the purpose anyway. Thanksgiving is about what you have and what you are. So, this year, I am grateful to have First World problems:

I can afford a healthy diet if I choose—and I have a choice.

I can afford shelter—on Dallas-freaking-Road, no less.

I can afford to own a vehicle—a German import, of all things.

I can afford more clothes than I can wear in a year.

I have a job that enables me to afford all of the above.

I work with genuinely good people at that job.

I live in Canada. In BC, on the magical west coast in glorious rainforest country. Can it get better than that????

I have my wonderful Ter, who has stuck around despite being freed by an errant pair of socks.

I have my parents, my sibs, my sibs’ kids, and the joy of being with them at any given time.

I have Nic, and the technology to stay in touch with and be inspired by her.

I have friends.

I have all my teeth.

I am healthy.

I am loved.

I am grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Hockey All the Time

Such excitement! Under the new deal between Rogers and the NHL, Hockey Night in Canada now features more televised games on Saturday than at any other time in my history! Last night, we had the perennial CBC option, plus four others via various Sportsnet and CITY channels. For the first time in I-don’t-know-how-long, the Flyers were my first game of the Saturday night season.

And the buggers lost. Not only did they lose, they blew a 3-0 lead to do it. At home, no less. That takes talent. Montreal beat them 4-3 in a shootout, so they got a point, but no win. No matter how you spin it, that means they lost. For the third game in a row. Just like last year.

Is Craig Berube in trouble? Peter Laviolette lost his job after losing the first three games in 2013/14, but I suspect that Berube is okay for the nonce. Philly is notoriously slow out of the gate, but will pick up momentum as the season progresses. As hard as it is on Basher and me, the 82 game season is a blessing. If this was back the old days, we’d already be out of the playoffs.

Like Toronto, perchance?

And, boy, did Don Cherry go on a rant about the Leafs continually ignoring Canadian prospects and selecting Europeans in the draft. He was so bent out of shape that he got his mords wixed and called two of the Leafs’ picks “a Swinn and a Fede”—which is in no way the players’ fault; they just want to play in the big league. But so do the thousands of kids in the Ontario Hockey League (OHL), and according to Grapes, none of them will ever make it to Toronto. He’s a bit of a doofus in other matters, but the man is a patriot and he knows hockey. I must admit, I prefer the Canadian kids myself—they play a sturdier game and seem to be better team players than the flashier Europeans. I think that’s why Russia blew the Olympics. They were badly coached, yes, but all those NHL “stars” jostling for puck possession to be the hero … You really do have to leave your ego on the bench, ’cause the game is as much about opportunity as it is about skill, and if your third line winger is still on the ice but hovering off the radar, get him the frigging puck and settle for the assist. You’ll still get a point in the fantasy pool.

Is this enough ranting, Ru? Not quite …

Game Two of HNIC: the Vancouver home opener, where the visiting Oilers also blew a fast lead. It was a better game than MTL/PHI because the Canucks are trying to resurrect themselves after the Tortorella debacle and they came from behind a couple of times to win last night’s game in a shootout. I hate hate hate that their #17 isn’t Ryan Kesler anymore—they should have “retired” the number for a year to get me over the trade—but it was fun to see the Twedes working their cyclical magic again, and now that Roberto is Luongone, the net is in good solid hands with Ryan Miller. No goalkeeping controversy this year (one hopes).

Let’s save that one for Philadelphia.

Pulling Out the Stops

Hockey season starts today. The Flyers’ preseason record ended at 3-3-2, so I’m a little concerned. Not as much as if the record had been 3-5-0, but still.

Ter and I are going to see the team when they visit Vancouver on March 17. My contact at the office offered me the chance and I said, Puck it, give me two tickets and I’ll figure out the logistics later. A Tuesday night two weeks from fiscal year end will be tricky to engineer, but my office contact is also the branch Director of Finance and if he says I can go to the game, I can go to the game. He’s such a good guy, he even sold me the tickets at face value—originally $250 for the pair but when they arrived, he happily informed me that Philly is no longer considered a premium team so the price was actually $80 each.

I was crushed.

Then I thought (savagely, I admit), wait a second, pal—the Canucks sucked worse than Philly last year. Could it be that Vancouver is no longer the premium team? I felt marginally better until my nephew bought tickets to see the Calgary Flames and they cost twenty bucks more apiece. WTF??? The Flames didn’t even make the playoffs last year!

%^$#*^&

I console myself with the notion that exhibition games mean nothing, which is true until the last few when the team rosters are pretty well set and the final game features the lineup to start the season. Effective October 8, I embark on fervent affirmations and yoga breathing practice. Basher the PHI Bear was way ahead of me. Last Sunday, he wanted to participate in the bedroom bears’ weekly sangha as extra insurance for a successful season, but I don’t know that his style had the desired effect.

He muscled his way into the circle. Not terribly Buddhist of him … but that’s hockey.

Gracepoint-By-the-Sea

How strange to see Victoria dressed up and masquerading as “America’s Last Hometown”. 

The “television series event” called Gracepoint started its run last week and I’m pretty sure that every TV in town was tuned to channel 8 for that hour. Gracepoint, y’see, was filmed in Victoria and area earlier this year. Based on the UK miniseries Broadchurch, the US version also stars David Tennant, this time sans British accent, and anyone who remembers Twin Peaks will experience a similar sense of déjà vu regarding the story. A smalltown murder victim is discovered on the beach—but who did it? I haven’t seen Broadchurch and I don’t know David Tennant except as my tea fairy Treena’s time-travelling crush from Dr Who, but hey, I saw the film crews setting up across the road from my house. How could I not watch the series?

What an odd feeling. Truly, I was so distracted by Oak Bay Avenue pretending to be Gracepoint’s main street that I missed all the dialogue in the opening scene. Then there’s the beach where the body was found—right below the cliffs where I indulge in the occasional Sunday morning flânerie. Ter and I guessed at Island View Road and maybe Beaver Lake Park, and the waterfront in Sidney figured more prominently than anywhere else as the cop shop was set up in a vacant retail space at the marina.

The GP police crest is still stenciled on the glass doors. I dunno if the series is a one-off or aiming to be picked up (Twin Peaks made the mistake of going fulltime in the 1990s), and I’m not usually so giddy about six degree brushes with fame, but while on Ter’s birthday trip to Sidney, I just had to take this picture. Thank God I don’t have an i-Phone, as a selfie might have been in order.

Gushing notwithstanding, by the end of the first episode, aside from wondering if the interior shots were also filmed locally—the former Blethering Place tearoom, for instance, plays a hotel lobby/lounge—I was absorbed enough by the plot to forget for a moment that while living in the Canadian city of Victoria, British Columbia, I also live in Gracepoint, in Oak County, California, in the good old continental USA.

Does this qualify me for dual citzenship?

Freedom 55

Today is Ter’s birthday. She doesn’t want a splashy celebration—just a quiet day with a road trip to Sidney-by-the-Sea and lunch out—but I may have given her the greatest gift ever.

Freedom.

See, she’s been my house elf since we discovered, courtesy of the Harry Potter stories, that such things exist. For countless years, Ter has ensured that I am fed, chauffeured, and generally cared for/catered to while I go about pursuing my own self interests. We joke about me being her master (yeah, right), and she plays at cowering whenever something goes hilariously awry and I give her The Look.

According to the Potter tales, house elves often punish themselves. It’s a perfect setup, really, as I don’t even have to slam her ears in the oven door. She’ll do it herself and spare me the effort.

Or, she did. Once. Before I accidentally freed her.

While dressing for work on Wednesday, I poked a toe through my sock. Switching feet sort of took care of the problem, but Ter refused to let me go the distance in faulty footwear. “Don’t you have another pair of black socks?”

I did, and I had to agree with her given that the heel of said sock was worn too thin to be comfortable in my shoe. She put out her hand as I balled up the pair in preparation to toss. “Give them to me,” she said.

Without thinking, I did.

As soon as she touched them and before I let them go, I felt it: A weird, ripple-in-the-Matrix kind of hiccup that alerted me—too late—to what I had done. Horrified, I gasped, “I think I just freed you!”

She stared back at me, equally appalled, and yet more quickly accepting. “Oh,” she said.

I struggled to find a loophole, but the rule is pretty clear. A house elf is freed when her master gives her an article of clothing. That’s why I don’t give Ter anything remotely resembling clothes, not even on laundry day. I’ll put her clean undies on the coffee table and tell her to pick them up, just in case.

I guess it’s no longer an issue.

The good news—I think—is that I’m a pretty good master and she’s been quite happy slaving away in my background. Still, as she carried my traitorous socks to the dustbin, she cheerfully declared, “Maybe we can negotiate a contract.”

I can already feel control changing hands …

Happy birthday, elf.

O, Tannen-gone

Though October has barely begun, my holidays have been approved and Ter and I have roughed out a plan to avoid the Christmas crunch in December by getting a few things done in November, instead of waiting until the tree goes up to get into the spirit.

I was thinking about our tree, which led to thoughts on other trees, which recalled the memory of seeing the corpse of one lying abandoned on the sidewalk after last Christmas. It had been a live tree, once festooned with more than the few stubborn strands of tinsel clinging tenaciously to the crispy brown branches, the revered centerpiece to a joyous celebration of light, kinship and goodwill toward men.

And then its moment was over, its purpose served, its presence suddenly inconvenient—so it finds itself tossed out with the garbage. Worse, without the garbage, as if it had never known warmth and comfort in the bosom of its adoptive family.

I wanted to cry.

Then I wondered what happened to Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree, the one that Linus said just needed a little love. Was that sad, spindly twig shown love and made beautiful only to be stripped and cast cruelly aside when the season was over?

No, I say!

That tree was planted in the Browns’ back yard. Charlie and his family tended it for years, until it grew tall and strong in a testament to the healing power of love, and Charlie’s kids were told the tale of how their dad rescued an orphaned sprig to see it now as a majestic addition to the family’s back-forty.

Then I remembered that it wasn’t actually a living tree—it had been cut and nailed to its rickety little criss-cross stand—so I got depressed all over again.

It’s not good to think overmuch.