averland

dead ringer

noreply@blogger.com (aver) — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 17:14:00 +0000

before sunrise, my preselected song faded in, awakening me from an unfulfilled slumber. difficult to relax when no call time came in before hitting the sack. scheduled for work in the morning, but lacking a destination or arrival time, makes falling asleep a challenge. i set an alarm to assure an expedient rise and dash. sure enough, i first contacted my agent who discovered her oversight: i was supposed to be on the opposite end of town, half an hour earlier. don't bother freshening up, she suggested; my duty was to play a dead body. if i didn't leave immediately, though, i might find myself really playing the part.

teeth brushed and jeans zipped up, i hopped in a cab and sped to the set. a frenzied production assistant greeted me at the gates, reimbursing the fare and ushering me to my trailer dressing booth. the first shot, featuring my splayed bloody carcass, was slated for 7:30, and my transformation was supposed to start at 6. it was 7:28.

i squeezed into a slim black suit that had been previously treated with dried blood and slits, and swiftly visited the hair and make-up trailer. each technician stared when i first entered, scrutinizing the cause of the commotion. i was directed to the closest barber chair, where a wig was quickly fitted to my head. i transferred two seats to the left where a make-up artist applied a single thin red mark to my cheek, apparently the extent of her special effects work. finally, i was led to the corner station where i sat for half an hour while clay and latex were sculpted into a depiction of a shotgun exit wound.

the production assistant returned, still perturbed, and whisked me into the studio. fortunately, the crew killed time with alternate shots, rather than lollygag on the clock. still, like a geek walking past a clique in a high school cafeteria, i sensed the stares from the shadows behind the camera.

a wardrobe mistress handed me hospital booties to protect my shoes when crossing the pristine white floor. a set decorator flashed me a photo reference, from which i determined how to lay on my back as the actor had posed. although our heights were identical, his torso girth was olympic, so i was uncomfortably propped upon a sandbag to appear more buff.

with the soft shuffle of booties-on-concrete, a props master approached me and doused the ground surrounding my wound with fake blood. i closed my eyes and focused on slowing my breathing while the camera rolled. after the hustle and bustle from the moment i awoke until the first take, i had returned to a supine position, albeit bloodier and contorted. five minutes later, with the shot in the can, i was done for the day.

afterward, i sat on the streetcar, tending to the splatter under my fingernails. all in a day's work.

a prop, propped up

noreply@blogger.com (aver) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 16:27:00 +0000

although the job title is "stand-in", the position is often off the feet. in the best case scenarios, i'm led to a bed or chair where i'm comfortably planted while the crew erect lights affected by reflective and filtering materials. as long as i fill the frame and remain awake, my duty is fulfilled.

tricky imaginative special effect shots present a worst case scenario. a particular concept looks awesome on a storyboard: at the moment of impact, two characters are suspended in the air while their aircraft collides with a mountain. illustrating these floating horizontal people is easy; bringing the split second fiction to fruition requires creativity from the designers, and a patient pawn like myself.

the set is dressed impressively. seatbelt straps and headsets are dangling from invisible wires, while a fire extinguisher and a medic pack are propped up by grip stands. indeed, from afar, objects appear to magically hover. i wondered how i would achieve the same result in the tableau. would i, too, dangle from above, or would some unobtrusive structure support me from below?

upon closer inspection, i noticed four metal stands positioned close together, each sporting a small rubber pad at the top. surely my body couldn't comfortably lay across four weight-bearing points...

'hop on up there,' the assistant director advised.
'how?'
'these two for your thighs, your torso side here, and your arm lies on this'

yes, much easier sketched than executed. with some awkward assistance, i clambered onto the pads. i immediately felt the pressure in each muscle responsible for supporting my body; my quadriceps, bicep, and obliques burned from bearing the brunt. twisted in a cumbersome position, my remaining body parts either cramped or twitched. lying on a bed of nails would offer more contact points, but i had to endure my job as a "painful-sprawl-in".

naturally, the sequence required the camera to slowly dolly alongside the exposed aircraft interior. since the scene was complicated, many trial runs, along with laborious adjustments, were conducted. all the while, i was to retain my frozen pose, ignoring the symptoms of improper circulation. any slight grunt or twitch would expose my struggle, effectively pronouncing me unfit.

from my floating prone position, my field of vision was reduced to the square foot of floor directly below. for what felt like many minutes, my view was unchanging. suddenly, a lackey slipped a paycheque onto the small patch at which i was consequently staring. like a carrot dangling before a donkey, the white envelope spurred me on. with both eyes on the prize, i endured the hardship's homestretch.

the fanfare accompanying the actor's arrival overshadowed my physical feat, and i silently stumbled off into the shadows to tend to my residual anguish.

domestic plight

noreply@blogger.com (aver) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 15:14:00 +0000

sitting shotgun in my pop's parked car, idling in front of my first home away from home, the final send-off was emotional. while the encouraging words were terse, my father's glassy eyes and tight throat spoke volumes. leaving the nest was way easier than witnessing the loss, i suspected. i watched our family car disappear into the dark, heading toward our family home, and the gravity of the moment sunk in. taking a deep breath, i turned to face my new foray into independence, and walked up the steps to my future.

my family away from family greeted me in the foyer, clad in pyjamas and grooving to show tunes. so far, so different. i ascended the staircase to my assigned bedroom, and a waft of home cooking stopped me in my tracks. how fortunate to arrive to housemates who were capable of preparing a proper meal, since i would have merely ventured to the nearest pizza parlour.

the chefs soon announced that dinner would be served, and i was delighted to be seated at a legitimate dining room table adorned with fixings for fajitas. the tex-mex cuisine was gourmet to me, when i was unaware of how to cook chicken, let alone chop vegetables or even warm up a tortilla. the grub was perfectly complimented by a cerveza, and since i planned to hit the sack at my discretion, i embraced the privilege of living on my own.

reality sunk in quick. warm supper did not magically appear the subsequent evening, nor evermore. rather than attempt to follow a recipe or collect ingredients, i was content to shop for crap empty on nutrients but full of gratification. my breakfasts consisted of pop tarts or lucky charms, junk my parents avoided at all costs. in a pinch, the legendary mr. pong's delivered a monosodium glutamate-laden artery-clogging dinner.

my meals in my college days could hardly be considered sustenance, since most of the substances passed right through me or grew as fatty deposits. within weeks, my malnourished system screamed for vitamins, and thus my crash course in self-sufficiency reached an obvious conclusion: learn to cook, or return to the 'burbs.

flash forward twelve years, and the domesticity process is almost complete. my morning activities are dominated by resetting the kitchen for another day of chef duties. as the house husband, i meticulously clean each dish and cutlery item and tidy the counter accoutrements. the introduction of a new scrubby brush actually provides joy. there is also a sense of pride and accomplishment when succeeding at loading the dishwasher with a series of tetris-style stacking techniques. even wiping grease from the oven is akin to a spiritual cleanse.

to think that i'm the same chap who once shared an apartment with three other lads, where the kitchen was virtually uninhabited for the year we lived there. cobwebs literally hung under the cupboards, and there wasn't even a light bulb in the fixture. simply a large room to house a fridge full of take-out leftovers and liquor, it was square footage forgotten.

no longer. now, the liquor is next to the fresh vegetables.

peace of fertile mind

noreply@blogger.com (aver) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 15:47:00 +0000

although fatherhood beckons from around the bend, four time zones away, i needed to gain some insight as to whether i could sire offspring. it had come to my attention through a routine check-up that production in the sack factory might be affected.

i was required to abstain from ejaculation for a period of two to five days prior to my appointment. this regulation kept me treading on eggshells: any excessive stimulation would have to be averted early on, or i'd risk staining my immaculate record. an overzealous encounter might promote a volcanic eruption, necessitating a clinic rescheduling. the diligent house of cards construction would be obliterated.

cocked and loaded, i descended upon the hospital, empty plastic vial in tow, hidden in my pocket. the andrology laboratory reception room held a couple of men, noses in magazines. appealing to our gender, only sports illustrated issues were available, hardly material that would encourage arousal.

after an awkward couple of minutes, a red-faced gentleman (flush from climax and embarrassment) emerged from a room, clutching his captured seed. he delicately placed the container in the appointed spot, and briskly exited. unless i were to pass by a brothel or bathhouse, it's not often to be keenly aware of a man who had recently expended. his actions weren't secret, and seeing as i was next, neither would be mine.

i lamented hearing my name, wishing to remain anonymous. the nurse discreetly slipped me two vials, which worried me - surely i couldn't produce a sufficient sample, even with a half-week of abstinence! she notified me that the receptacles were for urine, which worried me - i hadn't harboured that liquid! once in the washroom, cradling cup to tip, i plead with my bladder to spontaneously provide. i took a sip of tap water, as if that would immediately encourage waste. finally, lo and behold, a trickle, barely reaching the minimum required. triumphantly, i sealed the samples and strode back to my seat.

five minutes later, i was called upon for the main course. when i had booked this appointment in person weeks before, the receptionist had provided a vial with which to return. now the nurse offered a fresh one, and when i suggested i use the one i brought, she said, 'just keep it for future use'. you know, for a rainy day, when i randomly need a seed collection.

i was ushered to a room at the end of the hall, a discreet distance from patients with acute hearing. surely the nurse would be privy to heavy breathing or chicken choking, but i intended to be quick and quiet. while the rest of the hospital retained a sterile decor, i was curious if the disseminating setting would appear more inviting. however, other than a stack of outdated porno mags, the room was merely another stale examination station.

the masturbating material raised more questions than organs. which hospital employee has the task of selecting and purchasing these issues? was there a wide variety of kinks represented, in case a specific patient could only produce when presented with a unique fetish? were the pages routinely cleaned? not since my group of friends and i raided the caretaker's office in grade school had i seen a pile of '80s penthouse copies in a staid environment.

i opted for my imagination for inspiration, and fortunately hit the mark with olympic timing and precision. with my deposit immediately off to the testing for the time sensitive process, i wandered off into the morning rush, searching for a post-coital breakfast place.

dealings of wheeling

noreply@blogger.com (aver) — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 07:51:00 +0000

an absence of sustenance can cleanse the system at best, and cause hallucinations at worst. while i've skirted certain religious customs and preserved others, the day of atonement fast has remained a personal rite. an accomplishment of which i'm proud, especially when the purpose is to consider the previous year's transgressions. a self-regulating attempt at annual piety, albeit brief.

normally, the struggle would culminate in a visit to synagogue, where i'd waver amongst the malnourished, dressed in itchy formal wear and subjected to uninspired droning. a traditional scenario that was perhaps the most excruciating ritual of the final stretch of abstinence. this year, i was involved in the minimally more palatable option: car shopping.

arriving at the dealership, overcome by hunger, i had to subdue desires to bite into the lemons on the lot. even steel would suffice at the eleventh hour of food deprivation. the onset of optical illusions resulted in compact cars appearing as oversized sandwiches.

fortunately, my state of delirium had not set in yet, but the blinds were drawing on my window for safe test driving. our first vehicle seemed luxurious, at least in comparison to my folks' rides. attractive features dominated the dashboard, but the engine's power turned me into a believer. leading off with the superior model is a crafty procedure, when the subsequent journeys are inevitably compared to the integrity of the initial ride. the ploy worked, and the high-end was a must-have.

settling into comfortable chairs before a desk on the showroom floor, i was acutely aware that the wall-less office allowed anyone within earshot to eavesdrop on our financial transactions. at least cubicles, equally public sound-wise, have visual barriers. here, the private business of bargaining and baiting is completely exposed.

calculations and considerations were bandied by my wife and the sales rep, luckily leaving me out of the equation, since my lack of auto knowledge mixed with famish left me unfocused. our sparring partner was a slick salesman, tossing off catchphrases and doublespeak with ease. Conspicuous family photos and personal anecdotes served to humanize, supporting a pitch which could be mistaken for candour. my shrewd gal would not be fooled or wooed, patiently scrutinizing the flop, turn, and river.

once the specifications were in place, we revealed our hand, writing a figure on paper, as if the formality of the process trumped simply verbalizing our price. our liaison took the paperwork to the faceless authority around the corner, leaving us to discuss our options. he returned promptly with an adjusted figure, only a minimal decrement from the asking price. my wife was unimpressed, and begrudgingly counter offered. avoiding the ritual of disappearing to his superior's office, our guy casually grabbed the phone and punched the extension.

'okay, here's what they're offering. uh-huh. uh-huh. yup. okay.' it was eerily reminiscent of a 'deal or no deal' conference with the silhouetted banker. again, avoiding a direct disclosure, our guy wrote the numerical response on a slip of paper. again, the slight variation irked the wife, who had tired of the tedious haggling. she requested to negotiate in person, and our amused rep encouraged the showdown.

i proudly watched her confidently stride into the manager's glass office, and seat herself across from her nemesis. the brusque approach was appreciated and paid off. she played her pocket aces, the dealer busted, and she cashed her chips in. with that swift transaction, followed by my signature, i became a first-time owner of an automobile.

once the deal was sealed, i broke my fast with immense satisfaction. a delicious discount that i could swallow, with a payment plan i could stomach.

falling horizontally

noreply@blogger.com (aver) — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 13:32:00 +0000

of all the common phobias to experience through simulation, plunging in an airplane tailspin would be one of the most dramatic, if not traumatic. plastic spiders or confined spaces may trigger anxiety, but a full throttle nosedive reenactment might produce soiled skivvies. personally, when i'm taxied on the tarmac towards the runway, i struggle to suppress visions of the 'lost' pilot or 'alive'.

arriving at a warehouse for a production entitled 'mayday' tipped me off to my extraordinary day's work. appearing as an abandoned piece of wreckage was the front half of an aircraft, surrounded by electricians busily imitating lighting conditions for nighttime flight. this scene would depict details from an actual crash, which took place in the early '80s. thus, i was chosen to dress in a stylish white turtleneck and grey blazer, to match my horrendously brushed hair.

the plane interior appropriately reflected the era. with no personal screen built in to the headrest, i was reminded how if one didn't bring reading material on board, the safety manual would be the sole distraction. thankfully, current colour schemes and patterns are more neutral than the flamboyant eye sores of old. other than the visual differences from a bygone decade, the seats still offered a relaxing holding pattern. in fact, since the quiet cabin was dimly lit for night travel, i promptly settled into slumber.

suddenly, i was thrust into consciousness by a voice screaming 'BANG!' and powerful compressed air that was shot across my face. from peaceful snoozing to a living nightmare, my reaction was authentic, perfectly capturing the horror the passengers would have endured. without warning to brace myself for all hell breaking loose, the virtual intense chaos instantly elevated my blood pressure. napkins and headrest fabrics flew through the cabin, past dangling oxygen masks and luggage dropping from overhead compartments. lights flickered and ladies screamed, supporting a surreal approximation of a plane in peril.

my disoriented state of terror dissolved when the flight attendant awkwardly performed a gymnastics back roll past my seat, indicating propulsion. her genuine commitment appeared farcical in light of a stable level aisle, but as a consummate performer myself, i delved into my role by shielding my extreme expression from airborne debris.

crew dude with phallic air cannon

thirty seconds later, the pandemonium had subsided as swiftly as it began, papers and people drifted to the seats and floor. a fortunate outcome, this simple settling of elements into silence, rather than actual impact. crew members dispersed through the aftermath, resetting props and restoring the condition to pre-collision. i restored my tousled hair to its stylish glory, and adjusted my disheveled blazer and armrest fabric.

the mock bedlam would transpire four times more, but i was prepared for the onslaught at that point. by the fifth sequence, i practically yawned while my character was spiralling into oblivion. i was so over the phobia.

aw, shucks

noreply@blogger.com (aver) — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 16:44:00 +0000

at the point i pinned the name tag to the pocket of my dress shirt, it symbolically represented movenpick's ownership of ol' avers' life. following that initial shift, i'd shudder at the sight of my name on the schedule forever more.

in theory, tending the bar would offer valuable experience. in the unique 'marché' theme, patrons would follow mock cobblestone paths connecting colourful kiosks offering world fare. essentially, a glorified food court meets buffet, overpriced and overcrowded. with so much traffic, i expected to pocket a healthy gratuity for uninterrupted service. indeed, an endless stream required me to fetch beverages, but there was a catch: upon arrival, guests were given a passport upon which they accrued corresponding stamps to the items they selected. upon departing, the stamps were tallied at the cashier. thus, tips were left out of the equation, and my meagre wage wasn't bolstered by any incentive to be polite or efficient.

although the pressure was off to squeeze extra cash from the consumers, the obligation to perform properly remained. from the first day, i was thrust into a crash course in expectations of distinct drinking societies. very quickly, i learned the basics of serving nuances that each libation required.

my most familiar category was the beer enthusiasts, most often crew cut men dressed as preppies. apparently, simply flicking the tap and filling a glass wouldn't impress even casual draught drinkers. my indefatigable mentor exemplified techniques of tilting the glass and avoiding contact with the tap, among other subtle aspects i never imagined existed in the simple concept of pouring ale. usually i'd engage in a battle with foam, scooping and measuring with a scientist's instincts to present the perfect head.

when the tap began to sputter, my stomach would turn, indicating i'd have to venture to the cellar to exchange kegs. keeping the customers waiting while i'd struggle with a steel barrel in a claustrophobic space could have caused an ulcer and hernia combo.

the wine clientele were naturally the most sophisticated, and thus the most fastidious. well-dressed aesthetes with proper postures would speak in hushed tones, expecting the full rigamarole from a trained specialist in fancy dining experience. i'm positive my service left these elites unfulfilled. when asked to match a red with their meal, i'd randomly recommend a merlot, perhaps, to appear knowledgeable. while the connoisseurs leisurely swirled and sniffed, i sensed the accumulation of customers beckoning my attention.

most complicated of bartending procedures was the martini madness. smart suits and sleek dresses would mingle post work, and sip tasteless or fancy mixed drinks, respectively. in an apparent performance piece, my cocktail showmanship and garnish selection was scrutinized each time i shook or stirred. at first, i'd secretly consult the mixer's bible when an unfamiliar order arrived (which was practically every one), but eventually i learned to shamelessly ask the patron to describe the ingredients. more often than not, they wouldn't know, so i'd consult the bible in full view.

my job description encompassed these disparate styles of serving, but i was unprepared for the most tedious and degrading duty of all: shucking oysters at happy hour, which of course was a most unhappy three hours. i'd don an apron and a chain mail glove, and stand in the public booth surrounded by stinky clams, appearing like a medieval michael jackson chef. naturally, shucking the shell is particularly difficult, especially while the action attracts the attention of anyone in a two-metre radius. when a parched crowd is assembled, holding hot entrées on a tray and requiring me to serve them beverages immediately, their glare impedes my zen-like shell removal. offering oysters in the midst of a busy bar area was a phenomenally bad idea.

my lowest point in my three week stint, perhaps in my history of crappy jobs, occurred on new years eve. as the countdown began to herald the celebration, i stood exhausted in the oyster station, surrounded by intoxicated revellers wearing plastic top hats and blowing shrill noisemakers. at the moment the new year arrived, champagne glasses clinked in the air while lovers kissed, and i bent over an uncooperative shellfish, defeated in my lot.

a week later, i examined my paycheque at work. my scrimpy salary was like a slap in the face with a chain mail glove. i immediately served my two weeks notice, before two weeks of unbearable service. it was not a happy new year.

too old for disney

noreply@blogger.com (aver) — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 16:52:00 +0000

i've submitted to precautions prior to entering the canadian parliament, the FBI building, and LAX, but none of these establishments compare to the gauntlet of security on a disney production.

initially, details were limited. a shuttle would launch from a subway station, and whisk me to an undisclosed location. what adventure, i imagined, until i emerged from below to a dismaying scene: a crowd of teens huddled before two classic yellow school buses. reliving the classic field trip made me wish i had wheels.

almost immediately, the sing-song began. a host of hits were warbled at blistering volume, with the odd choice cut from 'back in the day' (the late '90s were considered oldies) garnering the most rousing tuneless renditions. my knees pressed into the back of the vinyl seat, clearly exceeding the appropriate size for a rider. i was sandwiched between a beefy poser gabbing with his girlfriend on his cell, and the unforgiving metal window frame. still in the dark about our destination, i sleuthed our direction on my phone's GPS.

once we arrived, at a park an hour from the city, we disembarked and were led to a makeshift security station. each guest was to surrender their cameras and phones, and acquire a badge. additionally, we were to sign a form pledging to not disclose specifics of the set's inner workings. for the rest of the shift, any visit to a porta potty or craft truck would require brandishing the badge to persistent security guards. most displeasing was the confiscation of my phone, potentially a paparazzi conduit. not only would i lose the ability to kill time, i couldn't tell time, let alone my current global position.

by the time i landed in the make-up chair, four hours had elapsed since i had shaven. my eleven o'clock shadow belied my youthful character, frustrating the lady applying foundation to my face.

"didn't you shave this morning?"
"yes"
"well, you're too old for disney"

humans appearing in disney films must adhere to a strict vanilla image. agencies warned their recruits to arrive clean cut, though the fashion righteous ignored the call. thus, their supercool status was shed when the rebellious were forced to shave their scruff, doff the logo-laden attire, lose the piercings, and surgically remove the tattoos. this was not the happiest place on earth.

my duty on camera was relaxing at the outset: a camper wandering aimlessly with an electric bass slung over my shoulder. although i did possess relative musical skill, my technique would be indistinguishable as a mere blur deep in the background. i passed by a peer who was selected as a counselor, probably due to his height and inability to shave.

eventually, the energy ramped up when the soundtrack to the musical number blared through the monitors, and i was to excitedly skip towards the choreography and clap in time. for all the faked conversations and silent situations into which i'm typically thrust, this was one of the more ridiculous. with visions of dollar signs replacing the saccharine dancers, i commited to the humiliating task of cheering and waving my arms while disney's brightest stars lipsynced in the foreground.

since the set was situated at the edge of a lake, dialogue was often interrupted by the sounds of nature. at one point, two opposing flocks of geese had intersected midflight, causing airborne pandemonium. unable to identify from which flying V they originated, broken letter formations circled in disarray, honking incessantly.

luckily, filming had to cease once the sun went down, which allowed my eight o'clock shadow to become veiled by twilight. i shamefully avoided eye contact, like a werewolf whose facial hair appears with the moon.

i could ignore the sloppy whitney houston catalogue sing-a-long on the child-size bus once i was reunited with my phone again. i stroked my stubble, entranced by the glowing blue dot travelling homeward.

medieval torture

noreply@blogger.com (aver) — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 17:46:00 +0000

according to historical texts of medieval times, life for most wasn't peachy. the same holds true for the modern dinner and show spectacular based on the era.

in many ways, the hierarchy of positions at the hogtown castle functioned much like its source material. the royalty were rewarded handsomely with riches and respect; they were merely expected to dress regally and recline comfortably while the rest of society would serve, entertain, and genuflect. relaxing summer work for a decent paycheque.

receiving the most benefit were the knights. long-haired athletic men would joust and sword fight under spotlights in the centre of the arena. dramatic choreography scored by an action film soundtrack and accompanied by fog machines made the drunken gallery in paper crowns holler at every clash and slash. a salaried position for endless glory and potential tail.

the unenviable bottom rung inhabitants were the lowly slaves and wenches. the job title alone should discourage any starving artist from applying, but i did just that.

although the castle was outfitted with tapestries and heralding trumpeters at the grand façade, the underlings rear entrance was less inviting. situated adjacent to the stables, a fecal stench was omnipresent. once inside, the scent became a mélange of poo, pastries, and perspiration. first, i'd retrieve my outfit from the costume counter, which looked like a ghetto dry cleaner. next, i'd don the wardrobe in the hockey rink-style changeroom, which smelled like a hockey rink-style changeroom. worst of all was the get-up: black tights and a brown tunic long enough to cover the crotch. stepping into the public arena was a daily emasculating ritual.

i'd be assigned a section consisting of approximately thirty place settings, and i'd begin distributing heavy metal plates while, below in the sandpit, the cocky knights pranced on their andalusian stallions. soon, the floodgates opened as families poured into the seating area. before delivering my spiel, i'd wipe the bitterness from my face, to avoid the affected garofalo 'cable guy' character from creeping in.

'hi, welcome to medieval times! i'll be your slave for the day, and...'

at this point, without fail, i'd get interrupted by the most boorish of the bunch, tickled pink that he's encouraged to address me with this demeaning term. thus begins an insufferable two and a half hours of catering to assholes. at worst, insensitive guests would purposely spill their drinks, just to test their slave's patience.

distributing drinks was like an olympic sport. four to five full pitchers of pop would be precariously balanced on a tray in one hand, while the other would attempt to pour into the plastic cups. when each pitcher was removed, the fulcrum would immediately shift, and compensating was extremely difficult. yet the more challenging event was determining when the cup was full, as the show had begun and the house lights were out. sticky soda would often overflow and cause half the row to jump up from their seats to avoid soiling their pants. in a worst-case scenario, the whole platter would tip, showering rivers of liquid to the unsuspecting row of revelers below, who would jump up to avoid back splash. not only humiliating, but now the strict delivery schedule, synchronized with the show, would be compromised as another trip through the dark staircases for a fresh tray would be necessary.

as if serving duties weren't enough stress, we were required to participate in a royal procession before the king and queen. we'd rush to the backstage area where we'd grab flags and assemble behind our section's knight, who would lead us through the dirt while trumpets proclaimed our parade. cheering accompanied the knights' arrival while the peripheral slaves trudged through horse poop.

sweaty, with sand-filled shoes, we'd hastily return to the kitchen to enter the queue. blister-inducing pans of half-chickens and ribs were delicately handled on hips with rags, and again we'd wander through darkness praying the tray wouldn't upend. the meat would be divvied by tongs, which usually created a drip stream that would send patrons reeling. avoiding sauce was futile; the place mats and napkins wouldn't remain immaculate, anyway, with the kitchy concept of no cutlery. conversely, the mess left by the voracious hellions was a gag-worthy heap of waste.

i'd have overlooked the distress at evening's end if i were to have simply acquired due recompense. however, my cheesy costume suggested that i was a well-paid performer, one who wouldn't collect tips, when in fact, my wage was lower than minimum because that's what servers earned with the presumption that gratuities were guaranteed. not so, and so although i was a berated slave bending over backward for two hours, my take-home was comparable to a babysitter's.

adding insult to injury, after bussing the scraps into a bucket, we would have to sort the contents in the kitchen, separating leftovers from the serviettes for pig farms and recycling, respectively. exhausted and demoralized, this final task of picking out used napkins dripping of rib juice from half-eaten pieces of meat, considering my empty pouch pocket sticking to sweaty soda-stained tights, i couldn't have sunken lower.

until i walked through the main hall, that is, past the knights surrounded by autograph seekers and fawning potential tail.

staying afloat

noreply@blogger.com (aver) — Mon, 27 Jul 2009 22:28:00 +0000

crawling out from rock bottom, any sliver of sunray offers relief. however gradual the progression, at least the direction is up. so, a sudden deluge, sending us rocketing back to square one, is completely disheartening.

the road to recovery was in full swing, with electrical and plumbing aspects corrected by professionals. once the guts were functioning to code (or so we thought), the process of soundproofing and drywalling was underway, for the second time. as a break from the financial and emotional stress, a much-anticipated mini-vacation was planned. confident that house issues were safe from which to escape, we retrieved our overnight baggage and entered the corridor shared with our neighbour.

our excitement dried up instantly when we stepped ankle-deep into a channel. a collection of severed downspouts, overflowing rainbarrels, and cracked concrete was no match for a heavy downpour. postponing our departure, we became a two-person bucket brigade, relocating the water to the back lawn. for a quick fix, we unplugged the storm sewer cap. initially a success, it seemed our weekend of respite was back on. then, my name was called from below, in a tone that could only mean trouble.

we ran to find our drywalling duo wading through our basement. the image was a nightmare, a body of water obscuring the floor. the workers were trying to determine the source while we were wondering why we couldn't catch a break. apparently, the rock had a false bottom, and a river runs through it.

our road trip became a rain-soaked traffic-laden expedition to home depot to rent a pump. our evening activity emerged as removing laminate and monitoring plastic pails as they filled with unrelenting raindrops.

drained and dry, we watched the local news for weather updates. the lead story spoke of flooding throughout the city, basement-dwellers suffering worse fates than ours. discovering the issue was epidemic made our self-pity subside slightly. seeing footage of floating televisions and personal items made us realize that we ended up escaping a catastrophe after all.

inaugural gig

noreply@blogger.com (aver) — Fri, 24 Jul 2009 23:08:00 +0000

(excuse the introductory paragraph; the cliché serves as context.)

experiencing life through a child's eyes is an exercise in humanity. momentarily detached from the grindstone, attending to a young mind's desires offers a chance to reconnect with our innate sense of wonder and imagination. literally lowering oneself to a little one's level gives unique perspective, often overlooked discoveries, such as crawling through thick grass and happening upon an ant colony, for instance. following an insect through its instinctual patterns can be wildly fascinating, something above which we'd otherwise walk.

this morning, our neighbours' one-and-a-half-year-old stumbled through our living space, exploring attractive objects in his path. most items, like a kleenex box or ring of keys, provided minimal entertainment. then, drawing his attention, almost exclusively lit as if in a museum, stood an acoustic guitar. wide-eyed, the curious toddler approached the instrument tentatively, reminiscent of kubrick's monkeys' reaction to the monolith. he looked back as if to ask, 'can i check this out?' i nodded, and accompanied him to worship the wooden icon.

i reached toward the strings, and strummed across them with one finger. the recognizable disharmony of standard tuning without chording had immediate impact: my one-man audience was delighted by the musicality. laughing, he mimicked my action, and recreated the discord. i felt blessed to be privy to his first acquaintance with rocking out. all at once, i was keenly aware of how impressionable he was, and how this simple creation of sound would encourage a lifetime of music appreciation.

equally excited, i cradled the guitar and improvised a tune, inserting his name as the chorus. he seemed amazed that the strange stringed gadget could emit an instant concert. inspired by his wonderment, i switched gears and played a rousing bass line rendition of the breeders' cannonball. his eyebrows furrowed and he pulled my hand off the neck. point taken. everyone's a critic. besides, that was so '93.

although there are three decades between us, we did share something significant: music is magic, and the sweetest melodies are lurking in cavities, beneath taut wires. we just have to feel it.

taking jobs from robots

noreply@blogger.com (aver) — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 22:22:00 +0000

in the prolonged interim of a pseudo acting career, income is generated in a variety of intolerable temporary occupations. flexible schedules, night shifts, and opportunities for untrained employees are what make filler jobs attractive. soul-sucking labour, pressure-pushing management, and unappreciative customers are what make them unbearable. one particular workplace takes the cake, wherein i lasted a single shift, swearing i'd never return: a factory.

although every image of factory work i'd conjured from memory was of claustrophobic, unsanitary, and essentially inhumane surroundings, i romanticized the chance to experience the grind firsthand. more precisely, without thinking positively, i'd crumble beneath the reality of having to commit to any work opportunity, regardless of compatibility or conditions.

the romance was over before i even got off the bus. deep into the heart of the industrial suburbs, the lengthy travel wore me down. my fellow shift workers and i disembarked before the big grey box, a looming windowless hunk of concrete, surrounded by sky of a darker shade of grey.

i followed the horde to the 'lounge', which looked more like a hospital waiting room in a third world country. a surly foreman performed a roll call, and i prayed my name might mysteriously disappear from the list. i retrieved my time card, and smirked when i punched in, reminded of ralph and sam. i swallowed hard, and pushed through the double security doors into my worst nightmare.

immediately, i was greeted by a thick atmosphere of unknown odour. a maze of conveyor belts, shelves stacked to the rafters with boxes, mechanical machinery chugging and hissing - like willy wonka's younger brother's science project. many workers wore face masks and gloves, and i envisioned contracting a virus from chemical exposure. soon i discovered the protection was from the highly dangerous substance tea, which explained the stench. individually, the leaves emit delightful scents, but as a massive conglomerate, it was sensory overload. i lamented that it was merely the first minute.

i was assigned a station alongside a conveyor belt in one corner, sandwiched between immigrants who would offer no socializing for the entire shift. like the lucy episode with the chocolates, i had to stay alert whilst bags of tea approached slowly. my simple task was to toss handfuls into a box, and fasten the lid. over and over again. for hours on end.

the archetypal factory images returned: depression-era auto workers in coveralls repeating menial manual activities, black and white photographs of overheated children pulling levers in squalid warehouses, rows of scarfed women hunched over dusty sewing machines. my experience wasn't far off.

within ten minutes, cabin fever set in. to avoid going completely postal within the first hour, i struggled to keep mentally active. i'd attempt to recall rap lyrics from back in the day to pass the time, or scrutinize the outfits of co-workers, or consider whether i'd dedicate all my wages to my rent, or splurge on a pack of gum.

after a lengthy excruciating game of extreme patience, lunch hour arrived, without a whistle. we punched our cards and hunched over our brown bags, huddled in clusters determined by the language spoken. others knew english, but i was content to continue my internal monologue.

the second half picked up where i left off, on the brink of a breakdown. somehow i remained conscious for the duration, and wearily stumbled through the double doors at the conclusion. i wanted to keep my first punch card as a memento, knowing it would also be my last.

by the time the bus came, my nasal passages could finally sense something other than tea. during the long ride home, all i could think was, 'automation is the answer.'

keep your chin up

noreply@blogger.com (aver) — Wed, 22 Jul 2009 16:41:00 +0000

the morning procedure of transforming into an actor's likeness is akin to the scene when dorothy's motley quartet are treated to makeovers upon arriving in emerald city. brush brush here, prod prod there, and a couple of oy gevalts, that's how i get my wig installed in the merry old land of oz.

dressed in fancy duds, with a perfectly-coiffed hairdo, i strode regally onto the sound stage, only to be directed to lie face down on a staircase. earlier, a stunt performer established this position by launching himself headfirst. the steps were replaced with cushioned versions to soften the stuntman's descent, but currently the hard surface had returned, which offered no comfort.

while the edges of the stairs embedded into my quads and compromised my crotch space, blood rushed to my head. i attempted to squirm into a more comfortable position but the wardrobe mistress instructed me to remain still so as to maintain continuity of the clothing. thus, i lay awkwardly across the wooden staircase, with the wig shielding my vision other than the step under my chin.

suddenly, a synthetic citrus scent wafted my way, followed by a glimpse of dirty yarn strands. a parade of keens stepped in and out of view, amplified by my ear's proximity to the board. two pairs of steel toes stopped next to me, and i felt a tube inserted through the sliced hole in my coat. a smoky mist slowly dissipated through the slit, and the special effects crew bolted as the camera rolled.

concerned that the wardrobe mistress would be disappointed if i shifted position, i froze, prone. the steel toes returned to reset their smoke effect, and one of them spied some schmutz on my trousers. i petitioned that he not draw attention to my sullied outfit, but it was inevitable. within moments, the mistress was furiously removing the mess, admonishing my carelessness. as this event postponed the roll, the whole studio was focussed on a woman wiping my tush.

el restaurante crapulosa

noreply@blogger.com (aver) — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 17:53:00 +0000

i've only been fired once in my life.

more than once, i've dressed in starched collared shirts and the requisite black pants to serve the public in various culinary establishments. never had i completed a shift without frequently monitoring the painstaking seconds as they passed. whereas i normally quit before the level of stress could infiltrate my last bastion of sanity, one spanish restaurant beat me to the punch.

with little experience in fine dining, the management took a chance on me. initially, i even found difficulty in the downtime tasks, such as folding napkins. the maitre d' performed a lightning quick rendition of the proper way to manipulate the cloth, quickly completing a complicated origami creation, impossible to reproduce. my woes were just beginning.

the irony of these classy locales is that the clientele betray their stateliness once the booze kicks in. sprightly spanish melodies encouraged drunken revelers to dance around their seats, which made delivering precarious daiquiris and martinis a nightmare. worst of all was the wine rigamarole, where i was expected to uncork each bottle in a particular manner, holding the neck in one hand. as someone who could hardly open the corkscrew itself, this presented a major challenge. nervously fidgeting in the dark, more often than not, i'd break the cork, and i'd have to exchange the bottle, humiliated. next, i'd have to pour a drop for the one who ordered, who would pretentiously taste it and then indicate that i should continue distributing to the table. after a while, i discovered this process was considered unnecessary by the unrefined folks in fancy clothes, who would rather just get their drunk on. furthermore, this ridiculous custom slowed me down considerably, causing other patrons to pull at my dress shirt like needy children seeking attention.

as for the food, i never had any introduction to the menu items, all of which were foreign to me. not only could i not pronounce the selections, i could not describe them. i'd take an order, interpreting the thick accents, and phonetically record their choices as 'pa-yay-ah' and 'poyo al a-hee-yo' on my notepad. often i'd apologize in spanish when customers would ask me questions without a lick of english.

the language barrier reared its ugly head when i'd attempt to pick up an order. surrounded by smoke and chaos, the sweaty chef strictly barked his frustration, demanding that platters get delivered. meekly, i'd approach the pass, as a child with fresh meat would tentatively approach a cage of rabid wolves. unable to identify the food, i'd feebly ask for clarification, which naturally drew an exaggerated indication. 'this! this! corvina a la parrilla con chimichurri! pick up!!'

all this turbulent activity amidst a flamenco showcase, arresting focus from my service, twice nightly. admittedly, the syncopation of the classical guitar and the intense flair from the fiery performers was phenomenal, but i was there to take orders, and the constant knocking of heels on hardwood made regular conversation impossible, not to mention the unfamiliar vernacular.

one evening, the culmination of every crisis occurred during this dance spectacle. a row of plates awaiting my pick up sat under heat lamps, while i toasted bread rolls for an appetizer - a ludicrous duty for a maxed out multitasker. unimpressed with my unclaimed orders, the wolf in chefs clothing roared over the aggressive rhythm. i shrugged, nodding towards the communal toaster. coincidentally, the owner, a portly curmudgeon in designer threads, caught sight of the exchange. he waddled over to me, and unceremoniously announced 'go home'.

i did, with the weight of spain off my shoulders, leaving the bread rolls to burn.

disbelief suspension

noreply@blogger.com (aver) — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 17:56:00 +0000

behind the scenes of an action sequence, it takes a gaggle of doubles to comprise one character. identically dressed substitutes congregate off camera, calmly awaiting their call to arms. depending on what's required, the swiss army crew is interchangeable, enlisting the martial arts expert for a fight sequence, the stunt performer for a pratfall, or a stooge with no skill other than the ability to stand still for reverse angles, like me.

from afar, the crew of utility replacements are convincing copies of the original, but upon closer examination, the subtleties are apparent. for instance, the lead actress has up to four mirror images, each wearing a matching wig and dress. peering at the shoulders under the string straps, something isn't kosher: a muscular masculine frame. along with heavy make-up and mammary inserts, men approximate the character with grotesque results. i'd pity the demoralized professionals, but i remind myself that their salaries are more than sufficient.

each actor's combat surrogates are typically asian men, which gives the impression of a chinese version of the film. aside from physical prowess, a lack of body hair allows less maintenance when swapping for the opposite gender. two weeks of extensive choreography footage, including harnesses and wires and crash mats, translates into thirty seconds of edited screen time. in the final close-up at the end of the sequence, the actress appears breathing heavily, apparently from the long trip from her trailer.

if you look to the left, a collision

noreply@blogger.com (aver) — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 15:08:00 +0000

blending my twin affinities for performing and my home city, guiding tourists and residents alike atop a classic double-decker bus seemed ideal. i imagined honing my impromptu humour while cruising through fresh air before a rapt audience, generous in their laughter and gratuities. in reality, my experience unfolded dramatically different.

our original bristol behemoth spewed diesel exhaust, frequently broke down, and somehow remained on the road despite serious safety issues. instead of relaxing into a routine of show and tell, i spent the better part of the shift acting as a human barrier at the rear exit, desperately grasping poles at the far reaches of my wingspan. impatient patrons stationed at the doorless entranceway would otherwise stumble into the maw of traffic if not for my meagre human shield. blocks of noteworthy architecture would pass by behind me with nary a mention due to my security measures.

being a bouncer continued while we idled. i'd take tickets from oncoming folks, distracted from the disembarking riders engaging in a dangerous game of frogger. meanwhile, gridlock on the thin staircase leading to the second level, a standoff of reluctance to allow ascension or descent.

multiply the safety factor by infinity when it rains. naturally, the group at the top hustles to the shelter below, although the first level volume can't sustain double occupancy. plus, the exposed staircase becomes a slippery hazard, especially while the bus is careening at top speed. visibility is almost nonexistent through the drenched windows, so the disgruntled group demands refunds while compacted strollers force babies to wail in the midst of the chaos. in my position clinging to the pole at the rear, dangerously hovering over concrete, i'd usher and assure and blockade the frustrated families. on top of all this, my duty to continue leading the tour posed the most egregious aspect: with a microphone in hand, and white knuckling the metal pole for dear life, i'd get small shocks every time i spoke.

when i finally had an opportunity to simply comment on the scenery, most often it went unappreciated. aside from the weak speaker system and prevailing wind sounds, the brunt of ill communication occurred due to multilingual commuters. not only would my jokes meet chirping crickets, but any description in english was ignored. i discovered this dilemma when i'd suggest looking to the right, and see no heads turn. the lack of understanding reached a pinnacle when we'd travel beneath an underpass, and i'd employ my best sign language to indicate to the clueless passenger taking pictures to take a seat or decapitate. realizing my patter was essentially vocal muzak, i took liberties with my script, entertaining the driver with irreverent remarks. it's difficult to expect tips when the guests can't understand my gratuity pitch, let alone the entire two hours of nonstop commentary. throw in a rainstorm, and you'd get an electrified guide to a blurry backdrop lost in translation.

the shift consisted of six consecutive loops, usually identical routes through toronto points of interest, without a break, for minimum wage. the words were second nature as the journey was a groundhog day scenario, revisiting the same landmarks ad nauseum. traffic or construction might divert the circuit, which would offer a challenge to remark on the nondescript surroundings. a significant break from the norm was desperately desired, and during one of my final shifts, i got my wish.

rolling by the oldest church in the city, the busload witnessed a bride and groom under the arch of the entrance. the serene scene was abruptly interrupted by a loud gruesome crunch, followed by gasps of surprise. the bristol slowed to a halt, and the silence was broken by a suddenly irate wedding guest, literally hopping mad. enraged that his mercedes was now bent, he demanded an explanation through an expletive-laden tirade.

while the drivers squabbled on the sidewalk, the bus emptied out onto the hillside. the discontinued joyriders baked in the shade, awaiting a shuttle and refund. in my final address to the weary crowd, i reminded them that this event would be the centerpiece of their vacation account.

unleash the hellish

noreply@blogger.com (aver) — Sat, 11 Jul 2009 14:37:00 +0000

it's two weeks into my dog-sitting debut, and thus far my first foray into canine companionship has been a true trial by fire.

although i anticipated adapting to a dependent's schedule, i was unprepared for the toll. like clockwork, at the crack of dawn, our temporary pooch rustles at the foot of the bed. a collection of familiar sounds indicates the day's first duty is imminent: the inimitable alternating rapid thwack of floppy ears propelled in a head shake, the aggressive genitalia lapping, the panting and yawning and snorting that rivals any alarm clock. accordingly, i succumb to the wake 'n' walk.

the beagle mix keeps the pink leash taut, sniffing each lawn like a sleuth. there's the awkward eye contact when she squats to leave her scent, as if to say, 'just a sec, i gotta mark this'. then, of course, there's the stoop to scoop, which (although i've become more accustomed to retrieving) never fails to make me shudder. as if this process isn't demeaning enough, a drive-by cheap shot startled me recently, as a dude lobbed a 'get a real dog' grenade from a passing van. a charlie brown rain cloud formed over my head.

beyond these trials of normal dog responsibilities, a couple of specific challenges emerged. first, there were the fleas. the incessant scratching tipped us off, and the sight of the minuscule culprit performing an olympic leap from the dog's belly to our bed has caused our distress over supposed full-blown home infestation.

worse, the former stray is squarely in heat, which not only enlarges her lady parts, but also induces menstrual discharge. sharing a bed with the fleabag is already a compromise, but the dripping nether region is completely repugnant.

i love cats.

king for a day

noreply@blogger.com (aver) — Wed, 08 Jul 2009 13:59:00 +0000

cattle comparisons are appropriate, sitting in a large holding pen with four hundred black-clad background players. awaiting the whims of the filmmakers, the crowd of twentysomethings attempts to pass the time while on the clock. when summoned, the herd is ushered to their positions, where they're to react in silence. essentially pawns inhabiting the edge of frame, they are faceless window dressing on par with the prop drinks they pretend to consume.

background performer culture thrives in the ante chamber. a conspicuous micro society erects, complete with class systems and community programming. the landscape appears as a hurricane shelter, with bodies sporadically sprawled in sleeping bags, a food station with staple set fare, and groupings engaged in casino activities like poker and dominos.

when a scene takes over a week to shoot, the background actors required for on-camera continuity establish some unique aspects to their home base. there's the in-house movie theatre, which consists of a few fold-out chairs arranged around a laptop. there's the random concert series, usually a shaky acoustic take on a rock classic, although this week we were treated to an accomplished accordionist's polka medley.

i entered this windowless warehouse as an outsider, the only one photo doubling. it's immediately visually apparent since my red dress shirt bleeds through the sea of black. furthermore, i'm outfitted with a ridiculous wig and pointy white shoes two sizes too small. my eyebrows and sideburns are coloured in darker, and lest we forget the crimson socks. it's a costume that screams for the centre of focus.

when we're invited to set, i anticipate being lead to a position that further draws attention, and sure enough, my character reins over the crowd. i sit alone on a throne built atop a two storey tall pyramid, while the many minions mill about at the base. additionally, spotlights are trained on me, and i'm handed a fancy cane. a bottle of champagne rests at my feet, and i get a real taste of royalty.

it lasts briefly, bereft of glory: i am a mere red blur in the upper corner, barely on camera for more than a couple moments. still, as far as quirky occupations go, this one takes the cake.

speak of the devil

noreply@blogger.com (aver) — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 16:32:00 +0000

without fail, the ghost of our evil contractor haunts the air of our dysfunctional abode. excruciating reminders exist at every corner: lopsided pocket doors, exposed outlets, hazardous pot lights swinging on wires. however, the marks left by our nemesis are not indelible. the renovation recovery is in motion, where we'll gradually erase the memory of incompetence.

one sunny afternoon, a knock at the door. before i could emotionally process the high noon showdown, he-who-must-not-be-named was before me in the flesh, silhouetted in sunshine. while he shuffled through his copy of the electrial fines he'd been served, i stepped into the shadow of the cove, effectively guarding the front door.

the papers shook in his dirty fingers, mimicking the vibrations in my chest. my nerves pulsated from a combination of emotions: outrage, fear, exasperation. i glanced at his remaining tools leaning against the garage, a gleaming pickaxe and sledgehammer, and envisioned an epic backyard battle for supremacy.

after all the atrocities, he had the audacity to solicit our financial assistance for his meagre fines. naturally i declined, and attempted to defuse the tense confrontation by suggesting he visit the electrical authority himself to dispute the futile complaint.

he left in a huff, and left me shaken. i made a mental note to immediately acquire a deadbolt lock, and hoped the intimidating apparition and all his slipshod efforts would be fully exorcised as soon as possible.

capiche?

noreply@blogger.com (aver) — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 13:29:00 +0000

a romantic promenade through old victorian neighbourhoods offers more benefits than just a serotonin release. visually, the pedestrian is treated to attractive architecture, glorious old trees, and personalized landscaped lawns. every few steps, a fresh scent wafts across the sidewalk, random floral fragrances flirt with passers-by.

of all the various sounds mingling in the air - piano from a loft studio, an alley cat scuffle, sirens from afar - one of the most comforting is the cross-porch chatter. most often in a foreign language, elder immigrants recline outside their front door, and converse with their immediate neighbours, who share the same patch of concrete, often divided only by a thin metal railing. i imagine conversation flows from updates from the old country to the trials and successes of life in the metropolis. the twilight porch engagement is as much the daily ritual as morning coffee and afternoon tea. similar to the function of a family dinner, the porch chat allows for the day's decompression and social connection.

as new residents in an established community, we have little in common with the folks on our block. as a young couple, we are more transient and active. still, the sweet woman next door who shares a wall in our semi-detached homes has reached across the fence, literally. her garden has been saturated with vegetables, so we've inherited the tomato overflow. as well, her impossibly precious kitten frequently scurries into our yard to satiate his curiosity, so we often drop the wanderer into her garden, only to watch him clamber back.

it is the language barrier that genuinely divides us, though. the elderly lady, to whom we affectionately refer as 'mamma mia', speaks strictly italian. still, that doesn't hinder her from engaging in lengthy one-sided discussions any time we appear near her garden. it's rather comical, if not unfortunate, that mamma mia lacks for socializing to the extreme, so she'd rather divulge her daily ruminations to strangers that appear dumbfounded. we nod at appropriate intervals, attempting to determine when her inflection requires acknowledgement.

i'd consider learning italian language basics in order to communicate, but in the meantime, i'll just keep returning 'mini mia' to her mamma's outstretched arms, accepting her vegetables, and intermittently nodding in imitated understanding.

Mamma mia cleaning dust off our porch

hospital impatience

noreply@blogger.com (aver) — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 14:39:00 +0000

in the hallowed hallways of hospitals, patients and visitors pace alike, awaiting reunions or rehabilitation.

silently sliding along labyrinthine corridors, at my even speed, i'm either lapped by swift staff in scrubs, or i encounter gown-clad shadows shuffling at a snail's pace. television medical dramas can't properly capture this atmosphere, an intense assault on the senses. fluorescent lights, antiseptic scents, monitors and moans, sterile air - it leaves me feeling queasy.

in my most recent rare hospital appearance, to visit my fiancee post-op, i fought off nausea while teetering at her bedside. with a room full of infirm inpatients, i struggled not to pull focus; how embarrassing, the fallout from fainting. more disappointing would be my total lack of support for her more harrowing ordeal. my vision blurred, voices reverberated hollowly, and i managed to hobble out into fresh air.

but the bottom really dropped out when she recounted her muscular reaction under anesthesia. during a tense couple of minutes, she struggled to catch her breath. this grave scenario left her fearing that feeling in the future, and it reinforced how much i feared if she left me.

want not

noreply@blogger.com (aver) — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 14:16:00 +0000

after three truckloads and two massive bags of debris were hauled off our property, all that remained of our renovation refuse was a relatively manageable pile. my pop-in-law-to-be and i rented a van for the task of the final disposal.

once the cargo of garbage was loaded, we carted the heavy vehicle to a blue collar neighbourhood, lumbering through construction and traffic. at the end of an industrial road, we proceeded through the gates of a privately-owned dump.

without guidance from signage or personnel, we pulled up to the window of a building we assumed was an office. a woman waved us on, and we discovered later that our van had been weighed while we were parked on a clandestine scale.

next, we backed into the mouth of the largest enclosed space i've ever seen. utterly fascinated, i stood next to the van, witnessing a scene from an apocalyptic science fiction flick. a bobcat bulldozed scattered reams of rubble, the vehicle dwarfed by storeys high heaps of trash, like an insect creeping through a buffet.

almost instantly, our contribution was swept away, and conjoined to one of the many mountains. the sight of our discarded ugly blue bathroom tiles prominently displayed on the otherwise beige backdrop was rather amusing. it was also a relief.

on the way out, we paused on the hidden scale to recalculate our weight sans waste, before leaving our eyesore behind, out of sight, out of mind.

honestly, can't mufflers be mandatory?

noreply@blogger.com (aver) — Fri, 12 Jun 2009 16:50:00 +0000

playing keyboard next to a drummer during raucous gigs was a thrilling ride: the abrasive skin and cymbal striking would vibrate my very bones.

i didn’t so much have to lock in as i was involuntarily swept by the rhythm. it was akin to being strapped to the undercarriage of a locomotive.

rather than become accustomed to the loud decibel levels over time, my ears felt increasingly irritated each rehearsal and concert. it grew to the point where each snare crack would assault my eardrum, causing me to wince and abruptly stop playing. i soon required plugs in order to participate, and preserve my sanity.

similarly, when attending concerts, if i forget my trusty plugs, i rush to the washroom to fashion a tuft of TP to shove in the canals. furthermore, i maintain my headphone volume at a reasonable level not because it’s suggested, but because it’s tolerable. my sight began its slow degradation almost two decades ago, but my failing hearing definitely signals advanced aging. more precisely, my ears aren’t getting weaker, just more sensitive.

life in a metropolis will naturally offer noises to endure. i can’t fault the jackhammers or jet streams, but there are a pair of rackets that are particularly vociferous and avoidable: hog engines and subway screeching.

i’m no expert on noise bylaws, nor am i looking to ruffle the feathers of bikers, but the arresting rumble of the engines roaring through dense neighbourhoods is no less than offensive. i can feel the cranky codger in me creeping up to complain, but other than enthusiasts and pacifists, shouldn’t we all be outraged? must we tolerate that grating aural pollution, interrupting our thoughts and distracting our peace, just to allow the freedom of extreme expression?

when i’m trapped at an intersection alongside a motorbike, and the leather clad rider is revving unnecessarily, i feel slighted by the provocation. i’m not in the habit of having earplugs on hand, and lord knows the jarring sound is like a heavy metal concert on wheels.

then there’s the piercing screech of the subway careening around corners or braking to a halt. like a thousand screaming sirens from hell, scraping fingernails down a chalkboard in slow motion through a megaphone. riders must be desensitized, because i notice nary a pair of ears plugged with fingers.

i’m not sure if the solution is just track or brake maintenance, or perhaps a massive application of WD-40, but why are we subjected to such daily torture? there’s got to be a ‘better way’…

doppelganger duties

noreply@blogger.com (aver) — Wed, 10 Jun 2009 20:37:00 +0000

although we are mired in complications from shoddy renovations, and our home life is dominated by disarray, thankfully there are still activities that occupy our time.

photo doubling requires detailed movie magic. although it is my vague shape appearing in the distant background, within the shadows of a balcony, careful preparation to match my look to the absent actor is achieved. my skin tone becomes paler with make-up, my hair becomes darker and straighter with coloured mousse and a flat iron. for some reason, although i have identical boots and jeans and a sweater to wear, the cuff colour of my shirt sleeves is incorrect. this is where the magic manifests: i was given white sleeves to protrude from under my sweater! the audience will never know it was different material! in reality, the audience will never know i wasn't the actual actor!

last night, at the 13th hour, there was a knock at the trailer door. (yes, i've been designated a trailer, although it's the size of a small cubicle, and i share it with another double. but it's got a small tv and a toilet, so it feels like a glamourous prison cell, if not a potentially stinky sentence). our liaison gestured what i mistook as the "you're out of here" thumb hitch, so i began changing out of my outfit, and mussing my flat 'do back to my typical wavy mess.

i walked around to the back of the large studio to sign out, surprising the confused production assistant at the sign-out table. to confirm my freedom, he contacted the liaison over the walkie. it turns out, that thumb gesture was meant to indicate "come to set". i guess the arc of his arm wasn't precise enough, as i thought his thumbnail pointed to the bus stop, not the studio.

suddenly panicked, i ran back to the trailer compartment, brushing my hair with my fingers through the dark parking lot. at the cubicle, i disrobed, threw on my costume, and scurried onto set, still adjusting my awkward detached sleeves under my sweater. by a stroke of luck, nobody noticed as i arrived just in time to accompany the other doubles to our marks. i then discovered that only my feet would be seen in the next shot. five minutes later, it was announced that i wasn't needed at all.

i made sure to ignore the hand signs indicating "that's a wrap", and relied on hearing the actual phrase before removing my sleeves...

welcome to wits' end

noreply@blogger.com (aver) — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 18:29:00 +0000

our emotional state is mirrored by the state of our construction zone: cluttered, unsettled, uncomfortable. dusty paw prints appear on pillows and oven surfaces, betraying our cat’s exploration. pot lights are randomly flickering, drops of paint dot the laminate flooring, appliances are failing.

the living room has been affectionately dubbed ‘the hotel’, the couch bed surrounded by piles of clothing and papers illuminated by the tv’s glow. a discarded piece of drywall acts as a window shade. the bathroom remains inaccessible due to a leaning king size mattress and unpainted baseboards inhabiting the hallway. our kitchen countertop is a lush unfinished plywood, and our office ceiling is nonexistent.

the washing machine cycle sounds reminiscent of a helicopter landing in our apartment, which thankfully drowns out the drills and hammers of the deck construction next door, the hum of the hot water tank, and the drone of doof doof tunes from tenants enjoying our stress-free home above.

more than ever before, this week we’ve learned the meaning of sacrifice, patience, and the struggle to cling to the end of a rope.

the glass can’t appear half-full when it’s clearly almost empty, but we can still think positively: at least we’ve got some liquid. it’s this resolve that provides the stamina to push on, to refill our vessel with a sweeter wine than before.

all you need is love.