Seek the Source

In all lives there must fall some rain, and in every collection of stories there must be some that are inappropriate, and some that are just downright childish. If you are one of those people that is so puritanically crippled that a good fart story is offensive to you, then please stop reading now. In fact, stop reading altogether and never log on again. But I digress.

Marianne never ceases to amaze me but sometimes her Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder (which is admittedly only mild most of the time) manifests itself in the most ridiculous ways. After having spent the last three years in Marianne's close company, and with a family in tow, a certain inexplicable habit of hers has revealed itself in a pattern of behaviour. The other day, Blair was having one of his flatulent days at the same time that Camille and Aiden were. Everyone has days like that but Blair's tend to be particularly assaulting to the olfactory senses. Marianne once called him 'Blart'. In an open yard, the offensive aroma can be escaped but in the close confines of our family van, even opening all of the windows offers only scant relief. Earlier in the day, at the dinner table, their tummy rumblings had already become obvious, much to the destruction of everyone's appetite. Later, when we were driving along towards some family objective, the van became absolutely untenable. We rolled down the windows and gasped for fresh air. Marianne, however, began contemplating. "*sniff*sniff* You know, we had hot dogs two nights ago. *sniff*sniff* But they all have a faster metabolism than that. *sniff*sniff* Maybe it was the combination of chocolate . . . *sniff* . . . and I think, . . . *sniff* oranges, that they had yesterday." And this is not the first time she has done this. While most people smell a fart and either try to escape its foul stench, or laugh at it, Marianne seems hell-bent on discovering the source - that elusive but specific combination of foods that someone must have ingested that might have resulted in just that particular stench. When she does it, it adds a certain extra level of discomfort to the odour as one imagines the entire digestive process, simultaneously funnier and more disgusting. I don't think she does it to torture us further, but she certainly revels in her detective-like deductions. She is like the Sherlock Holmes of fart sources. 'When you eliminate the impossible foods, whatever you is left, no matter how unlikely, must be the foods that caused that fart.'

See you in hell,
Shakes.

The Truth Is Out

Marianne is an intoxicating mix of psychosis and sensuality. I was doomed from the start to fall madly in love with her. Never in my life had I been so ruthlessly and efficiently hunted by a woman who knew what she wanted. Even when she was pushing me away, retrospect causes me to be suspicious that it was all part of some master plan, meticulously devised to achieve her desired ends, and all completely unbeknownst to me. Her wildcat certainly trumped my wolf and I am humbled. And it is not just in romantic endeavours that she is a force to be reckoned with. Recently a dear friend, while surrounding a campfire with a group that stayed with us following the wedding, coined the term "Attilla the Mom" at her expense - both funny and entirely accurate. Her role in our family is indispensable and her ability to master the house only recently grounded itself in an explanation.

The kids had gotten in the habit of 'pantsing' each other. Yes, it is as it appears. It is a colloquialism in which the noun 'pants' is turned into a verb. The action entails coming up behind someone, quickly grabbing their pants at both sides and instantly tugging them down while yelling "Pantsed!" While there are occasions that it might be inappropriate, I have to admit, there have been as many occasions when I couldn't help but laugh. Especially funny is when one of the boys, often in loose-fitting pajama pants, is bouncing up and down in front of some video game, completely distracted, and facing squarely towards the television. One of the other kids gives them a dose of pantsing and usually everyone laughs, including the victim.

Eventually, however, Marianne had had enough. Nevertheless, Marianne recognizes good hilarity as much as the next person, and it was all she could do to contain her own laughter when she laid down a rule that even she knew would be impracticable to enforce. "That's it! The next person who pantses someone will have to spend the entire next day naked, even if we go out shopping or you have to go to school!" She didn't realize until later how little the threat was to someone like Milo or Aiden who would just as happily forego the encumbrance of clothing in any situation. In fact, I don't think I would care much either, and the challenge was just too much to resist.

Later that day, Marianne was in the kitchen with myself and a few of the kids. She climbed up on to a blue stool that we keep handy in the kitchen to reach the higher shelves (since all of us are quite short, except for Rory of late). At the same moment I was leaning down to load some dishes into the dishwasher. When I lifted my head I found myself at eye level with her crotch. Never one to miss a golden opportunity, I grabbed her pajama pants and gave with a yank. What I found myself staring at only inches from my face was startling. Much to everyone's surprise, Marianne was wearing some kind of thong underwear with bright blue stripes, and the red Superwoman logo front and centre. The cut of the undies made them look like a cross between a Wonder Woman outfit and a Superman costume. I did a double-take and so did the kids. "What the . . .?"

Marianne, also never one to miss a golden opportunity, must have seen our expressions of dumbfounded surprise and, standing just above us aloft her stool mount, turned towards her audience, placed her feet at shoulder width, planted her fisted hands on her hips, and austerely stated, "So, . . . now you know." We all burst into uproarious laughter, and Marianne's reputation as Superwoman in our household was cemented. You are Superwoman, baby.

See you in hell,
Shakes.

Alex Obi Wan Kenobi Coll = the BEST man!

So Alex, in his hyper-organized computer-systems egocentric mind, has graciously seen fit to send me the entire edited text of his Best Man's speech. For the record, Alex, Tatooine is NOT pronounced "Tatoony", but good try. Almost every other sentiment in this speech has me teary-eyed. Enjoy.


Vader, Vader, Vader, buddy ol’ pal. I’m glad you could invite me here today on your special day, and that we can still be friends and put this whole intergalactic war thing behind us. And I think I speak for everyone when I say that I’m happy to see you back with Amidala, you should have known that the whole thing with Emperor Palpatine just wasn’t going to work out. In the end he just didn’t respect you, not to mention the whole age difference.

Ok I’m done with the Star Wars jokes. Unlike Uncle Palpie I could never really get into role playing...

For those from the bridal party who might just be meeting Dave, let me give you some background.

Of the many things Dave has been called over the years, I’m pretty sure that a cool cat is counted among them. But if I was going to choose his most feline characteristic, it would probably be the many lives he has been granted to throw away. The first of those nine cards was played on July 15, 1970, when a compassionate woman and strict catholic dogma did him a favour, a debt which he has since repaid four times over.

I am not a religious man, but I do believe in guardian angels. While I can’t picture a system where everyone has one, Dave on the other hand has a whole team, and I’m sure the loved ones summoned upstairs to plead on his behalf are looking down on us tonight. You see, when he was only 15 Dave was tragically struck by a car in a hit and run late at night. He was rushed to the hospital, where to every one's joy and surprise he came to. The doctor sat down to tell the adolescent David some news. The good news was that none of the inflicted bone fractures was too serious and they should all heal cleanly. The bad news, was that given tell tale signs from
the x-ray, as far as growing taller was concerned, he was finished.

I can only imagine how this knowledge would impact a typically self-obsessed 15-year-old. But as a testament to the pointlessness of modern genetic screening, learning his fate did little to prevent a burgeoning napoleon complex. For the non-history buffs, Napoleon was born in Corsica, which is an island in the St Lawrence.

Of course, Dave was gifted with plenty of ways to compensate for being vertically challenged. He still had his good looks that were so popular with the ladies, and even the silky smooth voice to match. Unfortunately that voice was connected to a mouth which was not altogether unaccustomed to having a foot wedged firmly in. Strangely, this is one of the qualities we love most about Dave. In a world dominated by a saccharine, paranoid, politically correct media, David is not shy about speaking his mind. Not that he’s rude, or going to judge you for your opinion, but he ain’t apologizing for his. BS has its purposes but conversation ain’t one of them. This is an attitude which I like very much.

But where were we? Like any alpha male who also knows a good party when he sees one Dave was drawn to the decks, and started a career Dj’ing in the pubs and clubs of Ottawa-Hull that even landed him a spot on the radio. But he did not limit himself solely to the role of an entertainer. Being a renaissance man, minus the sporting bit, he simultaneously pursued the finer arts, becoming versed in the likes of Descartes and Shakespeare, eventually earning a degree in Economics from Carleton University. As if that wasn’t enough, and for God knows why, he added another degree in English to his accolades.

So, a successful radio career, a new family, and two degrees. Where do you go from there? Time to buy a house, settle down and trip the light fantastic? Not if you’re David Christopher. Hell no! It’s time to get that family down to the hot sands of Daytona beach and check out the party!

In Daytona it took Dave no time flat to establish himself on the scene and party in the booth with the likes of Snoop Dogg and the Chili Peppers. Even an NBA star came to the booth one night to make a request. Making conversation he asked “Hey, what’s a fella gotta do to get some action in this place?”
“You’re Shaquille O’neal, right?” replied Dave.
“That’s right”, says Shaq. To which Dave came back with, “Yeah, you’re not gettin’ laid tonight.” Tell it like it is pal!

Dave arrived ahead of the kids to prepare the cottage in Daytona. He was impressed with the comfy little bungalow, and like any good Canadian he was immediately drawn to the fireplace. This being the middle of summer, there was only one logical thing to do: fire that puppy up!

A nice toasty going, Dave stepped out to survey the view from the garden. The neighbour was out that day, watering his lawn.
“Howdy there!” the neighbour exclaimed, “where y’all from?”
“Canada actually!” Dave replied. “We’re from Ottawa. The rest of the fam is coming down next week!”
“Well, that’s a relief” says the neighbour.
“Why?” asked Dave, puzzled.
“'Cause your house is on fire!”

A glance confirmed that indeed the roof, the roof, the roof was on fire. But he didn’t need no water. He let that muther burn! Because the landlord claimed responsibility for not cleaning the flu, and set him up with a condo on the beach! In all the species in your mutt heritage, I’d have to say the luck of the Irish shone through on that occasion.

All good things come to an end, and Dave decided to come home. Of course, no one in their right mind would go back to Ottawa voluntarily, so Dave and company returned to settle in our little island hamlet. And hamlet, as in the play by Shakespeare, is exactly where I had the pleasure of making his acquaintance. The casting was perhaps the only thing done right in this production, with a brooding 25-year-old Alex Coll in the eponymous role, and the over-the-hill DJ David Christopher as Hamlet’s traitorous ami Rosencrantz. I can still recall the first reading, where introductions were made. I took a look at Dave, with his pencil thin chinstrap and frosted tips, and could at once smell something rotten in the state of Denmark. For his part, Dave looked back at an angry, stand-offish ego-case, and he didn’t like me one bit. But it didn’t take long for him to see through the act, and approach me after rehearsal. “These drama geeks may be intimidated by you”, he said, “but not me buddy. You’re not the first punk I’ve chewed through in my time and you ain’t gonna be the last.” I could tell then this was going to be someone I wouldn’t soon forget. As two heart-broken, wise-cracking sods we were bound to become friends eventually. But in the end it was not our mutual appreciation of the Bard which brought us together. No, it was of course a heinous act of juvenile shenanigans.

I had invited Dave and some of the cast over to my flat for a few drinks. The apartment was just another one of those 70’s jobs on Bay St, but it had an interesting feature. The entrance way camera was hooked up to CCTV, which you could view on a special channel on the TV. The channel’s audio was connected to the intercom, and a couple smart-asses from next door were on it, making wise-cracks at everyone coming in and out of the building. Well, I decided that if they were going to be smart, I might as well give them something to talk about. So donning a pillowcase to protect my anonymity, I made my way down to the entrance and treated the building to a show of my bare white ass. However, what I had failed to consider is that someone, such as a little old lady, may have wanted to actually use said entrance. Try to imagine someone trying to simultaneously pull up their pants and yank a pillowcase off of their head, and you could appreciate the comedy of the situation.

I returned to the apartment to find my friends rolling on the floor in tears. Dave put his hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eyes, and told me “Alex Coll, you are the man”. And that was to be the true beginning of a torrid bromance.

The production went off without a hitch. However, it is a standing tradition among actors to play some kind of prank on the closing night. There is a scene in Hamlet where he shows an impudent Rosencrantz the back of his hand. That night I decided to put my back into it, however when it came down to it I realized that I had never actually slapped someone in earnest, and became terribly self-conscious in the act. From my proximity I could see Dave break character for a second and give me a sly grin, as if to say “you little b, is that really the best you can do?” Well Dave, you’ll be happy to know that I’ve given MJ my full permission to demonstrate the proper technique after the reception tonight!

I have come dressed tonight in the most appropriate costume for a best man, Obi Wan, Anakin’s failed mentor. The truth is of course that it is actually Dave who has served as my mentor, and in that capacity he has proved anything but a failure. Nor am I the only one, as an instructor the man was a legend at Pan Pacific College International, and his disciples, spread as they are around the world, from Japan to Korea, to Mexico, would I’m sure very much like to be here today to share this proud moment. And of course no speech on David’s accomplishments would be complete without mention of his role as a dedicated father. In an age when yuppies everywhere
are raising their only child as an exercise in project management, Dave knows that you won’t find the secret of good parenting in a psychology textbook. No Montessori in the world will replace old-fashioned love and attention. Kids love Dave because he’s just a big version of them, in years if not in stature. But all that is not to call him a soft touch. Far from it, Dave has done his best to keep his children away from the dark side of the force, and give them the same chance his adoptive parents gave him. To teach them that all-important lesson: if you can’t always do the right thing, just try and keep your nose out of the wrong one!

Post Hamlet I had the opportunity to get to know Dave and spend some time with him and Rory, Blair and Milo. But as fate would have it I was called to leave Victoria to find my fortune abroad in Europe. I did not pay home a visit until 2007, when I met up with Dave only to discover that he had fallen for a charming woman, one Marianne Johnston. We spent the evening raising our brand of hell on the town, par normale. At the end of the night we relaxed in Dave’s living room, until he lay snoozing in her arms as she spoke to me in whispered tones. That he had fallen for a pretty girl was no surprise. That she could keep up with him, moreso. That she had outlasted him was perhaps unheard of. To top it off I could tell she was no fan of BS herself. She had earned my respect, and then some.

Dave isn’t always the easiest person to live with, a secret about as well hidden as the plans to the Death Star. Any woman that was going to put up with him would have to have thick skin and a firm hand. So, it was yet to been seen if it would last. A lengthy period ensued before I had the chance to return again in 2009 but when I did, it was to find that not only had Marianne lasted, they had a home together. It appeared that David’s incurable optimism was finally proffering returns. It was at this point that I had the pleasure to make acquaintance with Marianne’s lovely children Aiden, Camille, and Megan. You can imagine my terror when upon entering the door David shouted “Ok, who wants uncle Alex to read a story?!” I was at once engulfed in what can only be described as a kidalanche.

Like any true genius, Dave has had his doubters. These are the ones who have said “Dave, a great mind sure, but he’s a loose cannon!”. It is true that his explosive energy has a habit of getting carried away, and he has not always had his toes planted down on terra firma. In Marianne he has found someone who can not only take the thorns with the roses, but who has the courage and strength of character to get his attention and make him listen. Marianne, you are a rock, an anchor in the storm. And since you have come into his life we have seen nothing but positive things.

Needless to say none of the doubters are in attendance today. But I almost wish they were, so they could see what Dave can accomplish with a woman like Marianne at his side. How about an A+ grade point average in a master’s level theatre history program? How about being told by an accomplished professor that he should publish his thesis as a full length book? How about things in the works to get his blog on family life published as a novel? And the scary thing is, you two are just getting started!

So with the addition of wee Lilian the family is complete (knock knock). I have never seen such enjoyable mayhem as 654 Ralph St, a.k.a. Grand Central Station, and we are all blessed to know it is assured to continue long into the future. To finish, I’d like to say two things. Firstly, Dave, the gestation of a pig is 112 to 114 days, if you ask me one more time I’ll slap you for real, and I’ve been practicing! Second, I’d like to say that despite the occasional transgression, you are a gentleman, you will soon be a scholar by even the classic definition, and David Christopher, you are the man.

Thank you.



... and see you in hell,
Shakes.

The Reverend Yoda Loran Donnie Black

The Star Wars Wedding - Tofino 2010. It was simply amazing and there is no way to do it justice with a verbal description. Even the photos barely touch on the exuberant tenor of the day. You simply had to be there, and if you weren't, sorry about yer luck.

While I will be posting anecdotes from the 7-day trip for months to come, here is a starter. Loran has posted two pages on his Rock n' Roll Breakfast radio show website. One is a photo album, one is a blog entry and the links are as follows.

http://www.rocknrollbreakfast.com/star_wars_wedding.html

http://www.rocknrollbreakfast.com/lamas_blog.html


The photo album I posted on facebook is at the following link:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=193301&id=512277636&l=3f2bb42596

Enjoy.

See you in a galaxy far, far away,
Shakes.