Decoys 2: A Real Mouthful

All in a days work on the set of "Decoys 2:Rebirth", you might say. This particular evening, movie magic took a back seat to movie petroleum jelly, as I was attacked by a beautific blond Decoy in the horrifying climax to Scene 111: Nick's Blue Balls. The latex tentacles wrapped around my arms were slimed up and tied to my wrists; off-camera an SFX guys looking much like Charlton Heston in Ben Hur, clasped to the tentacle 'reigns' while I writhed in fear. The menacing tentacle trident was animatronic, and would pinch at will. That greased-up beauty forwent passing "GO" and landed right into my mouth. I'm shy, and struggled with admitting here that the KY Jelly didn't taste so bad. (Other actors asked to execute the same intimate action needed honey applied to the tip; I'm only a gentleman from the skin out, and required no such inducement). After this, a greased-up FX performer (one of the SFX designers, Sylvania Yau) got into her latex alien suit and straddled me as I lay prone in the snow. Lying in the cold, wet "snow" (at this point, we had shifted to an indoor set) under an alien matron, covered in KY Jelly, I felt about as close to being "reborn" as I'll likely ever get. Dig the Hawaiian shirt I got to wear! And yes, that is lipstick smeared around my lips. The lipstick isn't mine. And I didn't get it off the tentacle. It belonged to the talented Lindsay Maxwell, an alien temptress I managed to outmaneuver in order to save my own skin.

What happens at West Ed stays at West Ed.

Those visiting the West Edmonton Mall--The Greatest Indoor Show on Earth (not counting my performance in the sack, which isn't necessarily limited to the in of doors)--can consult the Sea Lion enclosure's "Wall of Fame" to see none other than trusty B cozied up next to Jazz, the Sea Lion Adultress!

I am in exceptional company! My mash photo is right next to Ben Mulroney's (although he looks altogether too uncomfortable with a sea lion that close to his hair) and underneath some guy who looks a lot like Bronson Pinchot (his claim to "fame" I suppose).

Whether I deserve such a lofty accolade is neither here nor there.

What could be next? The "Wall of Fame" at Dangerous Dan's Diner, your favourite alien courtesan attempting to finish one of James' Coronary Burgers? Let's hope.
Maybe James will let me wear his fruity hat?

. . . if I promise not to smudge his Mayim Bialik autograph.

Have you seen this cruel, evil bastard?

Returning to my job as a beer salesman might sound like a harsh dose of reality after battling buxom blond aliens, but it's less arduous than you might think.

Fact of the matter is--I love my life.

Sitting at the rail of my new favourite SWP account, I inadvertently bellied up beside a total class act. Barely able to stand, the first alarm bells should have sounded when he took one look at my tweed snap-brim hat (which I love to bits) and said:

A- "Are you an Irish Catholic green beer drinking bastard?"
B- "I'm at least two out of the four things you listed."
A- blink.

Then he proceeded to explain to me the following formula. I'm going to have trouble writing it down accurately, because it made absolutely no sense.

A- "Did you watch the Oscars?"
B- "Yes."
A- "What a crock of shit, eh?"
B- "Ye--"
A- "They give out 24 Oscars, right?"
B- "No idea."
A- "They give out 24 Oscars. . ."
B- "Sure, if you say so."
A- "They do. Twenty four. And they give out 24 Grammy Awards."
B- "Okay."
A- "Now add those two together. Do it."
B- "It's, geez, 48."
A- "And multiply it by 2, for two awards shows."
B- "Easy, slow down. Uh, 96."
A- "What happens to the other 4?"
B- blinks. "What 'other four' are we talking about?"
A- "That other four. . .what happens to them? Who gets them?"
B- ". . . uh. . . who?"
A- "I don't know--but I'd like to. I'd like to get my hands on them--those four--and I'd like to win 4 Nobel Prizes as well."

This calculation, although meaningless to me, obviously meant something to him. He certainly wanted those Nobel prizes; he went on about them for a few minutes. . .until he sidetracked himself, and dropped this bomb:
A- "The Easter Bunny, he's coming around soon--that bastard!"
B- "What beef could you possibly have with the Easter Bunny? He's pleasant, well-dressed--"
A- "He never has any pants on when I see him!"
B- "Maybe because he's always crapping out chocolate eggs for children?"
A- "Yeah, hey, he gives children candy, right? Chocolates and eggs and gum, right? But what does he give the elderly?"
B- " . . .nothing, really. My mom--"
A- "--He fucking. . ."(index finger up to signify an important point)". . .eats them. Eats them whole!! Dirty fucking--"
B- "He doesn't eat the elderly! He's friendly and jolly!"
A- "That's Santa, and he fucking well does! If I were you, I'd stay the fuck away from him this year. You're getting a little old for the Easter Bunny. He's gonna put some sauce on you, and eat you up whole. . .dirty fucking Easter Bunny that he is!"

It was around this time that my friend's agitation had attracted the notice of management. Moments later, pockets out-turned, A was gone. I leaned to the bartender and said, "Dude was blitzed! Did you hear what he had to say about the Easter Bunny? Eats the elderly?". The bartender nodded; A had already told her that tidbit of information.

I wonder if it was fear of the Easter Bunny's appetite for elderly that gave Peter Pan his unhealthy obsession with youth? I already know that Michael Jackson's security entourage caught the Easter Bunny with ol' MJ's head in his mouth, all chewed to shit.

"Little Rabbit Foo Foo running through the forest! Picking up the elderly and bopping them on the head!"

Maid in Man-underwear.

Hotel living can be trying when done in long stretches; and over the last three months, I've done my share of it.
It's not that I'm crazy about making my own bed--it's not that at all! I just always feel like I'm being watched and graded. What kind of underwear does he have in his suitcase? What kind of books does he read? Is he this big a slob at home?
I have to tidy up my room and fold my towels before I leave just so the maid doesn't think I'm a piglet.

My mother used to make the bed before we left hotel rooms for the day--little did she know, that's the worst thing you can do to a maid.

Unless your twin brother C is visiting you, and when he leaves the room to let you take a nap, flips the "Please Make Up" sign on the door.

The scene:
Me, lying on top of the duvet in my underpants, mouth hanging open, dead asleep 32 minutes after playing host to my family in an Edmonton room.

I was startled awake by the feeling that someone was in my room, watching me sleep.
I was right. Some poor middle-aged maid was gaping at me, eyes like saucers--neither of us had expected to find the other, and certainly not in this condition.
She fled.
Then later slid a note under my door asking if I would kindly leave a note outside my door telling her when it was okay to come back. I didn't realise how uncomfortable the situation was until I left later that day to shoot some scenes for Decoys:Rebirth, and noticed that the tag on the door had invited the poor maid to her fate.

M- "Yeah. The guy in room 1208 is a total pervert. He was even waiting on the bed for me! In his underpants!! Pretending to sleep!!!"

Talk to the door.

There are a lot of firsts in life. First steps. First words. First kiss. First time having a woman rip a door off its hinges and throw it at you. First recital. First Communion. First airplane flight.

Perhaps I should back up a bit.

Last night, while you all slept (surely--it was around 4am) an alien babe ripped a door off its hinges and threw it at myself and a couple of my movie buddies.
To give this brand of entertaining stunt to the folks at home takes no less than three different types of doors: the real McCoy; a wooden door; and a foam door. Even upon closer inspection they all look pretty similar; so much so, that the actress who did the throwing didn't realise the door had been changed until she tried to use it.

Today I get a slimy tentacle in the face.

Weeeeeeee!

Ride Mindbender or die tryin'.

Maybe those familiar with the spotted past of one of West Edmonton Mall's brightest stars won't find the title to this post funny. But riding the Mindbender knowing that it's got a taste for blood makes the experience all the more enjoyable.

Hollywood measuring stick.

Shooting for "Decoys:Rebirth" has been going very, very well.
A couple of days ago we did a party scene at the U of Alberta campus bar featuring the musical stylings of local ska band (Mad Bomber Society) and a packed dance floor with only the best beauties Edmonton has to offer. But I felt, after submitting my character 'Nick' to rigorous dramaturgical analysis, I needed something more. Something to give "Nick" a 'third dimension'.

I asked the director for a cougar.

. . . and no, I don't mean the kind of cougar that steals babies out of splashing pools in the backyards of Southern California.
A real, "experienced" lady.

A call was put in to the casting director, and a cougar was produced.
When I met her, I tried to be diplomatic:

B- "Hi! I play 'Nick'; they've told me that you're my date for this scene. Nice to--"
C- "--I'm your 'cougar'. Nice to meet you, too!"

I can honestly say, there is no business like show business.

As I approach my late twenties, I've realised that there really is no male equivalent to the graceful transition from 'college hottie' to 'cougar'; there is just "horny young guy" and "dirty old man". I've begun my steady march downhill. Oh snap indeed.

Exterminate with extreme cleavage.

Friends and lovers,

It is a deep pleasure to tell you all that I am currently shooting the sequel to that blockbuster sci-fi horror classic "Decoys".

Not this kind of decoy:


This kind of Decoy:


Appearing in "Decoys 2:Rebirth" realises a lifelong dream of mine to perform in a genre of film that has occupied more shelf space in my voluminous film collection than any other.
A synopsis for the original chiller thriller read:

". . . college boys find themselves in a scary position when they make the discovery that some of the most lovely coeds on campus are actually aliens in disguise who are using sexuality as a means to conquer Earth"

Decoys 2, though not yet encapsulated so succinctly, might read:

". . . college boys once again find themselves in a scary position when they re-discover that some of the second most lovely coeds on campus are actually aliens in disguise who are using sexuality as a means to conquer Earth. . . only this time, fo' sho'!"

It's a much lighter take on Extra Terrestrial domination than Steven Spielberg's laugh-dry snorefest "War of the Worlds", and there is (I promise) considerably more frontal nudity. There has even been threats of my own nakedness--look for my bare barrel chest and soft milky shoulders to be tastefully lit for the sake of advancing my subplot.

As scripted, two aliens attempt to seduce me "using sexuality"--but suffering for one's art has become a hallmark of mine since receiving simulated fellatio from a man in a hot tub during the "Undressed" years. The indomitable Joel Greenberg, an acting professor, director, and friend whom I greatly respect used to tell us to "earn it" when referring to actions on the stage; after reviewing the script, I am proud to say that Screenwriter Miguel Tejada-Flores has given me the tools with which I may earn the T&A placed before me.

I promise you, in all the solemnity blogging will allow, that when I say, "She wants to jump your bones, bro--what're you waiting for?" I say it for you. . . the people who got me where I am today.

Please direct all well-wishes to my agent.

Much love,
B

"Do you heart Alberta beef, punk?"

My brother-in-law J was in town visiting and I decided there was no better way to get him into an 'Alberta state of mind' than to take him shooting.

Now try to keep your socks on, my old Ontario friends! Don't go thinking that I'm going to take the scotch off my deer hoof gun rack, take the rack off the wall, and mount it in the back window of my pick up; I'm not there. . . yet. I just wanted to show him something distinctly Western that didn't involve 'Brokeback Mountin' or throwing all my recyclables in the garbage. And since he's over 19 the thrill of a lower age of majority in the province (18 years) was lost on him--so shooting it was.

We chose the 'Dirty Harry' gun, a .44 Magnum; and an S&W .40 Cal. Very fun little pea shooters.

While waiting to get our guns, but after we had signed a waiver stating that, in the event we face the guns anywhere but down the shooting range, we release "The Shooting Edge" from any legal liability if they take us out. Dudes wear sidearms and extra clips while walking around the store. They're ready for shit to go down. Two clips worth of shit to go down. Anyway, while we're waiting this freaky looking Albino (they're all freaky looking, I suppose) starts telling some cock and bull story to the store owner:

A- ". . . I'm gonna use this to settle a score."
O- " . . . ?"
A- "I live down in Alabama, and there's this great son-of-a-bitchin' alligator which ate my dog. I'm gonna use this here gun to kill 'em."

Yes. And how does one respond to a statement like that? A statement like that from an Albino?

O- "What kind of dog did you have?"
A- "Had a Rottweiler. Damn 'gator. But I'll get 'em."
O- "How big is the alligator?"
A- "Fifteen feet--thereabouts. I don't know what that is in metric."

How thoughtful.

He packed up his gun box--the Albino has to wait a day or two to collect his handgun--and his laser sight, and left. I don't think anyone knew what to say. I'm not even sure anyone wanted to say anything, just in case the Albino was listening and came back and shot us.

I was asking our 'Ranger' how business was, and he said that when Paul Martin threatened to outlaw handguns during the election, they nearly sold out of handguns. The 'Ranger' said, jokingly, "Everyone in Calgary must have a gun now. Man, we were busy!". Thanks, Paul. You've started an arms race in suburban Calgary. All I've got is a baseball bat under my bed; how am I supposed to protect myself from my neighbours? And what about the sewer gators?!?
Fuck.
Gonna have to get me a gun.

Red means 'stop'. . . or 'blood'.

My lovely wife E loves to ski.
It's her most favourite winter sport ever.

I do not come from an athletic family.
Not even mildly athletic.
My most favourite winter sport is bowling. I can bowl like the devil.
5 or 10 pin, it don't matter to the Jesus.

Living within spitting distance of the mountains now means that every morning when I wake up, my lovely wife reminds me that we should go skiing. Because we're "soooo close". When I lived close to 'Jilly's Gentlemen's Club' in Toronto, the same logic did not follow.

I relented last weekend, and while waiting for my ski lesson to begin, my lovely wife came to visit me--I was sunning myself on a bench, soaking up the 'good life'. I stood, like all gentlemen should, to greet her. She was still coasting along on her skis, and moving fast enough that, if left to gravity, she would have slid right past me. To make sure that no such affront was made, so stuck her ski pole out in front of her, like a lance, and stopped herself in a timely manner by jamming the ski pole into my crotch.
Not my thigh.
Not my stomach.
My balls.

Suspiciously, this act followed close on the heels to a discussion we had after watching a reality programme featuring families with little Holy Terrors, wherein she said, "We are--I AM NOT--having children."
Well, darling, not if you keep that up.

Don't give me the Conch!

It is baffling to me how I became the #1 Yahoo Search result for:
what can I do when i don't feel appreciated by my girlfriend?

The fact that I successfully navigated my girlfriend from sinful living into a marriage proves nothing.

My advice?
1) Dutch Ovens. Do them often, with no apologies.
2) Get "caught" giving yourself some "appreciation" (read: jerking off).
3) Cry for no reason and, when asked, tell her "It's nothing. Nevermind."
4) Kill her pet--grief can bring people together.
5) Leave an MSN conversation window open on her computer wherein a user named "Kitty_80" constantly says, "LOL! You are so FUNNY!!"; "That's a great picture of you! ;)"; and "I can't believe that you gorilla slammed that midget at the bar the other night!!"
6) Pretend to be talking on your cell phone, and when she enters the room start laughing until tears come to your eyes, spot her, and tell the person on the other end, 'Gotta go'. Then hang up.
7) Buy a Pilates DVD and start doing it at her place religiously.
8) Bake yourself cookies and don't share.
9) Give her the finger while she sleeps, just to blow off some steam.
10) Send yourself a mock-up 'Boyfriend of the Year!' certificate and open it in front of her. Then say, in your most withering tone, 'This certainly couldn't be from you. . . does your mother have my/our address?'

This may give the under-appreciated males woefully searching Yahoo a much needed shot in the arm.

. . . Mail Order brides from 2nd and 3rd World countries may also be the answer.



With the popularity of Brokeback Mountain girls need to remember that in the 21st Century guys have choices. So always remember that YOU'RE A WONDERFUL INDIVIDUAL. . .no matter what a stinky girl thinks of you!

Can't Fight Fate

Question:
Where do you not sing along with Taylor Dayne's "With Every Beat of My Heart" while wearing a beret and buying NY Cheesecake with a pink tube of 'writing icing' and bananas?

Answer:
In line behind two dudes buying steak in a downtown Calgary Safeway next to Stephen Harper's riding.

Stopping mid-conversation to turn around and look at me, the only answer I had for them was:

B- "This was an awesome single."

I don't know why I was wearing the beret, but it didn't help diffuse the situation.
It "Ain't No Good".
It was no "shelter" for me.



New EP in '06, biz-atches. Dayne touch this!

A face only a mother could love.

I make faces at babies. Can't help it. I'm a baby face maker.
Always have been.
Always will.

Once I encouraged a kid on the 504 King Streetcar to mimic my monkey face (bending my ears out with my fingers, crossing my eyes, and sticking my tongue out in a crescent shape) and the poor little bastard got in big trouble for sticking his tongue out at me.
And he wouldn't stop.
He kept sticking his tongue out and trying to bend his tongue into a crescent with his fingers and his mother kept smacking his hands away from his mouth and telling him to "Stopit!". No sooner did she let go of his grubby, slobbery hands and they were up mushing his stuck-out tongue in half.
The kid had moxie, I'll give him that.

The other day I was with my lovely wife E, and an opportunity to pull a face at this infant in a stroller came up, so I took it.
I shouldn't have.

There I am, mugging away like a Christmas Panto champ, and I hear:

M- (whisper whisper)
F- "Excuse me? Hello? Hello? Hi."

I look up, eyes still crossed, to face two very uneasy parents. The father looked like he was ready to throw down.

B- "Sorry. I''m a baby face maker. Ha ha ha!"

No response.

B- "Sorry."

But what really hurt wasn't being looked at like I was some kind of lurking pervert--the kid didn't even smile once.
Tough crowd.

1st Place Dick

The other night my lovely wife E and I were taking in the open mic night at Karma (a very cool little art house bar in Calgary's uber-hip Marda Loop) when some muscle bound tool--wait, I'm getting ahead of myself--when some guy with a crew cut came in with his girlfriend hanging off of his arm. Did I mention he was wearing a medal.
Out to the bar.
A medal.
Around his pickle barrel neck.

I was dying to know: 1) what the medal was for?; and 2) what on Earth possessed him to wear it to a bar?

Thankfully beer has always provided me with enough courage to be so brazen as to ask strangers wearing medals exactly what I should be celebrating them for, and this evening was no different. The owner of the bar was sitting nearby our "hero" and I stopped to ask him if he knew why A was all glamed up in gold medalions. He didn't, but shared my thirst for knowledge and encouraged me to go forth and ask.

With so many people counting on me, I plunged into A very intimate conversation with his girlfriend, G, and asked:

B- "Sorry to interupt, but I noticed when you came in that you were wearing a medal. Mind if I ask what you got that bit of hardware for?"
A- (wondering if he should punch the grin off my face and onto the floor)"You can ask. . ."
G- "--it's mine! I won it in a marathon! He put it on at my place--I don't know why. "
B- "Oh! So you're riding on her coattails!"
A- (clearly not pleased at my implication that he couldn't have done it on his own)"What's your name?"
B- "Brad. What's yours?"
A- "Scott. What's the date today?"
B- "The 25th--if these are going to get tougher, I want the medal."
S- "One year. One year from today I'll have my own marathon medal--BUT, you got to do it too. We'll meet back here, one year from today, and if you don't have a medal for running a marathon I get to kick your ass!"
B- "I'll be here!"
S- "And if you don't have a medal, I get to KICK. YOUR. ASS."
B- "Tell you what--I'll be here, but if I can't win a marathon I'm going to work out so that you can't kick my ass. Fair?"
S- "Shake on it."
B- (shakes pudgy hand)
S- "One year. I get to kick your ass. You better be here!"
B- "I will be. But don't get your hopes up about kicking my ass. I'm going to work out--pump iron. I'll be ready."
S- "One year."
B- "One year."

The owner was killing himself laughing. This dude Scott was a total pilon.

Thing is, I never got a satisfactory answer to my original question: why on Earth did he think wearing a medal to the bar would be cool? I mean, I only know of a handful of guys that could pull that kind of shit off, and they're all in the photo below:

Don't bother checking; Scott isn't there.

Men are not created equal.

I have made a number of new friends out here in Cowtown; some of them totally awesome, and some of them opened their conversation with me like this:

S- "Hey Brad! Good to meet you! I just got done directing some porn--sorry I'm a little late."

He wasn't late at all.
Some segue.

S then went on to describe to me how to win a fight in a pool hall, as he had done, by using a splintered pool cue to break a man's collar bone. Or bones. He made two karate chop motions, so he must have really done a number on the guy.

S is nearly 5'5", and the best part of 175lbs.

He was also with John Lennon the day he got his hair cut when the Beatles broke up. And introduced Rock and Roll to Denmark. Yes. The whole country.

There will, no doubt, be more to say about S in the future.

Anyone else have friends they'd like me to look in on?

There's a worm in my Apple.

So. . .my beloved iBook Gord has been sick, as I have mentioned.
Well, last night, while performing a simple work exercise to get it back into shape, my little buddy expired. There were no friends or loved ones at his deskside during the final moments. He was discovered by a technician this morning who quietly folded down the screen and unplugged Gord's power cord.
Then I received a telephone call, one that no computer owner ever wants to get, informing me of little Gordy's passing.
The Tech could have at least drove a black Cadillac over to tell me.

This final, gruesome, turn of events follows close on the heels of a phone call I made to Apple Canada to complain that FileVault was the reason why my iBook had been so sick. The end of the phone call:

A- ". . .so, it's a software problem, and if you recall in your agreement, software is not Apple's responsibility. We would recommend you not use FileVault, as there are issues with that programme."
B- "I realise that. Everyone is telling me that I shouldn't use FileVault. Why is it on the bloody computer if Apple is advising me not to use it?"
A- "In some situations it is an appropriate application."
B- "Do you guys use it in the office?"
A- ". . .no. We've been advised not to."
B- "Aha. So, can Apple do anything to compensate me for the large service bill I'm about to get?"
A- "As I said, I'm sorry, but Apple doesn't cover software issues."
B- ". . .so, you're telling me, basically, to go sit on a tack?"
A- ". . .um. . .I guess."

FAN-FUCKING-TASTIC!

So now, as the second month of B's Computerless Existence begins, Apple agrees with my boiling down of the situation, and THANK GOODNESS all that is left in my home office is tacks!
The guys at MyMacDealer in Calgary have been fantastic, mind you. It is through their diligence that the hard drive fault was discovered. Some time next week Gordy should be reincarnated into Robogord. Rebuilt. Better than before. Part Gord. Part warranty hard drive. All mine.

Put seat in the upright position.

My computer has been in the computer hospital since December 16th.

The delay is not the computer's fault; the blame for this protracted illness lies solely upon the shoulders of my certified Mac service team member, S.

My lovely wife E and I were up in the City of Champions sniffing around, and found ourselves at the doorsteps of a Chili's Restaurant. Yes. The same Chili's who employed N'Sync to sing "I want my baby back, baby back, baby back, baby back, baby back, baby back, baby back ribs!".

In the middle of dinner I had a pretty serious lapse of wits and suddenly dropped my fork and reached down to my lap to fasten my seat belt. E wasn't quite sure what the hell I was up to, and to tell you the truth, neither was I. I regained my senses in the middle of searching the bar's bench seat for my lap belt just in time to see my wife quietly asking herself if she made the right choice in marrying me this past October.

Why it happened? I can't say. The Smokey Chili Cajun Chicken Something-or-Other wasn't that awesome.
In fact, it wasn't awesome at all. The only thing I can think of, is that the bar's bench seat reminded me of the bench seat in my new ride--a '68 Chevy.
So sexy. Dual chrome exhaust. 350 Engine. AM/FM radio. We're thinking of calling it: Betsy (E's choice); Lucky (B's choice); or Betty (our compromise). Any feedback would certainly be appreciated.



I'll be back in the swing of things once my computer gets it's shit together.

Rolling in his manger.

*a high five from Jesus was the best Christmas present anyone could even hope for!

I was Christmas shopping and not Holiday shopping today because I'm a little Irish Anglican. I made the mistake of wishing a store clerk who looked about as WASPy as myself a "Merry Christmas!"; the clerk retorted "Happy Holidays!"
I fumbled around for an apology, and said that I hoped I hadn't offended by wishing him a Merry Christmas.

A- "Oh, no worries! I celebrate Christmas!"
B- "Oh. I thought that since. . .you know, Happy Holidays. I thought maybe you celebrated a different holiday."
A- "Nope."
B- "Okay! Good. Merry Christmas, then! Again!"
A- "And Happy Holidays!"
B- ". . .yeah."

I get the whole Christmas vs. Holidays fiasco. I have friends who celebrate all kinds of things this time of year--Hell!--I've got friends who celebrate Christmas and don't particularly fancy Christ! But is it so wrong, from one Christian to another, to exchange a wish of 'Merry Christmas' in public? Does my language always have to be inclusive? I mean, I say 'Happy Birthday!' out loud, in public, even when I know that not everyone in the bar is celebrating a birthday.

Perhaps I'll start saying, "I'm having a Merry Christmas!" and then look to the sales clerk for a response of "And I'm having a Merry Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Festivus/Winter Solstice myself!" Sharing can be fun.

The Beef on the Feds

People who are confused by federal politics need only look as far as Table 12 at my local A&W Restaurant for clarification.
It is preferable that any who attend the A&W tutorial have no existing opinion on anything, read at a Grade 6 level, and like icy cold mugs of root beer.

I sat close enough to overhear a Father and sometimes pundit explain, with the aid of The Calgary Sun, the current state of Federal politics to his eager-to-learn pre-teen daughter. Like most loyal Sun readers, he was only looking at the pictures.

F- "This is Paul Martin. He's the Prime Minister right now, but not for long. He's done a lot of lying. We don't trust him."
D- "Why?"
F- "Because he's done a lot of lying. This is the New Democrats leader. If he's elected, he'd give all our money--like the money for your Christmas presents--to poor people."
D- (silent horror)
F- "I don't remember his. . .Jack Layton--that's his name. I think he's married to a Chinese lady."
D- (silence--maybe confusion, because there are no Chinese in all of Alberta)
F- "Stephen Harper--our guy--is the Conservative Leader. You know that Mom and Dad and you are Conservatives, right?"
D- "Yeah."
F- "If he wins, hopefully things will get better for us out here--we'll get more of a say. Remember what your favourite colour is?"
D- "Pink!"
F- "And? What's the colour of Dad's tie?"
D- "Blue!"
F- "Right! Want to know anything else?"
D- "No."

So. There you have it. This poor girl just had to know more about the election, and dear old dad filled her in.
After this short lecture on politics, F turned to his onion rings to rebuild his strength.

D- "Are we fighting any wars right now?"
F- "No. The Americans are."
D- "Why?"
F- "Because. . . Did you have fun shopping for Christmas presents for Mom tonight?"

Without the assistance of pictures his wellspring of knowledge had dried up. The Father employed, perhaps unwittingly, the classic American strategy of Distraction to get himself out of a tight spot, while saving face for not really having an answer.

God, I love my new hometown!

A beer for me, and one for the biggot.

This afternoon I spent it, as all good salesmen should, sipping beers around town trying to drum up business and rapport with the staff. I affectionately call it "Rotating the stock".

Bellied up to the bar at one of my new "locals" I met a postman trying to drown out the cold Alberta Clipper that has gripped my new fair city. We started talking.

Was I from England?

No. (I get all kinds of wild guesses at my accent. In truth, it's really like Ottawa Valley crossed with East Coast; don't ask)

Did I like SW beer?

Yes. It's a hobby turned occupation for me.

What did I think of Calgary?

Very nice. Exceedingly friendly.

And that's when the veil started to slip.

A- "Well, you'll see. It's not that friendly. I was born in Tilsonburg, and old timers still rag on me for being from out east."
B- "Sheesh! How long did you live in Tilsonburg? I'm from close by those parts. My father used to listen to 101.3 Easy Listening all the time in the car. Drove us nuts."
A- "Three years. We moved to Calgary when I was three."
B- "And the old timers still consider you 'from out east'?"
A- "Yup. Alberta's rich. The richest in Canada. They hate sharing their fortune with a country that doesn't give them anything in return."
B- "Well. . . . I hope they aren't too hard on me."
A- "They will be."
B- "Oh."

Here comes the bomb.

A- "You'll find that Albertans are pretty conservative."
B- ". . . "
A- "My wife and I, we're pretty open-minded; we have niggers as friends."
B- "! ! !"

I shit you not. He tried to candy-coat his statement by lowering his voice when he said "niggers", but there it was. Like a shiny new bike he'd been dying to ride all winter! I gawked at him. Dropping the "N" word is like having a naked dead baby lying in the corner and trying not to talk about it. But when you think you should maybe mention it, you have no idea where to begin. He let me off the hook.

A- "Hey, we call them that in front of them--they don't mind! I mean, that's what they are. We get along great!"
B- ". . .what do you do for a living?"

Cross burner? Hate-monger? Jim Crow advocate? Grand Master?

Postman. A sub for folks who call in sick.

It should be said that EVERYONE else I met today was exceedingly nice, and didn't bring up gooks, wops, chinks, limeys, retards, midgets, crackers, faggots, or dykes--much to my relief.