Three Scoops is a Blast! (3 page)

DONNA: You have to think about what makes you read someone else’s posting.

ME: I pay attention to the picture and I like messages that are clear and easy to understand. I know what I don’t like. I don’t like all those letter abbreviations, things like BFF and LOL. They slow me down. I have to stop and think what they mean.

DONNA: Yes, but that’s the younger generation. They can fire those things off easy as can be.

ME: Then maybe I’ll have to come up with my own letter combinations.

DONNA: Nobody will know what they mean.

ME: Sure they will. It will be determined by the context.

DONNA: I see what you’re saying. For example, you could sign all your tweets DOM for dirty old man.

ME: Hah-hah. And you’d be DOW.

DONNA: Hey, I resent that. I’d be DYW, dirty young woman.

ME: All right, I’ll give you that one. I’ve got another idea. Maybe we should sign-off to each other every night over Twitter. That might spark some interest. I could say something like, “@Donna_Carrick Tweet Dreams, Tweetheart!”

DONNA: Now you’re sounding like Humphrey Bogart, with an even worse lisp than usual.

ME: That would be okay with me. Remember
The African Queen
. At the end of the film, Bogart and Katharine Hepburn are facing a hanging by the captain of the German boat, but Bogart talks him into marrying them first. Hepburn’s face lights up and she adjusts her hair. It’s one of the great scenes in all of the movies.

DONNA: Simply fabulous. He was a real DOM in that movie. Mostly unshaven and hitting the bottle. Remember the leeches? Yech! But she straightened him out.

ME: We need to be cute in a similar way.

DONNA: It’s going to be hard when all of your tweets should end TTIB.

ME: TTIB?

DONNA: Remember the context. TTIB – this tweet is boring.

ME
(after a second or two)
: Okay, you can just KYCTY.

DONNA: I’ll bite. What’s that mean?

ME: It should be obvious. Keep your comments to yourself.

DONNA: Nite dear. It’s been a tweet talking with you.

ME
(in a pretend sour mood)
: Likewise, I’m sure.

No Problem, Excuse Me and the Limits of Civility

September 26, 2009

A spate of public rudeness lately has raised the question of how society has come to this sorry pass. Kanye West in the world of hip hop, Serena Williams in tennis and Joe Wilson in Washington’s political hot house all stepped over the traditional bounds of civility in the past week. What are the trends that have taken us in this misdirection?

Upon first reflection, I blamed Omarosa. She was the one who was most unbearable in the opening season of Donald Trump’s “The Apprentice”. Unfortunately, it must be admitted her wigged-out activities went a long way towards making the show a hit. We couldn’t take our eyes off her “train wreck”, whether we liked to admit it or not. Because bad behaviour pays, Omarosa has gone on to have a rewarding career.

But the history of behaving badly goes back much further. How about blaming running shoes? It was the “sneaker” companies and their ads – for example, “Just Do It” by Nike – that stressed attitude above all else. Politeness gets short shrift when “in your face” is the new mantra. Attitude has certainly been one artillery piece in the war to break down society’s norms and standards. But there are more, based on popular culture.

Maybe it was the movie
Animal House
. It started a whole trend whereby stupidity, crass actions and the graceless came to be glorified by America’s youth. The problem is the movie was really funny. And again, it paid off for its producers. Who doesn’t want to have a toga party? But the long-term consequences, well that’s another matter.

Outrageous behaviour in professional sports has been around forever. In tennis, it reached its apogee when Jimmy Connors and John McEnroe perfected their attention-grabbing and baby-gets-his-way performances. Now, some of the women players are getting in on the act as well. In the early days of golf championships, a tournament wasn’t complete until Tommy Bolt threw one or maybe all of his clubs into a pond in a fit of rage.

Awareness of anger in political forums has been on the rise due to news broadcasts of fisticuffs in far-away Parliaments. Going way back, when Brutus, Cassius and their buds got together and dispatched Caesar on the Ides of March, well that was certainly rude.

Personally, I’m more concerned about lack of good manners closer to home. On a day-to-day basis, there are two phrases that are starting to drive me crazy. People used to say “Excuse me, please” when they needed to get by and you were inadvertently in their way. It was a gentle request that usually solicited smiles by both parties and friendly nods.

Now, “Excuse me” (without the “please”) is usually a peremptory command and apparently means “Get out of my way, I’m coming through.” It’s the pedestrian equivalent of the driver who believes he or she is the only one on the road or at least the only one who really counts.

Excuse me is often met with the phrase, “no problem”. In this context, I suppose it’s okay. But I cringe when I hear it from sales people in stores or waiters and waitresses serving in restaurants. Even when it is uttered in the cheeriest of voices, it grates.

When I make my request or place my order, I don’t expect it to be a problem. I’m making the normal banter that would usually precede an exchange of goods or services. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it, to fulfill my request? I’m not asking for much.

When it comes right down to it, I don’t even care if it is a problem. Just do it (please). That’s what I’m paying for and it’s also what you’re being paid for. If you’re making a pittance, then speak to your manager. If you would rather be someplace else or talking with your fellow workers or contemplating life in general, well then…. Wow, I’m really getting worked up here. I guess I’m the one being rude, now, according to most standards.

This whole thing about being civil, it’s a challenge. There are nearly seven billion of us sentient and sensitive beings on earth, each as the centre of our own universe. It’s a wonder we haven’t already bumped each other off. On second thought, maybe you should get your licks in now while you still have the chance - Joe, Serena and Kanye. Just remember that the patience of some of the rest of us is hair-trigger too.

The Seagull Poet of Butter Bay

October 4, 2009

In a vision, he’d once seen another seagull in a top hat dancing at the Trocadero. It was the most elegant thing ever. He became entranced by imagery and longed to give expression to his own special voice. There was no doubt, he was a poet at heart.

That’s what his girlfriend, Sandy Barr, told him. Never mind, he knew the truth anyway. He was always functioning with his head in the stratosphere. There was something about it that felt so right. He knew it was his true calling.

He was a vagabond, a troubadour, a traveling jester, riding the winds and sometimes performing for his meals. But he had higher aspirations. He wanted to put his experiences in words. His world was something that needed and cried out for sharing.

He’d breathed in autumn’s tangy smell from wood-burning stoves; felt the sharpness in the air as winter’s cold grip crept in. He’d seen the brightness bloom as spring’s healing bonnet led to summer’s torpor and absorbed the splintery hues of water in all its seasons.

He knew writing poetry was no path to riches. That was okay with him. Few seagulls achieved worldly success. Jonathan Livingston had been a rare exception. For a while, Johnnie L. had been able to enjoy a high life based on royalties. Then the fortune ran out and existence depended on scraps the same as for everyone else.

Still, he was bothered by some misconceptions about his brethren. The bad thing that humans said about seagulls, that they were all scavengers, was a liquorice-hearted lie. Humans thought they were so smart. What did they know? Did they think all of his swooping and swirling in flight was just for fun? No, it was sky-writing in 3-D.

The aerial scripture was satisfying in its own way, but now he wanted to find a larger audience. How to reach out to people? Damnable kids with their opposable thumbs, text messaging each other willy-nilly. It was like trying to decipher the Da Vinci code, figuring out what they were saying. Give him old-fashioned language, something he could get his beak around.

There was little encouragement for artistic expression in his crepuscular world. Cawing crows and their cousin ravens were vicious critics. What gave them the right? The last time one of them squawked something interesting was “Nevermore” at Edgar Allan Poe’s garden party.

If he was going to take writing seriously, maybe he should start composing movie reviews. That’s where some of the best phrases and thematic stitchings were to be found. He knew the subject matter. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t circled around and dropped in on enough drive-in theatres in his day.

There were words he had always wanted to use. He knew from experience the beading and sparkling sea could be variously vermilion, cerulean and umbrous. The amniotic air was often languorous or limpid.

Ah poetry, the muted music of the soul - unless one went on a speaking tour. What wouldn’t he give to project his words before a receptive audience in a plummy English actor’s voice?

But all these plans and speculations were tiring him out. He’d stand one-legged on this rock for a while and let the day’s last embrace slip away. In the twilight, he’d go for a final swim.

If the setting sun angled just right, he’d ride along on a seeming sea of butter. A few popcorn clouds would float above, ready for dipping. He’d wait for the first stars to sprinkle down from heaven’s salt shaker, before heading inland to some farmer’s field.

Wheat-quilted dreams would then bring new imaginings. It was a mighty fine life.

Real Estate Purgatory

October 10, 2009

My family – wife and two daughters – had already re-located to Calgary. My job in the energy sector was taking me to where the action is, Alberta’s oil patch. I was staying behind temporarily to spend time with our real estate agent, trying to sell our townhome. It was mid-fall and we had been conducting an open house all day.

Miranda was a petite young thing, an ethereal honey blonde, from one of Canada’s best-known realtors. I had chosen her company based on its on-air advertisements and bus-bench signs. Poor Miranda, though, still had a great deal to learn about the business. Her biggest problem was that she was too honest.

Newlyweds, older couples, single people, it didn’t matter. They’d show up at the front door, we’d invite them in and then Miranda would begin to point out all the flaws in the house. The roof leaked. There was no basement. The cupboard doors were falling off their hinges. None of the bathroom faucets was lined up perpendicular. Every tap dripped.

Furthermore, the nearest schools were a bit of a hike. And there were notorious gangs fighting it out over the local teenage drug trade. Nevertheless, I quite liked Miranda. She was fun company with a wicked sense of humour and a sly ability to provoke outrage. She particularly liked telling prospective buyers about the ghosts that haunted the place.

An earlier owner had been a young man with a bipolar psychopathic disorder. He went off his meds one night while his girlfriend was staying over. He’d mistaken her for a vampire and driven a stake through her heart. When the realization sank in about what he’d done, the overwhelming remorse caused him to take his own life by way of an overdose. All of this happened in the upstairs master bedroom.

Most visitors were appalled by Miranda’s story. But some liked the sensationalism. Others even saw past the bare bones of the plot and savoured the romantic elements in the mix of shocking ingredients. Me, I quickly became used to it and rather perversely enjoyed watching the reactions it elicited.

As the day wore down and the flow of adult visitors dwindled, I became conscious of what time of year it was. I looked out the front window and saw tiny goblins and ninja warriors starting to fill up the street. The doorbell rang again, but this time it was a storybook princess and a tiny pooh bear that demanded our attention.

In all the excitement, I had failed to remember it was Halloween. Miranda and I grabbed a lawn chair each and positioned ourselves outside the front door. It was an unusually mild night for late October in Toronto. We were quite comfortable as we watched the passing parade. As I had forgotten to buy candy, I let Miranda handle our gift to the children as they approached us in our lair. She simply told them her ghost story.

After a long day, I was becoming exhausted. But a satisfying sense of ease and composure was overcoming me nonetheless. The world was transforming into a better place. It had been a long time since I was so contented and happy – 365 days to be exact.

You see, I haven’t been completely up front with you. Miranda and I have been following exactly this same routine for many years. First the charade of trying to sell the house, then regaling and scaring the children on Halloween night. Miranda’s story contains elements of truth but it falls short in the personal and intimate details.

I was planning a career move to Calgary with my family and Miranda was our real estate agent. But my wife was a witch. No, I don’t mean she was a bad person. She was working the neighbourhood dressed as a witch, with our daughters, Dora the explorer and her faithful sidekick, the monkey Boots. The girls ran ahead to catch up with some friends and my wife took the opportunity to return home for a short break.