the Edmonton Adventures: Beginnings

Not long ago I wandered through an adventure of particular quality. It brought together the action of an Indiana Jones and the spirit of television's Jimmy Fallon, it crossed Ignatius Reilly with Chandler's Marlowe and then crossed it back again with both Jack Bauer and Alex Ovechkin, fresh off the set of the latest Oh Henry ad of course. Unfortunately (or, with great fortune depending on your level of comfort with the Strange and the Wonderful) I cannot claim much more organization to a synopsis than that, but this can't be unexpected, I referenced Ignatius, and like the swing of his plastic sword, meaning is left to abstraction, ambiguity, and the fool.

In May we found out that Kerry was now too smart to simply be known as 'Kerry', she was going to need to be a 'Dr. Kerry', or 'Kerry: MD', or just, 'the Brain' (which would make me Pinky, I suppose – I miss Animaniacs, ‘90s cartooning at its very best).

This Being-Smart was going to happen via UofA's Med School program in tropical Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, World. Appendix to the choice of location: UofC, you are dead to us – kidding, I’m totally kidding, maybe, I don’t know, kind of, well we’re not friends let’s put it that way... I HATE YO– okay, deep breaths, we’re fine, UofC and I, solid, quality institution, sort of, whatever the Edmonton thing is happening.

But before all that Cal-vs-Ed chatter got too loud, Kerry and I went to Europe. The Europa was gorgeous, exciting, romantic, and quite a contrast to the Edmonton scene that we would soon after call home. This contrast is mainly from the perspective that Europe has more old buildings, while Edmonton has only one quadrant, the North-West. That's right, the entire city has a NW address, Downtown is 102nd Avenue & 103rd Street. Where are the other three quadrants? Where did they go? And why North-West, why not North-East, or South-East? Could have gone and tried out North-South. Or maybe just “Edmonton”, and then if you needed to get more specific, one could just call the west portion the West, and the bit a little south of that the South-West, and the– wait a minute... ridiculous in all the wrong ways, I have no further comment on this 'creative' city planning, needless to say, Mathematics is not happy with this one quadrant operation.

Europe’s thoughts on the matter were quite positive: “Who cares. Look at what I have here. Look at these, or this, or that one there, not bad right?” And Europe was right, “these” and “this” and “that one” weren’t too bad at all. From filling the sails with the winds of the Greek Islands, to swimming through the clouds atop Jungfrau’s Swiss peak, Europa lead us passed some of her personal favs, filling the June Memory Bank with a surplus of rainy-day remedies. From Athens’ layers of history and a cluster of Cyclades, our tour of two took in the green forests of Poland’s north, the struggles and triumphs of Krakow, Prague’s Beauty, Beers, and Roast Beasts, hiking and canyoning the valleys from Lauterbrunnen through to Gimmelwald, trains-planes-and-automobiles, friends-fun-and-photos, before getting lost in the romance and radiance of Old Pay-Ree.

In July, more vacationating: K-Country, the Okanagan, Motorcycles on the TransCanada, typical Jack-style summering where Camping, Patio Wines, and a pinkish hue to my porcelain complexion manages to holiday-it at 90% while misdirection and cleverness convince the J-O-B that the reject-10% is good enough to keep full-time status.

July carried us towards August, where Kerry and I began to hunt down a way that we could become full time Edmontonians. Raised on Stampedes and Chinooks, every ounce of my existence had been taught to hate, nay, loooooooath those north-neighbours. Moving from Calgary to Edmonton was the relocation equivalent to crossing the floor, starring back at the now opposition, and inviting them into the Octagon. That’s right. That’s what the “Calgary to Edmonton” move is; a weird, wrong, Politics-meets-MMA disaster. Strangely enough though, this did not concern me. Adventure. Right? Adventure! Who in their right, and hungry mind can turn down Adventure? Like those Baggins and their Ring, I too have a restlessness stirring my soul, crying out for another horizon, another backdrop, a new chapter. Adventure! I couldn’t say no. Plus, to become Edmonton, to walk that walk, and let the blue challenge the white of my collar, opens wide the opportunities, shines new light on the ‘hate, nay loath’ situation; as one of them, I gain access to the secret stash, the complete works of “Edmonton is worse than Calgary because” saga. Adventure and Double-Agent, the decision had been made for me. Case closed, right? Sort of.

Now, I am told I don't have to cheer for the Oilers, which, being as I am a BearCat-to-Iggy caliber Flames fanatic, was one of the pivotal negotiation points during this tour-de-force. But I gotta tell you, on their end of the QE2, up here with all the misery of their winters, and the Rexall drug stores on every corner, these EdmonChucks make a pretty tough case for the Oil. Hall, Eberle, the history and legend of Ryan Smyth, the excitement and anticipation of RNH; I’m eff’d. How was this not going to be an issue? What I know now is that the next time I move, I am going to hunt down a spot based solely on their sports squad. A place where the home team doesn’t crush my spirits, leaving me broken down, and teary-eyed, and all battered-wife’d up – Calgary, Edmonton, Battle of Alberta, there are no winners here. In the end after breaking your heart with yet another playoff race exodus at the 82nd hour, you pull yourself up, dust yourself off, and keep coming back for more dreams of conference banners and playoff rainbows and laughing and dancing and Cup-Craze fun... only to catch it square on the jaw as you mistakenly prep for change. Save yourself, it’s already too late for me. I’m now bouncing back and forth, abused by Alberta’s arguing athletics, caught up between the Red-and-Yellow’s rock-bottom refusal to rebuild and the too-young, too-soon Blue-and-Orange’s pre-mature excitement as they slip from the top. Yeah, a kinder caring home team, that will be the plan. And maybe a little warmer climate. And, I think I’ll pack up all my friends and family too; Distance is the Meter-Maid, Customs-Officer, evil metaphoric thorn-in-the-side of my world, and I don’t like it.

In August we moved into a condo just off Jasper Ave - it's wicked. I can say with confidence that Edmonton is way better off now, granted Calgary has suffered, but the Ed is looking much classier. Of the 20-plus condominiums, apartments, townhouses, and condemned messes that Kerry and I critiqued during our search, Our place, Our home, was the only one that embraced us with the right balance of familiarity and novel-new, with Calgary-esque comfort and Edmonton-ing excitement, with the buzz of downtown only steps away from the resolve of residential. It had location, it had amenities, it had the cost, it had the vibe... let's be honest, it had enough closet space and was big enough for my TV: Sold!

After starting with the mortgage payments and moving back in with my parents (a surprisingly fun combination of activities), Kerry and I were done with the QE2 separation. I quit my job while simultaneously snagging a new position with a new company up in the City of Champions (don't bother trying to figure out how Edm thinks they can get away with naming themselves this, I've looked into it, there is no explanation - momentarily I wondered if they had come up with this title after bettering Calgary in the battle over Kerry-and-John, but it turns out they have been greeting visitors with this claim long before the trade went down).

Though summarized as a seamless swap, the truth of the working-world transition ended up being slightly more complicated than just following up the good-byes with hellos. With no help from the Company-of-Old during my initial Edmonton inquiry, I had begun to look elsewhere, searching for a Company-of-New, digging up anything and everything that put “Engineering” and “Edmonton” in the same breathe. I was ready to settle for the “anything”, but stumbled across the “everything”. Interview, Offer, Acceptance. Suddenly Edmonton was a reality and it was being served up with a side of “Career Upgrade”. The only thing left to do was answer my curtain call. They said no. I tried to quit, and they wanted none of it. Company-of-Old now wanted to be of-New. Chats became Talks, bosses of bosses found me and found involvement, suddenly the no-opportunities that had kept me from the move up north had turned into all opportunities and plenty of Edmonton. I was the rope in a tug-of-war, and it felt kind of nice. After assuring the miniature, shoulder-dwelling, angel-version of myself that feelings were not going to be hurt, the truth tug favoured New over Old. Old tried to scramble, and I could hear them calling audibles as the game clock slipped away, but they had no play, and in the end, they let me go.

One might ask how I had managed to leave such a pivotal piece of the puzzle, (the make-money-to-survive piece of the puzzle) until, arguably, the too-late point in the move. Rest assured, this was the best option, there were complications that are beyond the scope of this ramble, foreseen unpredictable certainties, and unforeseen predictable uncertainties; really dynamic stuff. It was all part of the plan though, and in the end, it was a masterpiece.

Everything is perfect right? Yep! Well, almost...

I didn’t make mention of it before, but throughout the great debates, the ‘to-move-or-not-to-move-that-is-the-question’ question, the scale held a heavy tip towards Edmonton as the Edmonton held a heavy pro over con; Kerry. Not long after the mid-October move, I sent out the following message:

Hey Team,

I know some of you are like me and can't commute to the Down Town Cal Core with quite the same finesse as others (or as our past selves could), but, if possible, on Friday, November 4th, you should make the commute and be one with the Calgary - Word on the street is I am having an Engagement Party. Let it sink in, and...

BAM! Yep, I am having an Engagement Party because last weekend, ahead of Turkey Dinners, many a toast, and the surprise announcements to immediate family, I channelled all the romantic experiences that I have acquired over my many years of TV and Movie watching and I asked Kerry if she would be my Dr. Webb. She said yes.

I followed that up almost immediately with a trip to the emergency room and a fairly heavy dose of pneumonia (I checked, it turns out that it's not just infants and 90-year-olds that get this illness - it's manly men with chests full of love that get it too). Since Kerry too had watched her fair share of Romantic Comedies, not only did she appreciate my pneumonia-equals-too-much-love-in-the-heart jokes, she also had heard about the "in sickness and health" bit, so her "Absolutely" answer to my pre-ER Excursion question still stands. We are getting all kinds of Married in 2012.

Because I live on the other side of the planet, and haven't had the chance to re-enact the proposal for all of you yet, I was hoping you'd be able to help Kerry and I celebrate how great Kerry is and join the fun at our Engagement Party in Calgary (Kerry tells me that we can celebrate Me a bit too).

An official invite with all the details will be heading your way soon, but I wanted to get a pre-invite out to the VIP crowd in advance of the general invitation to all the Normals, the non-VIP types. Hope you can all make it on November 4th.

Your soon to be stay-at-home-husband-of-Dr.-Webb,

Jack

ps - my pneumonia is no longer contagious, but all that romance still is, so beware of that, attend responsibly...

The Engagement Party was perfect, partly due to the proposal being its fair share of perfect too. Not only are Kerry and I now Engaged (solid gauge for success as far as Proposals go), but we are Engaged with a crazy story of how it all went down; elegance meet chaos.

Begin the telling… I had the Friday off, but Kerry didn’t know this. Saying that I enjoy a little surprise here and there would be stating the obvious, completely misusing the word little, and flat out lying about “enjoy”. I LOVE orchestrating surprises almost as much as surprises love my orchestrating of them. I set the stage by having Kerry call me after her exam that day, specifically before she walked in the condo. I wanted movie moment magic. I wanted the door to swing open, instantly replacing a conversation distracted by the separation of distance with a rush of all the reasons we are “more than just friends”. The magic was beautiful.

Passed the first reveal, there were obese stuffed-animal rats, cereal, studying, talk of weddings, and a nap, and that’s what went down before I popped the question.

Pop! Kerry and I stared into each other’s eyes as we gently touched champagne flutes together. It was actually Kerry who first told me of the importance which eye-contact bears on the significance of a Cheers – an aspect I have never questioned as Kerry’s big blues are no tough task. That is, until that very moment, the moment the jig was up, the moment when I had to stop the champagne flutes, the toast, the celebration, and replace it with another. We were inches away from toasting my new job. Misdirection and distraction are a surprise’s best-friend. It had been 5 hours, 3 reveals, 1 nap, and a whole lot of excitement, but the proposal still hung in the balance, out in the open; the unknown for Kerry, the expectation for me.

I smiled down the sudden on-set of nerves and told Kerry to wait for a second, that I needed to grab something. And just like that, the idea which had lived in my mind, in the vagueness of my future, was no longer; it was happening. I took my iron-ring from its pinky place and slid it on Kerry’s left ring-finger, which lay bare and in anticipation. I asked her to hold it for me. She would later tell me that she was scolding herself for thinking that this was the moment, that this was the start of something special. She would also later tell me that along with scolding herself, she would need to scold me for toying with that ring-finger of her's. No need for scoldings. As quickly as I had left her, keeping company with the champagne, the lingering toast, and this iron-ring place holder, I had returned carrying a small box that only ever holds one thing. There were no Jumbo-Tron announcements, no serenading quartets, no hot-air balloons, or choose-your-own-adventure puzzles. There was only me, a promise of our future wrapped in romantic what-nots, and a question: “Will you be my Dr. Webb, will you marry me?”.

And like all great adventures, whether complete with an Ignatius Reilly or not, the end is never the end. The story continues, and changes, and events come and go, and I get lost in the telling of it, and it’s great. As you can see, there is no need to preach about the importance of the journey, because it’s all the journey. As for the end, I can’t find it yet. Kerry rushed me to the ER, there was morphine, and x-rays, and antibiotics, and the pneumonia (hence all the pre-proposal napping). Later we found Thanksgiving, and the warmth of family, and of course the excitement of the announcement. The Engagement Party took center stage, then there was a long weekend in Banff, a photo shoot which had nothing, and yet probably everything to do with Kerry and I, and then the inevitable dot-dot-dot of this tall tale. La vita è bella, and I am ready for the next great chapter, even if the Beauty and Proposal’s of it require a little pneumonia here and there.

I am Jack’s colourful memories…

The Heart of a Halloweener

Today is Halloween.

A statement which should be more than just tediously obvious. October 31st should be the culmination of a painfully exciting count-down to complete and awesome childhood anticipation.

Alas, for me it is more the Calendar's thirty-one than the Halloween, and less the excitement than the surprising. How? When did I become so lost, so pre-occupied, so... Old?

This morning, I had no idea it was Halloween. This, is a major wake up call; where are my priorities! How lazy my training had been when once I was a young Trick-or-Treater. I was spoon-fed the signs of the sweet candy-filled future that October's end was waiting to hand out.
Cartoon specials, Themed Ads, random cupcake based events. Arts and crafts in Grade School were the real powerhouse of the season, not only did they give substance to the howliday, but they began the building of expectation.

Forget Halloween? Seriously?! Devastating. If 5th-grade-Me had heard such nonsense from Now-Me, then Then-Me would really only be expected to assume that Me-Me was incorporating clever trickery into a very hideous and disgusting costume; "Old", the scariest of all characters.

After being woken up by not-the-excitement of treats or tricks, but rather a reminder of the work day that awaited, I put on my EngiNerd costume, grabbed my bag, and felt shame as I blasphemed through lack of action in a pure and Halloweenless way.

No costumes at the office, no candy at anyone's desk, no cutting out early to get all geared up. I had a meeting, a sandwich, and a trip to the grocery store. OLD! EFFING OLD is what that is all about. Old and terrible and more OOOOOLLLLLLLDDDDD!

2011's Halloween wasn't always this sad. I had had plans, I had dreamed a dream. Like a truly washed up Halloweener, a Halloweenian has-been, I pub-crawled it on Saturday. True it was epic, and yes our group's costume stole the show (when you and five other creamy-off-white body-suits sport the "Fallopian Swim Team" crest, of course Randoms are going to want to take pictures with you, and of course you are going to be the life of the party, and of course you and your team will be all kinds of awesomeness)... but that's not the point, I had strategized to Peter Pan this holiday and never wear the costume I wore today (just to clarify, I didn't wear a "costume" today, I wore my Life, this is who I am, I am what the kids these days are calling "Boring" or "Stupid Looking", I actually wouldn't know, I'm too Old to know what the kinds are saying - probably still something about how Old is bad though). Ugh, dress pants, a collard
shirt, and a subtle hint of nerd that feels far to natural and everyday Jack to be an act, just disappointing.

The best I could come up with, plan-wise, was to costume-up after work, sit in front of the TV with a bowl of candy, and try and convince She-Jack to marathon through as many Treehouse-of-Horrors epies of the Simpsons that it took to feel something real. Side note, She-Jack is 'Kerry', a real person, a girl in fact, and not my inner female self manifesting herself to shame the He-Jack that seems to have given up on all things fun and worth living for... But even this sad attempt at an All Hallows Eve was thwarted by my grotesque case of adulthood, as only luxurious après-dîner dark chocolate could be found in the pantry and the scariest of 4-letter words had kept me late at the office; Responsibility, you crushing beast of mistress, you vengeful nemesis of all that is good.

And I tried. I tried to save this day. At lunch, I went in search of atmosphere, of spirit - both the literal representation, and the figurative enthusiasm of the word. Nothing. Even the costumes at Occupy Edmonton, the heart and soul of our society, an epicentre of understanding and creativity and passion, were nothing more than confusing. Arguably this rabble of characters have all day everyday to work on their outfits, but like their long-winded, spell-checkless signs, the costumes were predictable and ill-informed. Just because you have a beard, a grey blanket, and you broke off a large branch from a tree in the park you have made scary for non-Halloween related reasons, you are not Gandalf. And if your Gothic-Emo-Never-Washed Monday attire is accented by a Wal-Mart mask, you have not 'dressed-up' you are simply you, but somehow have managed to make your message even less believable. All I wanted was some truth - just one Occupier in a suit (insert frustrated Jack-flalling-of-hands-in-the-air movement and slightly high-pitched whinny Seinfeld-esque voice). That would have sealed the deal and restored the Happy Halloween in my day. If I had walked by and seen one of those Sign Wielding loonies dressed like me, the scariest of oppressor and destroyer of dreams (or whatever tomfoolery their "message" is supposed to be), I would have slow-clapped and maybe even made eye-contact with that clever and confused disturber of the peace. Not to be.

So my day came and went and was all attituded-up with way too much Monday to be the heroic holiday that is Halloween, that is, until my walk home...

After leaving my office and tracking back the downtown blocks towards the adult-only 18-plus condo where more No-Halloween awaited me, my "Children of Men" world found hope in a place that I deserved none from. Rotund to the perfect point where jolly meets jiggly, a 35 year-old man-child appeared from out of nowhere like one of his Dungeons and Dragons moves that I am most likely miss using as a literary device. Yes his strange wizard hat made me grin, his cloak and sorcerer 's staff warmed my Halloween heart, but it wasn't the costume, it wasn't even the hop in his step, it was the jovial twinkle that found its way through his coke-bottle specs, joining his smile, as he gave me a "good evening" nod, acknowledging my building love of Halloweenage.

I nodded back. I nodded, and smiled, and starred with wonder and amazement as he marched by. Yes he was a sorcerer, but as he moved down Jasper Ave, no costume could hide the fact that he was the superhero of all superheroes. Concerned only with the protection of human happiness, he was everything Halloween was meant to be. He had no tricks to pull, or treats to collect, he needed no party, or gathering, or false function to manufacture momentary contentment. This wonderful wizarding warrior was walking right into the heart of No-Fun-Sir! downtown Edmonton, and he was doing it because it was Halloween. This dude had found his way out of the labyrinth that protects him deep in his parents basement, and donning an all-or-nothing bit of fashion Fantasy, he was doing something that is only okay one night of the year; dress up like a wizard and head downtown - beautifully ridiculous.

I loved it. I am so in. It's being planned as we speak.

I upped my walk from a amble to a march, maybe even a full on stride - I was motoring, mopey strolling had no place on my Halloween any more. I needed to get to the grocery store, which I did, buy some candy, which I did, go home, find Kerry, eat the candy, and watch Treehouse-of-Horrors - all of it, did! This was the start of my new Halloween Life. I needed to find my way back so I could plan my Weird Wizard Walk for next year (I likely won't be quite as wizardy as my new Halloween idol - maybe a little more Zombie or Supermany, or Zombie Superman).

It's so brilliant, it's like Football without the ball, dessert without dinner, kiwi without the fuzz - just tackling, cakey, green flavourful goodness. I get it now, the tricky-and-treatory was training, to build the muscle memory. The themed parties were practice for the real deal. The arts and the crafts were motivation, learned. What Halloween is all about, truly all about, at its pumpkin-guts core, is far simpler than the silhouette-cats and fake get-everywhere cob-web, simpler than the TV specials and all that Orange-and-Black decor; Halloween, is you, a costume, and the out-side-of-your-parents-basement world. Simple, pure, ridiculous. October 31st is about playing freakshow dress-up, in public, and society saying "yes, this is more acceptable than Occupy Edmonton and their Mountain Equipment Co-op tents in the park".

And notice this, I did not exclude Candy from the formula either, Candy is in. Trick-or-Treating I exclude - if a 35-year-old Dungeons and Dragons Sorcerer Parents'-Basement Dwellers can't pull it off, no one can (with the exception of the 12-and-Unders crowd who obviously are abusing their ability to harness the cuteness). To Trick-or-Treat is only an obstacle anyway, an obstacle in the Candy end game. I'm a grown man-child, I have a job the Occupiers hate, I can buy my own freakin Candy, and I do...

So here's the plan, next year, same bat-time, same bat-channel, I am getting my costume on, candying-up, and taking to the streets, with no other goal than to just Be. Cause when it comes down to it, Halloweening is so ridiculous, that not taking advantage of an opportunity like this makes you, yep, wait for it... Old.

Rush'd: An Anniversary

Rush is located on 9th Ave, surrounded by the culture of Calgary’s down town. Or, more accurately, Rush is standing elegantly behind the valet parking which greets your arrival (complimentary, Thursday to Saturday after 6pm). As Kerry and I stepped out of the car and walked through the restaurant’s soaring entrance - doors being held open at every turn by a well dressed team of casual smiles - we came to understand that “Complimentary” is not so much an alluring gimmick at the restaurant, as it is the unwavering attitude of Rush (not to be confused with the unwavering attitude of Rush the Band, which is very much a different style of unwavering attitude, a much louder style).

Passed the hostess’ Congratulations, the continued Comp’d theme at the coat check, and the on-the-house celebratory glasses of Sparkling, was Mike. Mike was well mannered but casual; available, without lingering; he was willing to laugh, yet only with us; and most importantly (when like us, you are celebrating an anniversary) he was charming without distracting my girlfriend with flirtatious Jedi Mind-Tricks (that’s my job). Mike was more of a guide than a waiter. He offered us his sommelier side as well as the between-the-lines of the menu, complete with recommendations. Mike also went by ‘Mike’ and not ‘Michel’ or “Meeeeshelll-Le”, a quality one tends to appreciate when the restaurant is neither French nor overtly condescending. Let there be no confusion though, had a very French, very Michel waiter arrived at our table, and guided the hell out of the dinner service, as Mike did, I would be the first to slow-clap his mad restauranting skills. Truth; for truth I trade trust, and this non-Meeeeshelll-Le Mike avoided the caricature and shared a little bit of his true self on our special evening.

Fresh off our Okanangan wine tour, Kerry and I ordered a bottle of the 2008 Pinot Noir from Blue Mountain Vineyards (well priced with a silky texture that joined us from appetizer to après-dîner).

The evening allowed for the two of us to romantically reminisce, and smile, together, at our future. The simple, yet carefully created décor of the dining room stood around a space that provided an oddly comfortable balance of privacy and participation – when one has a glamorously gorgeous girlfriend, one wishes to share with the world her beauty… while he holds her hand and reminds on lookers what the score is, of course.

Complementing the conversation was the cuisine. I use this word intentionally; ‘cuisine’, not ‘food’, and far from anything that would make time with ‘grub’, ‘eats’, or ‘chow’. The chapters of our dinner presented themselves in a casual manner, and in a cleverly ironic fashion - there was no rush. From butter melting bread to our dueling desserts, the restaurant gave us a kind of culinary soundtrack; each dish contributing extra depth to the atmosphere of our anniversary (a duo of dessert delicacies is strongly advised, or a trio, do not fear the trio either). Our focus would drift from our two years, to talks of Taste and the ‘Art’ of the Culinary Arts, before finding ourselves again with a renewed smile. The exchange of an “Mmmmm”-and-a-furled-brow or an “Oooooo”-with-a-set-of-wide-eyes would have been enough to make ‘What about Bob?’ himself, in all his B-Murray glory, toss out a ‘When Harry met Sally’ and very much want what we were having…

Mike recommended both the Marinated Wild Pacific Halibut and the Alberta Beef Tenderloin, to go with our Duck Confit and Foie Gras Ravioli appetizer (les hors d'oeuvres in the area of $13 with entrées entertaining the $25-$35 range – a strong investment during these times of economic uncertainty). Kerry let the squid ink fettuccini, truffle scented dashi, ginger, and miso work with the Halibut to both bewilder and bewitch the taste buds, while my Meat and Potatoes dish abandoned Traditional for an exotic creativity; artichoke, smoked bacon, braised shallot, and confit potatoes were not so much Sides, as they were an extension of the tenderloin experience. It was a bitter sweetness to enjoy each bite, knowing that we were slowly losing the anticipation of the Chef’s work. Kerry and I were reluctant to go beyond a single bite-for-bite exchange; only true love let us part with the fork-full, we both knew that a second round of sharesies would have really put that love to work.


With all that said though, Rush isn’t for everyone. In fact, don’t go there… Part of the charisma of the night was knowing that Kerry and I had something so few were sharing. And although I have no fears of losing the uniqueness of the chemistry that holds us together (outstretched hands locked at the table’s centre), I do worry that others may translate this hidden gem into a hype that could steal away our secret. Reluctantly, I share my ‘four and a half Champagne Bubbles out of five’ rating with the world, hoping that in doing so I haven’t ruined Rush (with more irony of course, by causing a rush) – Kindness Killing, my most hated of Killing kinds.

In the same way we had entered, our departures were met with a warmth and invitation that will have us back. With the mystic of Vintage Chophouse, character of Buchanan’s, and elegance of Teatro, Rush makes the list and can enjoy my approval.

I am Jack’s impossibly high new standards.

_______________



Book ending our anniversary, in strength and simplicity, were flowers and a card; Can’t argue the classics. With Rush taking care of the dinner scene, I allowed the flora to announce the day to a waking Kerry. Now, I could colour each petal with a description of the flower’s creamy texture, and play with your senses by turning their dizzyingly beautiful perfume into a collection of dream like adjectives, but the flowers didn’t need that kind of flashy costume, so that wasn’t the focus; for a flower to truly be a Flower, they must embody something more, something of substance. The substance of this vase was two years worth of our story.

In the same way that the flowers allowed the morning to speak from the heart, so too did the card for the evening. It was one more surprise for Kerry to unlock; surprises after all, are the corner stone of any well respected special day.

When it comes to cards, I don’t like them – at least not hot off the Hallmark press. Someone else’s words standing front and centre, between our two hearts, in this most loving of moments… unacceptable. It feels cold, it feels awkward, it feels like Gift Card level cop-out. Exceptions, special circumstances, the perfect card; yes, I know, there’s a time and a place for Carlton and Hallmark to fight for your affection. However, in general, I think there is no substitute for the Personal, and therefore, no reason why one can’t steal back the moment with their own special touch.

Kerry’s card had been carved up and covered in the unmistakable personality de Jack. I took the cute photo front and the single line body and queued up memories, coded it with inside jokes, moved passed the mass produced with a made-to-measure moment starring her and I. The card had become something so beyond what was pulled off the shelf; the card was alive.

The anniversary was once again, ours.

_______________


And as I shared with her, we share with you…

With our Past driving our Future; I let love entangle itself with two mirrored moments, two tales of the same statement of passion, an echo of the pull between Kerry and I was at the centre of my card to her:

Loves Echo

Moments and memories light up the past

Narration retold from smiling eyes

A moon to the morrow’s sunrise

A fading radiance parallels the beauty of my future

A warmth over a shadowed forgotten

New life fills the empty yesterday

To touch is to relive

Beginning once more, the heart repeats

To remember is to anticipate

Our history we chase in what’s yet to reveal

The light, her light, is all I need

Her beauty, her life, strengthens my hope

I am Jack’s most willing vulnerability…

How about this Heat!?!?

In the words of the great Denis the Leary “I walk around in the summertime saying ‘How about this heat?’”

I was outside at lunch, turns out it’s about “Melt Your Skin Off” degrees Celsius, which is roughly “Spontaneous Animal Combustion” Fahrenheit. I’m not so much complaining about the heat as I’m complaining about the slacks and dress shirt I’m costumed up in… that’s right, “slacks”, that’s where I’m at in my life, I own them, wear them, and am involved in slacks related activities.

Now, unlike the Leary, my weather wise commentary has nothing to do with tending towards @ssholelishness; That ‘weather-talk’, that dull filler that eats away at the soul and turns the brain to mush, that empty eye-witness rehearsal of what’s outside the window, that conversation that works so hard at stereotyping the weather as small talk… that’s not what I’m talking about. Right now, I’m throwing Big Talk at you, all kinds of Weather Big-Talking, and I’m throwing it on two levels.

This Big-Talk Weather is passionate. Passionate and whimsical, with just a shadow of belligerence. Today it’s Plus-a-Gazillion-Trillion degrees, yesterday the Heavens opened up and threw down frozen anger, earlier in the week tornado-talk themed the story of the Neighborhood-in-a-Blender drama; this weather is not your parents’ chit-chat, this is a new era of front-page excitement. It’s almost like Weather caught wind of its association with Small Talk and decided to up the ante (‘Weather catching wind’ a paradox? Perhaps, don’t worry about the word play though, just enjoy it and move on to the fun of understanding a Gazillion-Trillion as a number, which by the way is pri-ttay big).

Level 1 of Big Talk: Bad @ss Weather. Level 2… I’m not built for this stuff.

True, no one is ‘build for’ Twisters, or the Poseidon Adventure’s Land-Locked sequel, “Sink a City Atlantis-style: no time for Arcs or Snorkels, it’s Raining out here B!tch”, but I am not built for this heat. And these struggles of Perspiration, Rouging of the Cheeks, and a General Need to Complain are worthy of the Small Talk to Big Talk upgrade.