Where the F*&k are We?!?!??!?!!!?

The following is more or less true, but there are unanswered questions everywhere...

I feel the bright sun on my face, it's nice. I casually open my eyes, it's no longer nice, at all. The brightest rays that have ever travelled to the surface of the Earth are colouring a strange room that is not my own. Interesting. I flash on a boutonniere being placed on my lapel, a chapel full of well dressed people, my buddy Cam standing facing his bride in white, a speech from his younger brother Andrew, dinner then dessert, one drink, a second drink, a dance floor full of smiles and loosened ties, another drink that is followed by many more. I close my eyes again, and smile. Awesome Night...

"Where the f*&k am I?!?!" floats towards me from another room. It's a good question. It's a good question that I start to think about. I move old-man slow and while sizing up the environment, I suit-up again.

I leave the room that isn't mine and find a hallway that also isn't mine with a bunch of other not-mine kind of rooms off of it. I get curious and I creep around a little. The place looks like the Normandy coast line after a dozen World War II movies have rolled through; there are bodies scattered all over the floor, piled up on beds, draped over chairs, with beer bottles littering the carpeted floor like bullet casings. I flash on a busy night club, a dozen bad pictures of Randoms posing, too many people in a small cab, laughing, crying, laughing and pointing, too many people in a small house, drinks, more drinks, more laughs, and then silence.

"Epic..." I whisper to myself, as I move from the second floor of the house to the first.

Byron is sitting on a couch trying to squeeze memories of last night out of his head. He looks terrible. The kind of terrible that you really have to work hard to get. Brian's standing beside the couch. A couch that I now realize is very small, very disheveled, and very much missing a cushion. Brian looks a little less terrible than Byron, but this is all incredibly relative, they both look like they need a car wash. I just assume that the two of them have spent the night in a cuddle fight on the couch. They both look up and become Deer to my head lights, hearing my thoughts which may or may not have been said out loud.

"Where the h*ll did you come from?!?!" Brian's whispering and yelling at the same time, it's fitting.

"The bed upstairs."

"What bed, you bed, a bed, there was bed?!?!" Brian's whisper-yell makes Byron squeeze for more memories.

"Technically I think it was a futon."

"Technically I slept on the floor, so can-it." Byron doesn't even bother whispering. I don't even bother not-laughing.

I continue my slow-moving passed a bottle depot next to what had been a pretty nice kitchen before a party had hosted itself there. I start opening cupboards until I find a glass that hadn't been invited to the party. As I get lost in how good the water tastes, I stare out the kitchen window at a Sunday outside the house that is far more beautiful than the Sunday I have woken up to inside. A nice old couple walk by. It looks like today is a great day to be a nice old couple walking by. Water was a great choice, I fill the glass again. Another nice old couple walk by. It looks like today is a great day to be a nice... What the- I've already had that whole 'nice old couple' thought. A third nice old couple walk by. I lean over the sink and scan the street. Small little homes, pristine manicured-lawns, silly little pruned hedges, flowers, gnomes, door mats, welcome signs. Odd, the left end of the street and the right end of the street look the exact same. In fact every house on the street is the same little white townhouse. It is a never ending maze of cute little houses, all lined up and orderly. A nice old couple walk by. Yep, we are in a gated community, and the place is crawling with nice old couples.

"Dudes, where the f*&k are we?!?!" I try out Brian's whisper-yell.

Byron and Brian slowly shake their heads, not terribly impressed.

"What are you doing over there? Let's get the f*&k out of here!!!" They both have their shoes on, and neither of them look very natural on their feet.

I power back the rest of my water, fill the glass, shoot the water again, and scamper out of the kitchen.

Brian opens the door and we pile out of the house that's not mine. We all grown, squint, throw our hands at the sun, and stumble down the front steps. The fresh air tastes funny. Byron says something about killing the chirping birds and then sleeping on a flower bed.

"What is this place?" Brian's confused by all the cloned homes.

"I think it's been mentioned before, but where the f*&k are we?" Byron laughs and then groans, and then Brian and I laugh, and cough, and groan, and laugh again. And then we are quiet.

"Man, I have no idea... Oh, wait a minute!" I pull out my cell. "Need to know where the f*&k you are? There's an App for that!" My thumbs fire up the iPhone's GPS. Byron, Brian, and I gather around my phone in the middle of the street.

A small blue crosshairs pops onto a map of Calgary and zooms in on our location. The three of us chime in at the same:

"OH SHIT!"

"We might as well be in freakin' Bragg Creek, actually I think if we head that way we can make it there by lunch," I chuckle, but an old couple on the customary morning walk doesn't appreciate Byron's loud sense of humor.

"Okay, okay, last thing first, I see a Sev on the other side of that gate, I vote Gatorades," Brian's on the move again.

"Gatoraaaaaaaaaade!" The three of us charge forward.

We leave the gated community, buy Gatorades with money Brian borrowed from the house that wasn't mine, his, or Byron's, pull out the iPhone again, and head South. I flash on Derek Jeter drinking Gatorade, Usain Bolt drinking Gatorade, Dwayne Wade, Mia Hamm, Payton Manning, Misty May-Treanor, Michael Jordan drinking Gatorade and flying through the air. I flash on Jack, Byron, and Brian wearing suits, ties, and disheveled hair, buying Gatorade. Classic.

We down the electrolytes and sugar and start with the questions...

Brian: Who's house was that?

Byron: How'd we get there?

Jack: Who thought Bragg Creek was a good idea?

Byron: Why did we go to cowboys?

Brian: Did I buy and consume Street-Meat at any point last night?

Jack: Where's Jason and Andrew?

Brian: How did we lose 9 people?

Jack: Wasn't someone suppose to look after us?

Byron to Jack: Why is your shirt tucked in and your jacket buttoned up?

Brian to Jack: Yeah and why is your tie done up?

Byron to Brian: Is he still wearing his boutonniere?

Brian: Did we go to Humpty's last night?

Byron: Why did we go to Humpty's last night?

Jack: Did we meet another Jack at Humpty's that wasn't me?

Byron: Where is all my money, did I tip anyone other than the waitress?

Brian: Why did I order spicy food at Humpty's?

Jack to Byron: Who was that you were making out with at Cowboys?

Byron: Did any of those girls last night, at any time, have names?

Jack to Brian: Why was I your wing man if you were only going to hit on ugly people?

Brian: Are we still headed south?

Jack: Does anyone want to do that again tonight?

Byron to himself: What does my mouth taste like?

Byron: Whose sock is this in my pocket?

Brian: Did I say anything mean to you guys last night?

Jack: Where did Mike, Craig, and those other 3 people go?

Brian: Was I in a shower sometime last night?

Brian: Or did I go swimming in a pool, or a small river or something?

Byron to his feet: Do we have a plan that doesn't involve this?

Jack: I wonder if there's an App for 'I'm walking on the side of the road and want to be in my own bed'?

Brian: What are the chances that we all get murdered if we hitchhike?

Jack to Brian: Has this ever happened to you before?

Jack to Byron: You?

Jack: Did we kill that night or what?

No one has any answers just more questions: the more you don't know, the more you know you don't know you know...

I call my brother and give him a few highlights. We make plans to watch the preview for the movie 'the Hangover' later. I give him an intersection that Byron, Brian, and I are standing at, and I describe my surroundings (a tree, a yield sign, a small grassy hill). Dressed in suits, the three of us stand next to a road in the deep South-West of Calgary on a Sunday morning. It's surprisingly peaceful. I let my mind wander.

Cam is married. My buddy Cam, who I've known for twenty plus years, is a married man. It's amazing. How and when did this happen? We literally played in Sand Boxes together. I flash on Cam and I mapping out Trick-or-Treating routes, throwing snowballs at girls, busing-it to school, playing hockey on team after team, going to New Year's Eve parties, battling the elements camping, loving life in Mexico, ganging up on little kids at Laser Quest, ranting about movies, cheering at Flames games, skiing Louise, Sunshine, Nakiska, surviving late night LRT adventures, discussing big decisions, laughing through little decisions, figuring out the world. You don't come across friends like this too often. Congrats Cam. My mind wanders a little further, 'How does one know when he is ready to get married?' Finally an answer I know:

He no longer spends his Sunday mornings on the side of the road in yesterday's suit wearing a big, huge smile...

Fantastic Night!

A Holmes Run

No matter whom you are there will come a point in time during this small piece of writing where you will be convinced, and without hesitation skip passed the remaining wit and ramble and jump right to the main event. The only question that remains is how long I can hold your attention before the facts become too overwhelming…

I’ll begin by reminding you that I have an extensive background in Film. I am the audience. I watch movies and I watch them well. I’m not chit-chatting during the previews, or showing up partway through the opening credits, I’m not asking for spoilers, or forgetting release dates; I take this shit seriously. With that said I’ll continue by stating that I have now found the most anticipated feature of 2009. Queue the Cast: Downey Jr., Hey-Jude Law, Miss McAdams, the mysterious Mark Strong. And who to conduct such an ensemble of flare and personality, none other than that RocknRolla himself, who Snatch’d the crown as ruler of the London Underground, lighting up the screen with his Revolvers and Two Smoking Barrels; The Guy Ritchie.

That was the good news, here I hold the bad: with an official appetizer currently on the big screen, we have to now Larry-David 'Curb Your Enthusiasm' as the real reel won’t roll until December 25th.

If you haven’t yet scrolled to the Official Trailer, I can either label myself a true talent or conclude that you have no concept of the difference between good, great, and life-altering. Downey Jr. should have been enough, G. Ritchie then should have been the last name you read, but if these names won’t do, try:

SHERLOCK HOLMES

You-Tube-it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S4K3aM5H5KM

or check out JustJared.com: http://justjared.buzznet.com/2009/05/19/sherlock-holmes-trailer/

My Great Triumph

The in-line 3 sounds like a smile when you call on it. This girl purrs like she has something important to say. And she does. While the Triumph Daytona 675 has great handling, it also offers a fantastic amount of power. And with it's light and narrow theme, this bike allows for controlled access to every one of those torqued up 120 plus horses. Plus this bike looks goooooooood.

My road to this ride is somewhere between 'common' and 'chaotic', and now that I've joined the Triumph family I am all kinds of happy.

Like many I liked the idea of riding a motorcycle. About a year ago I began introducing myself to the world of Bikes. I exposed myself to everything from long-winded tall tales from friends of friends, to massive motorcycle exhibitions, to buyers guides, TV specials, monthly magazines, and even (quite often) tremendous day dreams. But it wasn't until I attended the four and a half hour in-class portion of the Too Cool Motorcycle School course that I truly felt like I was moving forward.

Along for the journey was my Motorcycle partner-in-crime / Dad, Rick. Together we had been fueling each others Bike excitement with anything and everything 'Motorcycle'. We left the in-class session with an extraordinary amount of knowledge and even more enthusiasm to learn to ride. Trevor and Rob from Too Cool had covered everything from the mechanics of Motorcycles, to the proper gear, to the safety on a Bike, the right attitude, the operation of machine, and the fun you can have when Riding. And they delivered it all with true passion. I knew we were in good hands.

Two weeks passed; two slow, long weeks. Then finally the on-bike portion of the course began on a Monday night. In a closed parking lot with three instructors, some beaten down pylons, and a variety of 250cc bikes, I said good bye to my life before Motorcycles.

Day One introduced us to the Motorcycle. I started the day with a history of having done nothing more than sit on a handful of bikes and poorly operate a friend's dirt bike or two. By night's end I was riding a motorcycle. I was freezing and exhausted, but I was actually riding! This was amazing. And it was only the first step. Day Two was a skills night complete with shifting in turns, working slow maneuvers, and dodging through serpentines. Every drill that Trevor, Rob, or Jordan demonstrated had me muttering 'not a chance, there's no way I can do that', followed shortly after by 'that's crazy, did I just- noooo... yep, I did it... unbelievable'. And it was. It was unbelievable how far the entire class had come after only 9 hours of on-bike experience. I was all smiles, still cold and soar, but all smiles. Day Three was something different - Emergency Maneuvers. I left after the class with the words 'Don't Panic' tattooed to my brain. Not only did Don't Panic mean that a calm, cool head was need to escape danger on a motorcycle, but Don't Panic was also what I was telling myself as I realized I was so far from ready for the Real Deal. The more you know, the more you know you don't know. However, the next day I realized that Trevor had taught us the fundamental skills for emergency stopping, collision avoidance, and general road awareness. At this point I became aware that riding a motorcycle with out the tools that a solid Course can provide is just irresponsible. Queue Day Four. We put it all together with a nice in-lot warm up that prepared us for our Road Ride. Thinking back on it, I was anticipating a nice little loop around the university campus, or perhaps a tour of one of the quiet adjacent communities, how wrong I was. With the three instructors, two guest riders, and the class of ten, we took to the streets like a legitimate motorcycle gang. Sure we were a gang sporting bright orange vests on 250cc bikes, but we were a gang nonetheless. And we prowled the town. I had several 'Holy Cr@p!' moments where I caught myself instinctively avoiding Danger Zones, casually nodding to other riders, and taking in the setting sun that lit a sky full of fluffy clouds far too big for a windshield to handle (granted these clouds had been throwing snow at us earlier in the ride, they now were part of my amazing memory). We rode in and around Calgary for 55k. It was without a doubt something impossible for Jack-from-four-days-before. And the craziest part was, the whole class did it. Everyone who strapped on a helmet at the start of day one, rode for 55 kilometers with traffic, from the city to the country side, in winter-like condition, into the dead of night. It was one of the most incredible experiences I've had.

Trevor's final words were of 'Luck' and 'Experience'. He said that as Motorcycle Riders we carried with us two bags, a bag of Luck and a bag of Experience. Being beginners we had a full bag of Luck, but nothing in our Experience bag. Trevor said that it was our job to start slowly filling our Experience bag so that we didn't have to always rely on the Luck. I wanted to start gaining that Experience.

After the four day course I was a wreck; a wreck that couldn't shake a goofy smile and this need for more. My Dad and I couldn't stop ranting and raving about the brilliance of Trevor's Too Cool Motorcycle School course. It was definitely time to continue the journey. Unlike my Dad, who had been one with the motorcycle at my age, I needed my Class 6 license. There were two things standing in my way, both very much a test, and both very much a problem: Knowledge Test and Road Test. I was told by several people not to worry about them. I was worried about them.

My first trip to the Registry was my first look at the 30 multiple choice questions testing my Knowledge of Motorcycles and the Rules of the Road. I was told after I paid for my test that I was allowed to get 5 wrong. 6 wrong was a big, fat, useless Fail. Having taken a few tests in my day (it was basically a weekly event in the Faculty of Engineering at the UofC), I was convinced that I wouldn't let stress or anxiety come into play. That of course was before I was plagued by questions about minimum ages for learning to ride a motorcycle, licensing of Mopeds, and rules specific to the operation of Scouters. On the 30th question I had 5 'wrong', 24 'correct', and 1 'remaining' (the computer keeps you well informed of your progress, which really only intensifies the experience). It came down to a choice between b) and d) that had me sweating every move of the cursor. I guessed wrong. Devastated. Screw Mopeds, and if I'm 25 what do I care if you can or can't learn to ride a motorcycle at 16. But I shook it off, returned the next day, and dominated 25 straight questions to get the Pass. One down, one to go.

So with plenty of contrived confidence trying to distract me from the battle between fear and anxiety that rattled my brain, I began my Road Test prep. A quick review of the Too Cool handbook, a discussion with fellow Riding Student (the Father), plenty of visualization and mental practice (from shifting to breaking to the rules of the road), and I was ready to attack the next challenge. It would be the greatest challenge since opening the throttle for the first time.

I arrived early to the McMahon Stadium parking lot. I had driven the 30 minute trip with my cellphone off and the radio silenced in order to be completely focused on the road and place myself in the right frame of mind for the Road Test. Don was a big man with a big bad Harley Davidson build disguised in an enormous Hawaiian shirt. Immediately I was trying to figure out what I was dealing with. His smile was friendly, this swagger was casual, and his few pre-game pointers lead me to believe that Don was as laid back as his scruffy facial hair. I was wrong.

The test breaks down like this: The examiner drives a car behind you while you execute maneuvers that he relays to you through a headset. Turns, lane changes, merging, yield signs, intersections, parking, pedestrians, cats, school zones... for 45 minutes it's you, the bike, and the Real World. I was so focused, so aware of my surroundings, and so attentive to all the little things that Trevor, Rob, and Jordan had spent the last week drilling into my head. And things went well. Things went really, really well. Part way through the test I actually thought to myself "Jack, you are doing a really super job, good for you, just great stuff". When I was finally guided back towards McMahon and had successfully parked the bike, I was all smiles. I had been so stressed out over the last 24 hours, so beaten up after all the work during the week, and so emotionally drained after the failed Knowledge test, it just felt so good to finish the final step in the process. As I listened to Don's post-test advise (I got the sense that this was his time to shine, to 'make a difference' and share some of his experience) I couldn't shake the pure joy I was feeling. I was beyond happy.

"... and so I had to give you a No Pass."

What was that? Wait, wait, wait, that's not really adding to my happiness Don. It sunk in; Don - casual, easy going, cool as cool can be Don - had FAILED me. WHAT?!?!?! I wasn't even disappointed, I was just shocked. I was completely surprised. How was it that that great ride that I'd just taken was the same ride that Don wanted no part of. It was right around this time when I became very aware of the required criteria to Not Pass the Road Test. If one receives over 75 points, it's a big Faileroo, and/or if one violates 1 of the 'Disqualification' scenarios (the equivalent of a Harry Potter Unforgivable Curse), massive, painful, instant Failage. He handed me the evaluation sheet, I looked down at it, then back up at No-longer-my-friend-Don. The explanation that followed was a big pile of garbage (in my opinion, of course). Without going into the detail that would absolutely, without a shadow of a doubt, completely convince you that Don is out of his mind, here are some highlights:

- Driving Too Slow (a 30point slap to the face - that's 3 separate 10pts infractions, the maximum punishment): Don was quite passionate about how driving at 25km/h in a school zone (where the posted 'maximum speed' is in fact not 25 but 30km/h) can result in you endangering yourself and other drivers. Additionally, driving between 35-40k in a residential area is Not the 50k that you should be driving. I assume that since I didn't actually kill any of the small children playing on the sidewalk and adjacent lawns that I could have bumped my speed up to that of Sound. In all fairness to Don though, he did give me a warning 3 minutes into the ride when I was rolling along at 65 in a 70 zone (thanks new-best-bud) - I should have taken this as a sign that I was doomed.

- Failing to Shoulder Check (merci, that's 10points earned): I know for a fact that Donny wasn't paying attention to me, the bike, or my very athletically sound head-on-a-swiveling skills because every time I SHOULDER CHECKED I saw Don not see me see him. I felt like this was a bonus infraction - 'Listen Don, if I take these two for 10 points each, and that one for 30 points, and this other little 10 pointer, what can you do for me? Shoulder Checking? Can you throw in Shoulder Checking? Niiiiiiiiiice.

- Failing to Assume Own Right of Way (there's a nice round 10points for ya): Lesson Learned O-Wise-One, throw caution to the wind and tear-it-up! I was told that I didn't need to adjust my speed at uncontrolled intersections unless there was someone to my right; no visible cars, or something hanging out to my left, just barrel right on through. Now I'm all for driving proactively and carrying an assertive attitude, but I'm also all for not dying and not wildly launching my bike into an UNCONTROLLED crossroads. Why is it that when I ease off the throttle it is assumed that I don't know the rules of the road, and not that I want to survive and not dive bomb my bike into a Honda Odyssey.

- Incorrect lane positioning in a Right Turn (dix points pour moi): I guess, I mean this could be correct. Don advised that when making a right turn at an intersection you must first move over to the right side of the lane before moving through the turn and maintaining lane position. I had been under the impression that in most cases, including turns through intersections, that the recommended lane position was either left or who-the-hell-cares. There are definitely scenarios where it is advantageous and safer to move into the right portion of the lane, but trading me 10 points for my beautifully executed left side of the lane turn, just doesn't seem like a fair exchange.

- Ability to Shift Gears (take the number of gears, multiply it the number of hands needed to complete a Shift, subtract the displacement of the bike you are on, and add the derivative of 'You're-a-big-Meannie... 10, again): Don, Don, Don... Come-on now, we're getting a little too creative here. He assured me that these lack of Shifting skills had nothing to do with my driving of the vehicle, it was simply the difficulty I had in putting the bike into Neutral. Oh phew, cause for a second their I thought you were just making sh!t up. Turns out that when the operator of a motorcycle stays calm, cool, and collected while his used-and-abused driving school bike slides from 1st to 2nd to 1st to 2nd without wanting any part of that happy medium, Neutral, said motorcycle operator is one of those "can't shift gears" types. Never mind the other forty-four and a half minutes of gear shifting, the extra effort I put into eventually motorcycle-whispering the transmission into neutral was unacceptable in old Don's books.

And then at the end of the test, just to add some extra flavour to my No-Pass, Don tossed in a few extras in the Disqualification column:

- Lack of Skills: which he said he decided to mark-up because of my lack of Shifting capability (classy choice).

- Obstructing Traffic: this one is rich. Don said it wasn't a big deal (no, no, it's just a capital F on the test, nothing major), but in order to bring it to my attention he wanted to have it on record (beautiful). Turns out that as I was leaving the parking lot, seconds after turning on the bike, I 'obstructed' the hell out of another vehicle. Here's the layout: it's a one lane in, one lane out parking lot entrance, I am in the left of centre to centre portion of the exiting lane, preparing to turn left. Behind me is Don's enormously wide boat of a car, and behind Don is the obstructed vehicle. The story goes that the car behind Don was preparing to turn right, and because I wasn't positioned properly, that car wasn't able to make it's turn until I had completed mine. I don't even want to get into the subject of a motorcycle being considered an equal to a four-wheeled vehicle with respect to the rules of the road, and there's no point in emphasizing the fact that there was only one lane leaving this lot, I'm interested in how Don figured that this car was able to get around his house of an Oldsmobile but was all 'obstructed' to sh!t by my cute little 250cc Ninja. By this point I had already started referring to explanations such as this one as 'Classic Don'.

So there it is. I crept passed the allowable 75pts with a kick to the junk 80, and just to colour up the test results page Big D tossed on a couple immediate Fails. So I Failed. Or as I spent the next week saying: 'I didn't Pass'. Despite my vivid description, I truly wasn't discouraged. I can understand where Don is coming from (now, I can also think he's out of his mind at the same time) but I know that even with the list of infractions, I can still operate a motorcycle and ride safely. And that was the attitude I was going to hold on to for the next week while I waited for take-2.

Unfortunately as the week progressed I let myself drift towards Negative Town. I had no means of practicing and thus nothing to replace my most recent riding experience. I caught myself several times re-living the Road Test, questioning my decisions, hearing Don's explanations and allowing them to nurture clusters of doubt in my hectic mind. I became nervous, and stressed out, and before long I wanted nothing to do with another Road Test. Why was I even trying it again? I hadn't done anything to remedy the issues that resulted in my last failure (No-Pass), I didn't even know if I'd be able to get a bike going again it had been so long, and I saw no way that it was possible to spend 45 minutes on a motorcycle and not accumulate over 75 points. I couldn't stop thinking about my Sunday morning test. I just wanted Sunday afternoon to show up and tell me that it doesn't matter, that failing (Not Passing) for a second time isn't as bad as it sounds. It sounded bad. It sounded like a tremendous catastrophe. I felt sick. I was a mess.

The week passed, Sunday morning arrived, and I found myself back at McMahon. The parking lot was empty, except for a large boat of an Oldsmobile. Perfect. Out of all the examiners in Calgary I managed to snag the same guy twice. Don was wearing the same scraggly facial hair and a brighter more flowing variation of last week's Hawaiian shirt (I pictured his closet; dozens and dozens of disasterous Hawaiian shirts all lined up on hangers like a hitman's collection of black suits - I was today's mark, challenge accepted Donald). As I approached his car I realized that like any test, like any exam there is a large portion of the evaluation that deals with the student's ability to Take the Test. You can know all the answers, but if you can't execute, if you don't know how best to move through the 'questions', you might as well be driving blind (which doesn't really favour the operating of motorcycles). I knew all the answers and now I knew Don. This was a good thing. I didn't need to figure out another examinar, I just had to play by Don's rules for 45 minutes, and then walk away.

Don didn't remember me until I started rhyming off my collection of past infractions. He really got enthusiastic about the Driving Too Slow and the Shoulder Checking, obviously a few of his favs. I didn't want any more surprises, so I spent 10 to 15 minutes having a nice casual chit-chat with Don. It was like catching the teacher moments before the final and getting hints on specific questions he had stuck on the test. It was brilliant.

45 minutes later I pulled into McMahon and completed the loop. I didn't have the emotional energy to assume anything. The test went well, just like last time. I didn't alter much of my performance, but I was willing to fully participate in Don's crazy game. I pulled off my helmet and Don started offering me 'advice' again. This time I knew what I was looking for. I slowly started to lean around until I was able to see the little report card he was studying as he spoke. The first spot that my eyes landed on was a 50. I let a small smile slip; one down, one more to go. But his thumb was strategically covering the lower left corner of the page and I couldn't see the 'Pass / No-Pass' check boxes. Then Don's enthusiasm returned, and as he started talking with his hands the thumb shifted revealing a sloppy check mark:

PASS

BAM! Just like that I couldn't feel even a hint of anxiety. I felt light and full of life. Man, I wanted to let loose a Johnny Chase 'Victoryyyyyyyy!' I spent another minute being advised by Don, doing my best to not dance like Elaine Benes, and covering my goof-ball smile with my 'focus face' (which involves tight lips and a quizzical furling of the brow). And then it was over. I was back in my car, driving home with my evaluation form confirming that I would never have to deal with Don again.

And so today I road my bike in to work. It's been a couple weeks since I thanked Trevor, Rob, and Jordan for all their help, and ever since then I've been doing my best to 'Fill my Bag of Experience'. And I've loving it. Riding a motorcycle is like flying. The freedom, the control, the peace, it's all like poetry. It has to be, otherwise no one would climb on to these rockets and try to move around all the monsterous vehicles that can't see you and yet want to run you over. I've only been in my car once since buying the Daytona, and the whole time I was regreting the decision of 4-wheels-good, 2-wheels-bad. Because in my opinion it's definitely 4-wheels-good, 2-wheels-better.

Having taken the course, passed the tests, bought the insurance, aquired the licence, set up the registration, covered myself with the gear, and picked up the bike, the next challenge is to stay focused when I'm not riding. All I want to do is find the hidden highways that maps don't talk about. I want to pull up and park the bike and let it take the spot light. I want to give two-fingered waves as I pass another member of the club. And I want to gear up, pull out of the garage, and follow the sun with my Pop and his F800S Beamer roaring along, leading us on an adventure.

This motorcycle was a good idea. A terrifying, dangerous, fun kind of good idea. Now all I have to do is give her a name.

Worry About ME!

Yesterday an email dropped into my inbox and the subject was 'A New Idea'. This New Idea was a whole list of activities mapping out a few could-be futures for my recently graduated younger brother, whom everyone seems to be worried about. I talked to my brother about the worriers, and he doesn't seemed to be worried about the worrying at all, which is maybe the reason people are worried. What I'm worried about, is the lack of worrying that is being devoted to my cause. So in an attempt to sway the band-wagon worriers back in my direction, I responded with this appeal:

I read this email and I have some thoughts. I seem to think this is the second message in the last little while where someone has commented on this topic of 'Worry about Neil'. My question is, 'What in the Heck! Why is there no worrying about the Jacksonian?!?!?!' Sure I smile a lot, and have a job, and take care of my body, and dress well, and like to partake in activities, and eat in moderation, and have friends, and no longer talk to stuffed-animals, and don't murder people, and brush my teeth, and aren't addicted to Crack, and shake hands firmly, and own a car, and like to listen to music, and find Puppies cute, and hate Jihadist Terrorist Cells, and can tell time on an analogue watch, and enjoy travel, and play team sports, and never stare at the sun, and never say 'never', and have the ability to tread water, and can rub my stomach and tap my head at the same time, on a good day, when no one is watching, if I rub with the left and tap with the right, and really concentrate on it, and only do it for 3 to 5 seconds... But Honestly! What's the Deal! People should be worrying about me all the time. All the Time!!

I don't think it worked though. It's much like the concept of insanity; to think you are insane in fact proves that you are not. Likewise, to ask for people to worry about you tends to suggest that they don't need to be concerned. Now, on the other hand, if you blog about worrying...

Fear the Flu

Earlier this week I read an article and had the following thoughts:

That's the spirit, a touch of the positive. Up until now I have faced the Fear-of-the-Flu with my usual approach to life's Less-Desirable situations; Let Future-Jack deal with it. I've more-or-less assumed that everything will simply take care of itself, and in three weeks my biggest worry will be 'have I spent enough time dosing under this palm tree'. But dammit if the Global-Gossip column won't let me dream my dream. Pandemic or no-Pandemic, Mexico or no-Mexico, 28-Days-Later or Shaun-of-the-Dead, the one thing I am ready to take from this whole Swine Flu ordeal is probably best descibed by one Jules from the Pulp: "Pig's a filthy animal..."

Below is the April 26th True/Slant article by Turi McNamee

http://trueslant.com/turimcnamee/2009/04/26/swine-flu-nothing-new/

As for the rest of that classic Quentin:

Vincent: Want some bacon?

Jules: No man, I don't eat pork.

Vincent: Are you Jewish?

Jules: Nah, I ain't Jewish, I just don't dig on swine, that's all.

Vincent: Why not?

Jules: Pigs are filthy animals. I don't eat filthy animals.

Vincent: Bacon tastes gooood. Pork chops taste gooood.

Jules: Hey, sewer rat may taste like pumpkin pie, but I'd never know 'cause I wouldn't eat the filthy motherfucker. Pigs sleep and root in shit. That's a filthy animal. I ain't eat nothin' that ain't got enough sense enough to disregard its own feces.

Vincent: How about a dog? Dogs eats its own feces.

Jules: I don't eat dog either.

Vincent: Yeah, but do you consider a dog to be a filthy animal?

Jules: I wouldn't go so far as to call a dog filthy but they're definitely dirty. But, a dog's got personality. Personality goes a long way.

Vincent: Ah, so by that rationale, if a pig had a better personality, he would cease to be a filthy animal. Is that true?

Jules: Well we'd have to be talkin' about one charming motherfuckin' pig. I mean he'd have to be ten times more charmin' than that Arnold on Green Acres, you know what I'm sayin'?

A One-Two Punch

"Yes, these are bruises from Fighting. Yes, I am comfortable with that. I am enlightened." Chuck Palahniuk's words coming out of Edward Norton's mouth; classic Fight Club. But this time around there was no Tyler Durdan, it was just me, my co-workers, and those three truths. And I am enlightened. I've played the role of Hockey Player for 18-years without ditching my mitts. It's not that I want to be that old washed up hockey mess with the Owen Wilson nose and the Tooth-Fairy Plus-Membership, but "how much can you really know about yourself if you've never been in a fight?"

Today as I wore my war wounds around the office, I was Edward Norton from Fight Club. I am Jack's Abstract Visage. People would stop mid-sentence and ask if I'd fallen into something, or if I'd hit something with my face. I know I may not be as gritty as a Philip Marleau, or as comic-book as a MMA goon, but it is a little disappointing to have 'Getting in a Fight' completely ignored from the list of 'broken face' explanations. However with that said, I was told that prior to yesterday's tussle, my entire squad would have awarded me with the 'least likely player to drop the gloves' honor, and with my Pts-average of 2 points per game, and the 6 minutes in Penalties I recorded this season, I have to agree that the role of enforcer was a surprising twist to my player profile.

But was it really a twist. On the same night that I responded to a flagrant elbow to the face and a cheap sucker-punch, Captain Crosby fought Florida's Keith Ballard, after the young defensemen delivered a low hit to Pen's star forward Evgeni Malkin. Everybody has to fight sometimes. Iginla, LeCavalier, even finesse frontman Alex Semin have danced with their fists when the time was right. It's been front and center in the news more than once in recent history, 'Fighting and Hockey, yay or nay?' To many the subject of Fighting in Hockey is an easy conversation involving adjectives like savage and barbaric, with statements about the violence of the event, and the lack of purpose it serves. To these privileged debaters, a lack of hockey experience and understanding allows them to wave a proud flag displaying their elitist thoughts. It's too easy to assume that peace and love will regulate this high intensity contest. Emotion, Speed, Adrenaline, and the Express Judgments found in hockey makes the opinions of those outside the sport uninformed.

The question is not: 'Do we ban Fighting from Hockey or continue to have players die?', but yet it's the one being answered by the majority of nay-sayers. Most players, coaches, and experienced fans of the game will tell you that in general Fighting, or more specifically 'the possibility of Fighting', is in fact a measure to reduce violence and injury in hockey. Fighting is the sport's self-correcting tool. It generates the same warrior-respect as the concept of Mutual Destruction, which guided the World passed the all out annihilation that threatened the planet during the Cold War. Why not just toss out a knee on the star player of the opposition? Injure him? Remove him from the game? Why not spend each shift carving players up with your stick? Feeding them slashes behind the refs back? Catching them where there's no padding? Why not hit from behind, spear, butt-end, or run someone without the puck? Because of the threat of a penalty? Really? Is the idea of 2 minutes in the penalty box going to convince everyone to 'play by the rules'? Some players don't respond well to the 'Minor Penalty' concept. Queue DiNero from Righteous Kill: "Most people respect the badge, but everyone respects the gun". No cheap shots, no testing the boundaries, no distractions from the 'Game'. For the Cold War's Superpowers the 'possibility of the Fight' allowed for negotiations and politics to be the focus, on the ice the prospect of a flexed muscle helps to eliminate everything that isn't hockey.


'Do we ban Fighting from Hockey or continue to have players die?' Just because it serves a purpose, doesn't mean that it justifies tragedy. Major Injuries resulting from Hockey Fights should generate a different discussion: Should Fighting be taught? In my opinion the answer is yes, but even as I consider suggesting this question the out-cry has drowned out any free thought. Should Fighting be taught... to the cute little Timbit Hockey Cabage-Patch-Kids from the commercials? No. Should Fighting be taught... to the once-a-week, division 4, teen player out on the ice for a chat, concerned more with the 'Mate' than the 'Team' part of teammate? No. The weekend rec puck player? No. The twice a year pond hockey bum? No. Should the proper Fighting techniques be made available to the high level player graduating from the minor ranks and pursuing a life in the sport of professional hockey? Yes.

There's more to a Hockey Fight than just the Looney Toon windmill of iron fists being caught by a big mushy face. Like the graceful offensive trickery of an Alexander Ovechkin, the moves of a Fighter are magic. While delivering similar combination to those of a boxer, the Fighter has to throw his punches while dancing on the ice. Balance is always being tested. But bobbing and weaving isn't enough. The threat of the rolling haymaker creates the need for strong grappling defense without sacrificing the offensive attacks that land the success. There's jersey control, strong-arm vs switch-up, foot work, and on top of that, each match up is different. The best of the best make it look easy enough that the average player thinks Anger is the only tool required. The worst injuries occur when basic technique is ignored. If each punch is opening you up, and you have no control of the other player's body, and the ice hits you just as hard as the knock down blow, then it's not the fighting part of the confrontation that is hurting you, it's all the mangled, irresponsible technique that's drawing blood (your blood). In the professional game, having a fundamental understanding of how to fight is as important as being able to deliver and receive a check, play with an awareness of all the players on the ice, and stop without piling up on the boards. The know-how won't encourage the act, it will simply remove the mystery, the fear, and the danger of it. Good Fighters will drop their gloves, battle within the abstract choreography, and congratulate their rival when the contest has run its course. The Hockey Fight is the neglected middle child, punished without being understood. It’s time to figure this kid out.

None of this was a concern of mine when I was faced with the only four options available to a helmetless player staring down an avalanche of hammering fists. I had challenged the goal on a two on one, and as the puck and the play left the offensive zone a crushing elbow met my right cheek bone. Total confusion and disgust. I could feel the clever wit mixing with my frustration, and as I turned to tear Elbows open with a string of hurtful Trash Talk, I stopped his mitted fist with my face. Sucker Punch! Are you kidding me?!?! This defensemen was not just pushing me around, he was setting the stage for bullying our entire team. All it takes is one talentless oaf to get away with roughing a player up and the tone of the game can shift, leaving one team vulnerable to physical abuse. I pushed back to remind the Oaf that I wasn't his play toy, but as quickly as the elbow and fist had found me, he had dropped his stick and forced my helmet off. The four options that now faced me had previously been discussed between myself and our Goalie (Goalies tend to know more about hockey then they let on, they are wise, they are sneaky, watch them carefully). I flashed on the following: Duck and Turtle and hope to survive; skate away and hope that the Oaf doesn't follow; stand strong and take the punches, Or... Fight Back! Oddly enough the lack of creativity involved in reffing most Men's Hockey League games means that all four available options lead to the same even up calls. Embarrassment aside, what's the point of taking the punishment for 'fighting' if you don't actually do any fighting. The worst part of getting in a Hockey Fight is getting punched in the face, and since I had already done that...



I wanted to use my ridiculously long and lanky reach and land enough punches to convince him (and everyone watching) that I was more than just a pretty face, with a large elbow shaped bruise. It all happened within a confusing rustle of banging equipment. Heavy breathing and angry grunts were all that the Oaf offered up aside from some slow miss-fires. Go figure, I can fight. I can only imagine that it's all the Playstation tussles I've put those little electronic tough guys through, that, and luck. I landed half a dozen decent punches, enough to get him leaking, and was able to protect myself from most of his attempts (random dodging maneuvers made me a pretty slippery target). "This is going Very well!" I thought to myself (Inside-Me smiled at this, Outside-Me continued to make the scrunchy face that does nothing for preventing landed punches, but looks really goofy). I then became well aware of the fact that the refs were nowhere to be found. After three or four good cracks on his noggin I was about done with the whole experience. Check it off the To-Do list, and abandon ship. This is where the fear came in. I suddenly realized that I was in a fight with a monstrous Lunatic, full of old-man strength, and irrational rage. Where were the refs? Why wasn't anyone coming to save me? I was now terrified. It's a good thing that I had chosen 'Fight' when I did, because with the Crazy-Nutjob getting more frustrated I wanted the other three Weenie-Options back ASAP. Just then I saw my opportunity; as the Oaf lunged forward we moved in unison like life-long dance partners, and my Judo instinct eased me on to the ice with a textbook Break-Fall. Beautiful, beautiful ice, my new favorite place. My mind quickly replayed the whole scene as the Where's-Waldo refs finally joined our situation. I smiled (not at the Oaf though, the risk-taking has to stop somewhere). I had not only survived the Fight, but I think I'd won, I made a big huge doofus bleed his own blood. I am bada$$. I feel great!

And that's exactly what I told my cheering section. I loved it; I loved that it was over, I loved that I wouldn't have to do it again, I loved that I hadn't started to cry, but mainly I loved that in the end the consensus was a thumbs up. The guys on the team couldn't get enough of it, they had been feeling the Oaf's stick all game, and were fed up with his cheap shots. The crowd was all geared up, as they had looked passed his moronic-Oaf exterior and saw the goon for what he really was; doosh-bag... big doosh-bag. Even the rink rat who gave me a bag of snow to ice my face told me that seeing people beat up oversized losers was the highlight of his job.

As I skated passed my fans (the true Jack-Webb hockey fanatics - Family mostly, but enthusiastic Family, truly committed, in fact they make up about 90 - 100% of the game's audience most nights), I saw a mix of concern and disappointment. My inside smile waivered. Did they not share my excitement? Did they not view the situation in the same way that I did? Was the Webb Crew part of the Ban-Fighting Following? Was there something other than 'Fight' or 'Weenie' that I could have worked with? No. The concern was for my safety, and the disappointment was for my sentencing. It should be noted that among the frowns and worried expressions, my brother brought something else to the table; he was all smiles - smiles, wide-eyes, and high fives. In the end, once the adrenaline had worn off and I had received an elegant off-setting double-minor to accompany my dismissal from the game, all that was left was our 7-2 victory, a couple of delicate black-and-blue souvenirs, an invitation to play in the next playoff game, and a great story complete with a 'you should see the other guy' tag line. My only slip-up throughout the whole adventure was during my recovery; way too much icing. Twenty-four hours should have produced a full collection of rainbow shades to decorate my face, but instead the elbow-imprint, the forehead goose-egg, and the bright red tracer drawn by the edge of my helmet, were all distant shadows of themselves. I am Jack’s total disappointment.



And now everything is back to normal. The story has been told, the bruises have disappeared, I’ve returned to the ice as the dangling play maker, and life goes on. But I feel different. Something has lingered, something quiet and subtle, something new; I have changed. And it has very little to do with the fight itself; it’s not the landed punches or ducked death blows, it’s not the excited cheers or my resulting survival, it’s that I did it. I lived that experience, and because of the adrenaline, the energy, the fear, and the smiles, that Fight is not just a memory, it is now a part of me.

A page from the eBook Story

I consider myself to be not only technically capable, but technically preoccupied. I love the gadgets. I love the way that devices like the iPhone take all kinds of 'Needs', bundle them with 'Wants', throw in some 'Unnecessaries' to create 'Simplicity' that just makes so much sense. I am no longer willing to carry a phone, laptop, MP3 player, daytimer, note book and finger drumset, when I know that it can all be packaged together in a sleek, cool, James Bond style gadget (I'm sure it was Q that came up with the iPhone, except when Mi6 handed it over to Apple, Steve Jobs had to remove the laser and the grappling hook).

But when it comes to Books and their transformation from pulp to pixel, it's the collector inside that seems to take over. I am less concerned with needing to teach my page-turning finger the new 'drag across the screen' move, and more concerned with the loss of my teetering stack of novels. I like the idea of letting a pristine collection of pages gather character as I move through the chapters. I like that my copy of Treasure Island has held on to a few grains of Mayan Riviera sand from my first trip to Mexico; that I have folds and scars on the cover of Jack Kerouac's On the Road from hostile floors and train station benches, dating my 2007 Euro Adventure; that it looks like each page of my Confederacy of Dunces book has been pawed three or four times, because it has; and that my copy of the Catcher in the Rye is broken-down and beaten-up because it was held hostage for several months by a book-murderer (my brother). The story behind the story about the story.

At this point the electronic book is a forced move for me. And sounding like an old soul who scoffs at change, the e-book lacks the warmth and imperfections of my travelled print copies. It's against my gadget-guru nature to side step the Kindles of the world, but if a scrolling screen can't capture the tears of laughter that now stain the pages of my Catch-22 book, then this word revolution has lost more than it's ability to gift paper cuts.