Hallowe'en memory

The strongest memory I have of Hallowe'en has nothing to do with my family, friends or myself.

Years ago I was driving to work on Hallowe'en morning. The weather was miserable the way the last day of October can sometimes be: cold, damp, and with the threat of rain to ruin the upcoming evening of trick or treat-ery.

And as I was driving, I noticed a young kid, maybe six or so, standing at a bus stop. For some reason he seemed to be crying.

But he was in costume. Wearing a bright, red, full-sized crayon outfit.

So there he was, on that cold Hallowe'en morning, a Crying Crayon.

He looked terrific in his costume and he should have been happy, but instead he looked utterly despondent as he stood alone, crying at the bus stop.

At that moment I felt like I was looking at the saddest little boy in the world.

I've never forgotten him. He haunts my Hallowe'en every year. The Crying Crayon.

The F@*#-ERY Has Ended

The sense of relief is incredible.

When it has just been a case of...

(as my wife so delicately put it)

... seemingly endless fuckery.

With no sign of quitting. No end in sight. Knowing it will go away but not knowing when it will leave.

And then it finally

Stops.

The sense of relief is almost physical in nature. It's honestly and truly like a huge weight has been lifted from your shoulders. As if someone says, "Here, let me take that away for you" and suddenly you can sit up straight and not feel as if something is pushing you down.

It's as if you realize, "Oh hell yeah. This is what it feels like to be normal again. To not be stressed and worried and not know when it's going to end. To not be in a state of fuckery. This is what relief feels like."

And it's not that there wasn't a light at the end of the tunnel; we knew it was going to be okay. But it was not knowing how long the journey through goddamn tunnel was going to take. That was the incredible awfulness of the situation.

But the fuckery has ended. The fuckery is gone. Fuckery no more.

Farewell fuckery, may we avoid being re-united for a long, long time.

NEWSFLASH: Headlines are Never Wrong, But They Can Mislead

The headline in the newspaper says "Slow Release Schedule Benefits Resident Evil".

And it drives me crazy when I read things like that because it's so misleading that it's darn close to being Wrong, Wrong, Wrong.

I read another one on-line that says "Resident Evil Dominates By Default". And, again, I'm dazzled by the dopiness of the statement.

"Resident Evil: Afterlife 3-D" managed to grab $27.7 million in its first weekend.


(It is the 4th film in the series, but the movies have never been numbered -- which suggests to me that the filmmakers must think the audience for these movies has some intelligence and doesn't need the hand-holding and guidance that titles such as "Rocky III", "Rambo: First Blood Part II", and "Friday the 13th - The Final Chapter" seem to imply. Or perhaps that's just me being too charitable to the "Evil" series.)

But the thing is this: the previous "Resident Evil" movie ("Extinction") opened to $23.7 million in its first weekend. So it's not like the box office for the most recent film is a surprise. As a matter of fact, given that the current entry is in 3-D and thereby gets a bump in its average ticket price, the most recent film's box office could be said to be expected.

So why have a headline that says the slow schedule *benefits* the movie? -- Well, the headline is negative and in news it's always better to be negative than blah and average. And it also conveys the fact that the industry box office wasn't, as a whole, on fire this weekend. But the box office for the latest "Resident Evil" movie is exactly what it should be.

Now, admittedly, the release date didn't *hurt* the movie. Being the only major new film in the marketplace doesn't hurt a film. That's pretty obvious.

But it's not like your average moviegoer *must* go see a movie. It's not like the cash in their pocket was suddenly going to expire or combust and they had to rush out to see a film because of it.


Or to put it another way: movies such as "Piranha 3D" and "Scott Pilgrim" only open to $10 million because people didn't think the films deserved their money. If the movies had opened on a slower weekend, they might have done moderately more business, but it's not like they would have turned into better films or created more interest solely because of the release date.

Even when a film has killer mutant fish, a movie that is a dog is going to stay a dog. And even when a film has a terrific story and is incredibly creative, some pilgrims are gonna cause a lot of trouble and simply fail to grab their intended audience.

Opening "Resident Evil" on the same weekend as the latest "Harry Potter" or "Batman" movie would hurt its business because those movies create a black hole/ vacuum / perfect storm where every moviegoer's money is going to be pulled towards the huge mega-hit. That's why nothing (and certainly not another sci-fi/fantasy movie) gets in the path of those films.

So, yes, the release date of a film can help it or it can hurt it. But a bad film isn't going to turn into a huge hit just simply because of when it hits the market.

Or, as John Hiatt says, ugly ducklings don't turn into swans and guide down the lake.

Box office flops won't sprout wings and soar simply because the release schedule is a little less crowded.

People go to see a movie because they want to see it. They can always choose *not* to see a movie.

The latest film in a series that has seen its previous two installments open in September to $20+ million is probably going to open in the same ballpark. It's likely not going to fly much higher, but it's not a shock to see it be consistent.

Stress to the power of a gazillion

My lovely wife is tired of the word "stress".

As in: "You guys must be under a lot of stress right now, with the move and everything."

Buying a house, selling the house, keeping the house constantly clean and immaculately show-worthy, packing, moving, her starting a new job, searching for the same, boys at a new school, new town, leaving the neighborhood we love, hoping it's the right decision, changing magazine addresses, doing battle with companies for phone and internet, and having to figure out how to transport the guinea pigs and goldfish without killing them.

(Damn, hadn't thought of the last one until just now.)

Yep, that's a lot of burning hot coals to keep juggling.

The other day, at our lawyer's office, as we were signing all the paperwork for the new house, the lawyer said, "You guys must be under a lot of stress" and my wife commented to me after our lawyer had left the room...

"I'm tired of people saying that. 'You must be under a lot of stress.' This is beyond stress. 'Stress' is a word that people use too often. This isn't stress anymore. This is... This is... This is just Fuckery."

And I agreed. It was the perfect word for our situation.

I shared her turn of phrase with some people. And they thought it was perfect. It's beyond stress. It's moved onto a new level of decrepit crapitude.

So we are no longer under stress; we are in a state of Fuckery.

And that is not a place we want to be.

It can end soon.

Please.

If I Were the Man You Wanted

There was absolutely no friggin' reason for me *not* to sleep-in this morning.

The past week has consisted of hockey Tuesday night, coaching soccer Wednesday and Thursday night, playing soccer for the first time in (grade thirteen = 19, grade eight therefore = 14, subtracted from 46 =) thirty-four years on Friday night in a 'Refs vs. Coaches' match.

All of that plus packing, packing and more friggin' packing. And, surprise-surprise, there is a whole lot o' books in this house! And not them new-fangled ipad electronic books; nope, it's the good ole-fashioned "Damn, is this box heavy" kind of books.

And Saturday was renting a guy with a truck so we could load and then unload a bunch of stuff (including, of course, *more books*) that were at my stepmother's place and take them up the new house.

So, sleeping-in this morning would have been lovely.

But it simply was not meant to be.

Instead I was awakened because my sleeping thoughts had drifted towards fate, chance, and the decisions we make.


Do we get to where we are because of some guiding hand? Do we get here by choosing Door Number Two when we could have (and perhaps *should have*) chosen Door Number Three Hundred and Fifty-Two? Is there a master plan or just a perpetual motion of lottery ticket draws with some tickets being winners, others being losers but another draw just a decision away.

If I had taken a writing course that had been offered to me when I was a teenager and made the trips from Kitchener to Toronto, would my life be vastly different from what it is now? And would that be better or worse or just different?

And had I taken that road, would I lose everything I have right now?

Or is this where I was supposed to be? Right now. In this moment. In this instant. This is exactly the right place.

Lyle Lovett wrote, "If I were the man you wanted, I would not be the man that I am."



"Home is where I want to be. But I guess I'm already there" sang David Byrne and the Talking Heads.

Alice gave Smoky her childhood and in exchange she lost the certainty that there was a guiding hand in her life and that she had been fated to meet the man she loved. And while that realization made everything more fragile, it also made everything much more precious because she now realized that there was no master plan and she had to enjoy every moment she had. (That's me paraphrasing John Crowley's book "Little, Big".)

And if Schrödinger had ever opened the damn lid, would the cat be alive, dead or would it have got tired of waiting and decided to find its own way out?

Yes, yes: the last four occurred to me as I was writing this. And trying to make some sense of it all.

But the rest woke me up.

I wanted to sleep-in. I probably *needed* to sleep in. Zed is still asleep. My lovely wife is still asleep. I'm doing my best to quietly tip-toe around the house and not wake them. The day is going to be more packing.


And packing is like having a root canal: it must get done, it's very painful, and after it's finished there's still more pain, but in time it fades and everything turns out okay.

But this is the thing, and maybe if I had thought of all this I could have eased myself back to sleep: I'm not a piece of fluff in the wind being blown from place to place. I have roots that are strong and are being transplanted by choice. I'm Popeye with his sweet potatoes because I yam what I yam. And it's all fragile and delicate and precious but not to be feared. There's no grand scheme, but things do have a tendency to work out. It is a royal pain in the ass not knowing when the good times are going to start.

But perhaps worse is not realizing that the good times might be Right Now.

Superman's weakness

So, the other day Gee asked me if kryptonite can be formed.

"What do you mean 'formed'?" I asked him. "Do you mean can it be shaped? Or carved?"

"Yes. Can you form it into something else?"

"Well, kryptonite isn't real. You know that, right?"

"Yes, I know. But could it be formed?"


"Well, it's a rock, but they've changed it in recent years so that it's radioactive." And as I spoke, I started to get my geek on. "It used to be only harmful to Superman and other Kryptonians, but now it's radioactive to people from Earth, too. So it's deadly."

"Okay," Gee said, ignoring but I'm certain nevertheless *dazzled* by his father's embarrassingly rich geeky insight, "but could you form it into something else?"

"I guess you could," I replied. "Like what?"

"Well, why doesn't someone just shape it into a bullet and kill Superman using a kryptonite bullet? Wouldn't a bullet kill him?"

And in my mind I'm thinking of a fanboy response: it would take two bullets, a gold kryptonite bullet to temporarily rob him of his powers, and then a green bullet to kill him. But it might take some time for the gold bullet to take effect, and in that time Superman could spot the shooter and melt the rifle with his heat vision. And it would have to be a very powerful gun because there's the chance that the gold kryptonite would slowly rob him of his invulnerability and his skin might be only slightly weakened. Superman can heal after being attacked by green kryptonite, therefore the assassin would have to ensure that it was a kill shot and make sure not to just wound him. But it probably could be done -- use two different kinds of bullets and go for the kill shot with an incredibly powerful gun.


This is all the stuff I thought.

But what I said was different.

I replied, "You can't kill Superman with a gun. He'd figure out a way to protect himself. He's Superman."

Gee reflected on my response and said "Okay."

And this is why I resisted sharing my fanboy thoughts and answered the way I did: at age ten he no longer believes in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny or the Tooth Fairy. As he gets older, he loses so many of the things that are wondrous, magical and magnificent as the everyday realities of the world gather around him. That's part of growing older and there's not much I can do to protect him from it.

But he should always have Superman.

Fort of Feathers

So the boys, on their first day of summer, are enjoying a morning of quiet chaos.

Zed just came up to inform me that they've built a diving fort in the basement. "It's really cool. We put all the pillows on the floor and we're diving on them.

"Can we keep playing?" asks Zed.

I can imagine that it includes one of them being *in* the fort as the other one dives on top. Which of course could lead to bruises, nose bleeds, broken bones and all sorts of other fun stuff.

But I remember my brother and I building forts out of cushions, having pillow fights as we were bouncing up-and-down on our parents' bed like a trampoline, and (in a display of incredible stupidity and showing how completely oblivious we were to physical harm) having pencil crayons wars -- which consisted of hiding behind furniture and throwing pencil crayons at one another, the goal being to to hit the other person, because, y'know, we were geniuses.

"Go ahead," I told Zed. "Just make sure you clean up afterwards. And be careful!"

Running back downstairs, he called out, "We will!"

Yes, my brother and I used to throw pencil crayons at each other for fun. My boys could say they're building forts out of kitchen plates or trying to trap raccoons using rancid hamburger and it would still be less dangerous than what I did when I was a kid.

"Have a good time! Don't be as stupid as I was!" should be the rallying cry for all parents.