A Reply, to Mr. Lube's Mr. Lube Club News

Dear Mr. Lube (Hwy 7 branch),

Gosh, thanks for the email and the offer of $100 worth of coupons to be awarded to me upon my next visit. That was a nice start to the day!

But I must tell you, my initial euphoria gave way to a memory of the last time I pulled into bay 1 at your fine garage for an oil change.

Oh yes, I recall with fondness the free copy of the Toronto Star, and the coffee-machine-cup-of-coffee (nice whitener!), as well as the fluid top-ups, tire pressure check, the door-hinge lube, and balloon for the agitated youngster. Such conveniences!

It is for this reason that I have returned, time and again, to Mr. Lube. I am a complex, harried, hairy, busy, occasionally confused and angry person who is just trying to keep things simple, and you help me do that by just letting me drive up and drain my bad old oil out while I sit in self-satisfied comfort. It is a beautiful world.

However, may I be so bold as to suggest that in the interests of the Business Plan, you also have been doing one hell of a job of undoing all that joy, that serenity, that fresh-lubed glow you so lovingly drizzle over me?

Witness:

I am informed, mid-change, by my Mr. Lube Attendant, A____, that the front and rear differential need some love, to the tune of - let's round it up - $160. And not only that, the Belt needs servicing, yes it does. That's $102., installed.

All good, and thank you, A____! Thank you very much! Print that up for a brother, and I'll run it by my wife!

But all of a sudden, there is no time to think! Wha--? I'm just about to crack the sports section, and the child is nodding off...

...surely this is no time for the hard sell, only it comes, A____ falling just short of the greatest apocalypse narratives of our time, describing what will happen if I don't get that all done NOW, and besides, they've got the front and rear diff open already down in the pit.

Nothing I say, no kindly resistance, will satisfy A____. I stick to my guns, and he says, 'it's your funeral', though not in so many words.

And so, Mr. Lube braintrust, well, hey, look at the whole picture here, the yin and the yang, the blue mountain and the white cloud. Forest/trees?

The coffee is cold. The boy cries. Why not shelve the hard sell, let me know what could use a doin', hand me the printout, and quit gettin' in the way of the sublime experience you've engineered? Might do this ol'world of ours one heck of a lot of good.

Maybe go all the way to serenity, and throw in a scented candle, for free.

Worry not, though -- I will return, oh yes. For the coupons.

Sincerely

S. Foley

Tania Will Be Right With You For Your Cleaning: A Reverie.

At first glance in the dentist's lounge, it appears some parasitic worm is catching a ride in the suede of my left shoe and, after a good round involuntary shudder, I wonder what piece of meat it could have crawled out of. Or what - pardon me, but - what orifice?

Ah, OK, it is, in fact, a dessicated rice noodle, from...last night?

Yes, last night, we all gathered, we made a meal.

Some of us made the meal. Some of us chatted with the elders and the guests. Some of us begged the children to stop running, keep the voices just a titch below a dull roar.

Some of us were tipsy, some chilly, those of us in the kitchen, sweaty, swigging, snacking. Serving. Eating last. Proud to watch the feast.

Happy, deeply happy at the silence of children putting food where the noise came from and satisfying their hunger.

While eating last - on my very second forkful, in fact - there was something, something that had to be fetched. From the car. Outside in the cold wind. Now.
I forget what it was. Diapers?

I strained to suppress a grumble, and just up and walked outside, bowl in hand, fork to mouth, step, step, eating and walking into the dark dinnerhour silence, into the sound of no engines running, smell of other kitchens exhausting, bending of all ears to the gusts, walking across the lawn with my meal, treating it like a trophy with Bonus Edible Filling, like what else could all the great Bowls and Cups and Plates and Jugs ever have been for?

Stopping for a few mouthfuls in the frost beneath the trees while this is considered.

Plus a couple bites utterly devoid of thought.

When you eat, just eat.

Just stand there in the dusting of snow, back to the wind, and eat.

And, retrieving whatever it was, diapers I think, or wipes, or stiff diapers and frozen wipes, from the car. Balancing dinner, and the smell of baby powder-infused, waste-catching paper/plastic, all the way back to teeming house and hot heart of hearth.

Satisfied.

Ah yes.

Wake up.

Video loop of fancy dental implants reprises its repulsive Before shots.

One foot brushes another and this worm of sweet memory is cast aside, upon the carpet of a waiting room. I am most certainly a grateful man, with clean blue suede uppers. And a sub-gingeval scraping just ahead.

Summer Dreamz '07

Davy, Davy Crockett

If Wikipedia and I are not mistaken, Sunday marked the 175th anniversary of the end of the Battle of The Alamo, and the deaths of Jim Bowie, Davy Crockett, and others, of course.

I don't recall ever watching the Disneyfied Davy Crockett programs, or reading much about him. I didn't know what he did for a living; didn't even know until a couple of days ago that he was at the Alamo. I only knew that he was somehow mythical. And I'm not sure how I learned that. Soaked it up somewhere, probably.

He was a pioneer, explorer, storyteller, and politician, and the mythmaking certainly didn't begin with Walt Disney's TV movies in the 1950s. It could have been in full swing during his lifetime, for all I know. But they were at it a while, that's for sure.

While checking out the Wikipedia entry for the man, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Davy_crockett, I learned he was the subject of some entertaining almanacs over the years. They spun tales of his prowess and taste for adventure, and most interestingly, included some speeches he may (or more likely, may not have) delivered in Congress. Here's a bit I lifted from the wiki entry:

"In one word I'm a screamer, and have got the roughest racking horse, the prettiest sister, the surest rifle and the ugliest dog in the district. I'm a leetle the savagest crittur you ever did see. My father can whip any man in Kentucky, and I can lick my father. I can outspeak any man on this floor, and give him two hours start. I can run faster, dive deeper, stay longer under, and come out drier, than any chap this side the big Swamp. I can outlook a panther and outstare a flash of lightning, tote a steamboat on my back and play at rough and tumble with a lion, and an occasional kick from a zebra."

And there's more, oh yes...much more. Go have a look!

True or not, stuff like that reminds me that the classic hip-hop boast has roots that run deep into every era and culture on the globe.

It also makes me long for some genuine entertainment in politics; for a character who could deliver, fearlessly, a stump speech that riotous and ridiculous. The man or woman who does just that gets my vote next time - their sheer courage would stand them in good stead at the helm.

Booze Jenga

Right now Rachel, the children and I are living with my folks. Hiding out, but awaiting new lodging. Which should be ready in a couple of months.

And maybe it's just the combined effect of four adults, or the combined effect of four somewhat encumbered adults or the combined effect of four somewhat encumbered adults letting themselves off the hook at the end of every day, but household production of empty containers that used to hold beer, wine, and/or spirits is going strong, seemingly impervious to storm activity in the economy.

These containers fill a bin under the sink, and when the bin is full, we all take turns balancing more containers on top. It's Booze Jenga, the Jenga of Booze, and finally, when something tumbles and clanks, well, it's time to ferry the empties to the garage, where there's a whole other Booze Jenga, a cache of truth in the form of glass and aluminium shells.

In the absence of bad behaviour or knock'em down, drag'em out fights, it's really a heavy moment. Looking upon The Empties. In their emptiness. Collecting, definitely not organizing, or doing anything else, along the wall of the garage. For some reason one is not reminded of glorious cocktails, grape-enhanced meals, or the effervescent relief of a glass of barley and hops. One is merely shown HOW MUCH.

It's sobering, if only because one senses that things are not about to change anytime soon. And beyond the garage, in the great wide world, there's an illogical argument for the perpetuation of the whole works: a handful of cash, for the emptiness, and then more beauti-full containers, seductive, unconsumed product, impossibly unconnected in our minds to the sad sight they'll become.

Bagz o' Tall Cans Smellin'.

Overpacked, Bulgin' Boxes o' Big Bottles, Clinkin' So Eagerly.

Cases o' Beer Emptees, With The One Brokin One Missin' and Some Other Emptee Rammed In Place.

And Evidence Of Mouse Partyin'.