Parking lot memories



I must have been eight years old. Maybe nine...

When you look back on your life, there's a thin line between eight and nine. Moreso than other years, it seems. You don't realise this when you're nine because you're too busy celebrating the fact that you're not eight anymore. So maybe the line isn't as thin as I think it is. If a nine year old is aware of it, it must be pretty obvious.

It was the summer. that much I'm sure of. I remember the heat. I remember the green of the trees as my mom's Rambler followed the winding road that led to Mic Mac Mall. It was a 10 minute drive and when I look back on it now, it seems ridiculous that we did it so often. I suspect that the ice shelves breaking in the Arctic as I write this are a direct result of those 10 minute drives in a hulking boat of a car.

My mother was doing groceries and she decided to leave me in the car. It was the 70s. You could do things like that with impunity. In the romanticised absurdist version of this memory that runs in my head, I recall looking out on the ocean of Ramblers, Chevrettes and Pintos and seeing at least 20 other kids sitting in locked cars as the Nova Scotian sun beat down on the Mic Mac parking lot. (Wouldn't the Mi'kmaq be proud?) I like to think that 30-odd years later, these imaginary kids are all secretly wishing they could be as "irresponsible" as our parents were.

I had a pencil and a paper (my mother knew this would distract me) and I was drawing clouds. This was a phase I went through and to be honest, I think I should take it up again. The windows were rolled up, but I heard a noise from not too far away, so I looked up from the paper clouds.

There was a blind man. He had a beard, a fedora-type hat and a white cane. I swear to God. It was like a blind person had jumped out of a New Yorker cartoon and decided to wander around in the Mic Mac Mall parking lot.

Just beside the New Yorker cartoon blind man, there was a woman heading to her car with a shopping cart. There weren't any kids in her car. That, I remember. He approached her and held out his hand as he said something that I couldn't hear because, as I mentioned,  the windows were rolled up . Being the inquisitive (ok... nosy) little punk that I was, I rolled down the window. By hand. That's how you used to roll down windows, in case you're reading this and you're twenty. She shook her head and mumbled something as she walked past him without even really looking at whatever it was he had in his hand.

With hindsight, I don't know why I did what I did next. I don't know why I do most of the things I do, but maybe I did when I was eight (or nine). "Excuse me?", I called out. "Sir?"

The New Yorker cartoon blind man cocked his head and followed my voice. He came up to the burgundy Rambler that he had no way of identifying as a burgundy Rambler.

"Yes? Hello?", he said.

"Hi. What do you have in your hand?", I asked. So much for that whole "Don't talk to strangers" pep talk. He showed me. It was a pile of cards. Not playing cards. He wasn't a blind magician. Well... Maybe he was, but I can't pronounce myself on those matters. No, they were ASL cards that explained how to sign the alphabet. He asked if I wanted to buy one for a dollar. I was eight (or nine) years old, sitting in a car in a parking lot. I didn't have any money. I explained this to him and he walked away. I felt his disappointment. I think I even saw it in the way he walked.

As he got closer to the mall... Another woman, another shopping cart, another attempt. She brushed him off as easily as the first woman had and pushed her cart to her oversized car.

And that's when I started to cry.

When I say "cry", that's exactly what I mean. These weren't eight (or nine) year-old sniffles. It was full fledged bawling. I felt this profound sadness that I had never experienced before. A complete stranger's misery (OK, Maybe I'm reading into a bit. Maybe he wasn't miserable) had triggered something and seeing the complete indifference that he had to confront on a regular basis was more than I could handle. It was the first time that I remember thinking "The world just isn't fair" and it opened up a strange door that, over the next 32 (or 31) years, has lead to that exact same emotional response whenever I am confronted with that particular feeling.

My mother came back a few minutes later. I was still crying. She looked worried... I still remember the look on her face as she asked me what was wrong. The problem then(and , yes... The problem now) is that I didn't have an answer. I couldn't explain these emotions. This "feeling". I still can't, most of the time.

I'm remembering this story and thinking about these things after having read Kelly Pentland (aka @mmesurly)'s wonderful (and much more concise) blog post On Sincerity http://mmesurly.tumblr.com/post/32324661060/on-sincerity.

It's hard sometimes. There are people (and I hope you are one of them) who just feel things so deeply and so completely that asking them to find what's wrong is next to impossible. When this happens to me, when I feel exposed... raw, even... it terrifies me. It terrifies me to see that we can be so close to people we don't know and to things we don't understand that an ASL card can trigger such a deep emotional response. It terrifies me, but as Mrs Pentland says: "the alternative is scarier."

So, as the strapping young men in Journey once said, "Be good to yourself".

Fun with MS Paint

When I get bored, I sometimes open paint because... well, I'm not sure why I do it, but I do. For some reason, this week I decided to draw people (using paint... Wow this is going to be confusing to people reading in 1981) who are on the twitter machine. Some are good, some are terrible. I guess what I'm trying to say is that drawing with paint is a lot like a marriage...

















The "I" of Survivor: An open letter to those who choose to read it (including CBS-honcho-types)

It has come to my attention that Survivor will be back on TV this autumn.

I am referring to Survivor - the television programme. Not Survivor the early 80s rock band… that one you love to listen to when you hit the gym.

That's a peculiar expression. How does one "hit" a gym, precisely? It makes me nervous. I can only assume that it’s steroid-related…

Yes, Survivor - the television programme - is coming back AND it will be shot in the Philippines. I’m excited because I feel that my expertise could help producers, contestants and Survivor fans alike. It could potentially even make Survivor - the television programme - more pleasurable.

I am not a Survivor expert. I only watched the first season when it aired... what, ten years ago? I enjoyed it immensely, almost as much as I enjoyed watching Richard Hatch's life unravel afterwards. It was exciting, groundbreaking and several other questionable -ings. But I've been busy for the last twelve years and have missed the subsequent seasons. There must be at least fifteen now, correct?

I would love to be an expert on the Philippines but I’m not... in case you're wondering. You're not, but I thought I should clear that up as well. I don't even remember how to say "hello" in Tagalog.I did spend a week in Boracay once, so that must count for something. Boracay (in case you’re still wondering) is a resort-type island over there. It would actually be a good location for Survivor - the television programme - they are both places where foreigners go to behave badly.

No, my expertise lies in giving unsolicited advice that nobody wants to hear. I therefore think it's fair to combine this talent with my aforementioned experience to tell the makers of Survivor - the television programme - how to take full advantage of the Filipino experience to ensure that what must be their fourteenth season is the best one yet.

(Related: Why does the PH-noun turn into a F-adjective?)

First, we need a "hook" to reel in the viewers, much like the spears people use on the show itself. This could be achieved by using the airline that flies the Manila-Boracay route to drop the contestants off at the "secret location" (Is it a secret?). Fear of death is a great motivator and makes for great television, or so I'm told... I tend to watch Bob Ross reruns on PBS. Air Duct-Tape could provide this in spades. Air Duct-Tape earned its name, as you may gather, by having no qualms about using duct-tape to hold their planes together. The silver almost matches the colour of the wings. Almost. Sadly, this was one of their more brilliant business decisions.

If this doesn’t meet CBS’ fear standards, they could also hire Richard the taxi driver to fly the Air Duct-Tape plane. Richard's Manila taxi permit clearly states that his name is Manuel but he insists that you call him Richard. I'm certain that with this sort of blind determination, Richard/Manuel could easily fly a plane whilst the contestants defecate. Also, Richard/Manuel would be more than happy to bring the machete he keeps beside the passenger seat in his taxi. It could come in handy if any duct-tape-related repairs are needed.

One of the most engaging parts of Survivor - the television programme - is the "immunity challenge". When I think “immunity”, I see “alcohol tolerance”. Richard/Manuel could airlift the contestants to Boracay where they would be dropped off at Dick's. Dick's is a bar just off the beach that is owned, oddly enough, by an Australian named Dick. I'm not sure how Dick ended up there and to be honest, I'd rather not know. There is only one rule at Dick’s: It is strictly forbidden to wear a shirt whilst in the bar. This fits into the Survivor-ethos and shouldn’t cause too much confusion. Also, Dick likes to drink and expects his customers to do the same. As far as challenges go, can you think of a better way to eliminate the weak? If you like to wear shirts or are prone to developing cirrhosis of the liver during one night of drinking, you're out.Immunity should be earned, not won...

This brings us to the season finale, where two contestants match wits to see who will win the million dollars (is it still a million dollars or has inflation caught up with realityTV?). The Philippines are well-known for two things: The Marcoses and ladyboys. Imelda Marcos seems rather busy lately, so this leaves us with the ladyboys to decide the winner. The last two (drunken) contestants could be blindfolded and led to a clearing with four attractive (in a drunken kind of way)… I believe the correct term here is "convincing ladyboys". We would watch with baited breath as said ladyboys wind through dark jungles and cramped city streets in the middle of the night with our Survivors.

Our almost-millionaire contestants would then find themselves in a dingy, menacing no-bedroom house where they would be offered oral sex by the ladyboys. They would also be warned about making too much noise and waking the fourteen brothers and sisters who are sleeping in beds, sofas and on the floor.

Think of the drama! We could watch our survivors wrestle with their conscience and/or ladyboys (possibly even with the whole family). Difficult decisions would be made. We would then follow them as they cry and stumble through the maze of shantytown houses, desperately trying to find their way back to the producers' air-conditioned office/trailer. The first person to find his or her way back with his pride, dignity and clothing intact wins!!

I'm quite certain that these suggestions would be beneficial. It has it all... Drama, danger AND sexy ladyboys. So let’s start a letter-writing campaign! Drop what you’re doing. Write to CBS and Mark Burnett. Together, we can make this happen. We can rise up, back on the street. We just need to take our time... Take our chances. We can go the distance! We will survive! Right after we hit the gym.

Mabuhay! (That's Tagalog. You can look it up.)