The Musings of an Alpha Alpha Male

As any of you who have read my posts know, I am capable of incredibly dumb decisions. This is not something new, brought on by age, but seemingly a character flaw, where I believe all will work out well in the end. This is just such a story.
Back in my late teens, those many centuries ago, I learned, I don’t remember how or why, to do a theatrical slap to a person. Now for those of you who don’t know; a theatrical slap is one where the slapper and slappee (I made that up) stand with their profiles to the audience. The slapper grabs the slappee’s face in such a way that the hand that they have on the face is away from the audience. Then with their other hand they forcibly strike the back of their hand that is on the victim’s face. this does two things, well three actually, 1) it creates the loud slapping sound of a face being hit 2) it causes the victim’s, the slappee’s (I made that word up you know) head to move as though they were actually struck in the face 3) from the audience’s perspective it all looks real.
Ok…so I have new knowledge that can be put to productive use. I could become an actor, and this would come in handy, I could become a circus clown, and this would be good to have in my bag of tricks, but no… I decided that it would be funny to play a trick on someone. Now let’s see… who would be the worst person to pretend to strike and who would be the worst audience to play this little one act tragedy for. Ok…I got it! Time to recruit a willing accomplice.
So… Mommy dearest, can I show you a new trick I learned? Stand here I am going to grab your face here and hit my hand here. Do you hear the lovely sound that makes and the way your head recoils like you have actually been hit? Wouldn’t it be a hoot to make someone think I hit you like that? Huh…wouldn’t it? Well…mom thought it was a hysterical idea, after all she wasn’t going to be the one to die!
I have been convinced for some time that my parents, with seven kids to feed and clothe, were always looking for ways to cull the herd. Consider that they allowed me to drive an Austin Mini, not these new monstrosities we have on the road today, that call themselves minis, but the original mini. The ones that lost horribly in a head on collision with anything bigger than a sparrow. They helped me buy one and fully supported my purchase of a second. Who Does that to a child?!?!?! But I somewhat digress other than the fact that; mom’s agreement to my plan, in retrospect, seems to be another herd culling act.
Mom and I and I spend some time coming up with a plan; a short one act, two person, play if you would. Now we need an audience. We could use my little sister Shauna, who was likely 6 or 7 at the time, but she would likely cry and be traumatized by the sight of her big brother hitting her mom. I could have used my brother Kevin, but he would likely go tell dad that I hit mom and I would have “some splainin’ to do”. Cyndie or Rose would have likely gone “Do it to me next” Dianne or Ken wouldn’t have sat through Scene One that left only Dad. If this was Star trek. That would have caused ominous background music. You know the type…That left only…Dad. Duh Duh Duh Daaaahhh!!!! or maybe Dumb Dumb Dumb Duuuummmbb!!!!! is more appropriate.

Act One Scene One: The Argument
it is after dinner at the Parkinson household and Mom, Dad and I are sitting in what my mom called the Spanish room, I’ll spare you the details of why. I am sitting on the couch, which is poor staging as it will ultimately block my escape. Mom is across the room from me, Dad is sitting in his favorite, chair to my right, Moms left, reading the paper…I think. Me “I’m going out with some friends tonight.” Mom “No you’re not…I want you to clean your room.” Me, with a bit of a raised voice “I’m not cleaning my room, I made plans, I’m going out.” Dad “Bill.” Mom ” I don’t care what plans you made, you’re going to stay in and clean your room!” Me with an even louder voice “I am not staying in damn it I’m going out with friends!” Dad “Bill!” (notice the exclamation point this time).

Act One Scene Two: The Fight
I stand and in my most menacing 6’1″ 135Lbs (you do the math) way say “I really, don’t care what you say I am going out.” Dad “Bill!! Bill!!” Mom stands “You are NOT going out you are going to go up and clean your room right this minute!” Wow… This is going really well audience suspense is building…this will be great! Me “Don’t be such a Bitch! I am going out and I am going out right now. Goodbye!” turn to leave. Dad “BILL!!! That is enough!!” Mom grabs my arm “You aren’t going anywhere, but up to your room young man!” In the heat of the moment Mom got confused…my room was on this floor, but the audience never picked up the mistake. The audience of one was at this point, quite literally on the edge of their seat. “You’re such a BITCH!” I yell.” Grab Mom’s face and do a PERFECT theatrical slap.
Now…We had planned every second of this dialogue and acting, right up until this second.

Act One Scene Three: The Death
I have always felt that good theatre got the audience involved, but the next few seconds of audience involvement was intense! Dad came out of his chair like he was shot from a gun. I hit the floor cursing the couch that blocked my, lifesaving, run to freedom. Mom’s hands flew up to cover her face and her shoulders shook with sobs. I watched my short, stupid life pass before my eyes. Can I get a rerun? Dad stopped dead in his tracks looking at his sobbing wife and his whimpering son.I mentioned that I was 6’1″ and 135Lbs at the time, if you did the math, you have figured out that I was SKINNY. As a friend said if I stood sideways and stuck out my tongue, I looked like a zipper. I have since cured myself of my former skinniness. Dad was about 5’10” or 5’11” and his forearms were bigger than my thighs. A fact that I should have considered while planning this little play. In any case, he simply froze for a second. Once he realized that mom wasn’t sobbing, but actually laughing hysterically, he verbally explained his displeasure with our little act (I learned some new swear-words that day, but lived) Talking to Dad later, once he was talking to us again, he explained that the reason I was still alive was that something just seemed wrong to him 1) he had never heard me swear in anger at Mom. 2) it was completely out of character for me to even consider hitting her. In that split second it took his brain to override what he had seen with his own eyes; he made the decision not to kill me. Thanks Dad.
I have shown that little trick to many people since that day, but I am now always careful to make sure that the audience is in on the joke.

November 9th broke dark and cold
With winds and snow a blowin
Tommy walked to the door of his one room shack
Thinkin, there ain’t no way that I’ll be goin

Wrestling closed the door of the dispatch room
Barley keeping the storm at bay
Tommy said, Mommy Nature seems mad as hell
I guess there’s no flights today

Bob turned with a smile
And lay down his cup of jo
Tommy, he said, we have a business to run
Can’t cancel flights over a little snow

You’re a desk jockey Bob! And he spit the words
And you have no way of knowing
While you lay snuggled warm in bed
I’ll be out there where this beast is growin

There’s no way in hell I’m headin out there,
It’s a suicide flight and you know it
Bob said, Tom I like you son but if you don’t want the work
I’ve got six other guys that’ll go, don’t blow it

Tommy stormed to the plane swept the snow off the wings
And pointed the nose to the wind
The P210 disappeared in the grey
As it tore off the runways end

2:44 in the heart of the storm
Radar went eerily blank
2:45 Tommy fought the controls with all of his might
But the plane continued to bank

2:52 from a deep dark sleep Bob was uneasily Dreamin
He woke in a sweat
Like someone’s hand round his neck
And swore he could hear Tommy screamin

November 10h broke clear and cold.
The search craft lazily rising.

It was a small quest hardly worthy of a gathering of the knights, but gather we did. The task at hand… move a garden shed from one trailer to another. As the crow flies it was about 50 feet. Our route was more like 300 feet but to be fair the shorter route would have involved cutting several trees something the park owner might have frowned upon. So the usual suspects lay 2x4s under the shed so we have handles to lift the 4’X6’ steel shed with the reinforced plywood and 2×4 base and walk it around…yes… I said walk it around to its final resting place 3 things that need to be pointed out here 1) this thing weighs a ton 2) the youngest of the knights just turned 50 3) this is a working farm with tractors and trailers for doing this kind of work 4) One of the knights still has pins in his leg from a hiking fall he took earlier in the summer. The problem seems to be that we have seen way too many action movies where these sorts of mundane things are done by Bruce Willis himself as he plummets 18 stories, killing at least one bad guy per floor on the way down. He may hurt when he lands but never seriously. So how difficult can moving a garden shed be? So each knight grabs a corner and starts walking. The plan where we move it six feet to a waiting trailer and then drive it to within six feet of its final resting place was disagarded out of hand. At about 100 feet into the trek I was sure I was about to have a brain embolism but…if I had a brain I would not be involved in this madness. At this point someone suggested we get the tractor and trailer, yes… the same one disgarded out of hand before we were all at risk of coronaries. A knight was dispatched and returned with the tractor… Bruce Willis would have been disgusted without much ado the shed was loaded and driven to its final resting place. Satisfied… the knights quaffed many an ale around the fire that night the tale will be retold around many fires and the shed will get heavier, and the trek longer with each telling.

I recently had the opportunity to compare some of the services offered by the Marquis DE Sade School of Aesthetics and our local teaching hospital. As you may recall, I had my back waxed by my daughter’s team of she-devils. Aesthetics use what I can only describe as a carpet-bombing approach to hair removal, whereas nurses tend towards laser guided accuracy under the guise of attaching heart monitoring equipment, which they then must remove for your daily shower. And, which, for some undefined medical reason, they are not allowed to reapply in the same, now hairless, spot. I think that every time I grimaced as they ripped the little pads from my chest, they mentioned that they really should shave my chest, but in the entire four days I was there, that never happened. After many showers and other tests that required removal of the pads, there was not much hair left.

I must say that the nurses have better equipment to play with. My favorite is the MRI, a gigantic metallic birth canal with an accompanying soundtrack from a World War Two submarine movie. The only thing missing was someone yelling Dive! Dive! Dive! First off, they wedge a 270lb man into something meant to be a tight squeeze for Twiggy, then to keep with the birth canal theme, they pump in the sounds of a giant metal heart KA-KLANG, KA-KLANG, KA-KLANG. This is prior to the sub sounds.

Strapped to a tray, they slid me into this monster, squished in on all sides. Thank God I am not terribly claustrophobic KA-KLANG, KA-KLANG, KA-KLANG. Then it starts NAR, NAR, NAR. You know, the sound you hear in every sub-movie as they are under attack and the captain gives the order to dive. I swear, at that moment, I heard the sonar pings. Then the machine started talking to itself KA-KLANG, KA-KLANG, KA-KLANG; NAR, NAR, NAR for what seemed like hours but was in fact only about 15 minutes, all but the constant metal heart stopped, and a voice asked how I was doing, “Fine”, I lied. “Good… only 4 more tests.”

Another machine I was introduced to was the CAT scan. I liked this mostly because it gave my children documented proof that I have a brain. My daughter’s response was “You can Photoshop anything. I want a second opinion” They only accepted that I have a brain once they were assured that it was slightly damaged. That… they could live with.

Another torture was a bit of hospital cruelty in the form of your next-day meal request. First, in that, if you got one…you knew they planned on keeping you longer. Second, in that they asked you what you wanted for each of the next day’s meals, however that in no way resembled what you actually got. Here is how the game is played put an X beside your choice; ohhh you want oatmeal and brown sugar for breakfast…here is your rice crispys. You want salmon for dinner, here is your baked spaghetti, well at least they both start with ‘s’. Anything but chocolate pudding! Here is your chocolate pudding.

And so it went, day-after-day-after-day. In conclusion I would have to call it a tie. As far as I can tell the Marquis DE Sade School of Aesthetics went out of its way to be cruel, whereas, at the teaching hospital, it was just sport to make their day go by quicker.

“Hey, Dad…can you come in Monday so I can practice a pedicure?” So…I do the calculations; she isn’t in the Advance Course, so most of the really painful crap is off the table. Pedicure? That sounds OK. There can be some sharp tools – scrapers, picks, files etc, but nothing that should cause real pain. So OK…I’m in! Show up at the Marquis de Sade School of Aesthetics at about 12:30. Get feet soaked in some warm concoction. File here, scrape there, pick, pick, pick, little leg massage, wrap the feet in little blankies, starting to drift off and then get a little chill, a shiver if you would.

Satan (or Ms. Beelzebub as Jenn calls her)  is hovering, but she seems to have some accomplices – my Daughter, of course, and Sarah, who up until now has seemed quite sweet. Looks can be deceiving. So, what’s up? Well, Daddy…dear. You see, Sarah is on the Advanced Course and she needs someone to practice electrolysis on. So…for the record…I don’t think you should ever – I mean EVER use the words practice and electrolysis in the same sentence – EVER!!!

I think a few posts back, we established that I am a fool, so I will just plow ahead. Yes, I said OK. Yes, I assumed it would hurt; they were way too excited to assume anything else.

So what is electrolysis? Well…basically, you pass an electrical current through the human body and direct it at a hair follicle until you fry it. If you think there is an uncanny resemblance to the electric chair…there is a good reason for that. So Satan hands me a metal rod wrapped in a wet towelette with instructions to hang on. Sarah sticks a needle in my chest and starts cranking the electrical current to see my pain threshold. Satan, with the bedside manner of a dentist, keeps saying reassuring things like “Don’t be a pussy again.” So, with my pain tolerance established – somewhere on the safe side of half a millivolt – they proceed. So here is the plan. Stick a needle into the hair follicle, zap it a few times and then pull the hair out by the roots and laugh your ass off while I wince in pain. So back to the whole pain thing. It seems that I actually can stand quite a bit of electricity, which may be a good thing for when I snap and finally kill one of the little…but I digress. What my body actually objects to is not the electricity (which they did turn up) but having a needle shoved into it by someone laughing hysterically. While Sarah assured me it was a filament, not a needle, and Satan picked out what she was sure would be some of the more painful hairs, I explained that it really didn’t matter what you called it. Needle…filament…laser beam…if it pierces your skin, passes through your heart and then penetrates the lung before you add several jolts of electricity…it is just sadistically cruel and, yes…bound to cause a bit of discomfort and a twinge or two.

I have experienced many things in my life and, for the most part, have been pretty blessed – save for an exceptionally vengeful and unforgiving daughter. But one thing I never thought I would experience was the smell of my own flesh roasting. Sniff, Sniff, Sniff…what is that smell? Oh…I know…It is me baking. This is just so wrong!

So there I lay. Stab! ZAP, ZAP, ZAP, YANK…giggle, giggle, giggle. Oh, do this one, it looks sturdy. STAB! ZAP ZAP ZAP… and on and on. Yes, I am a fool. I have resigned myself to the life of a lab rat. As I left, Satan had gathered her minions and was planning their next “experiment”. Satan was enjoying a manicure, and the last thing I heard as the lady worked on her forehooves was, “Dooo the flames again…I like the flames.”

I have been travelling for a bit more than 2 weeks and have not had a chance to check on the beast. Today I contacted the owner to get an update. Apparently, the large heart and the circulating heart are now both working well after significant rebuilds. There seems to still be a slight problem controlling her temperature, but that makes sense, given the extent of the damage. The field surgeons have done an excellent job, and warm fluid once again flows through the great beast’s massive veins.

In any case…the saga of the beast seems to be over. There may be a few minor adjustments needed over the next few weeks. But for the most part, the beast is comfortable in her new home and is adapting well. The Knights of the Coffee Table consider this quest complete.

On Tuesday, I feared the beast was dying. The Knights of the Coffee Table did not intend to kill or even harm the beast. We simply wanted to wrestle it into submission in a new home. But alas, the colossal heart that pumps warm liquid through her massive veins gave out. These beasts are known for having multiple hearts, sometimes up to four. In this case, the beast wasn’t that large and only had two: the main heart that gave out on transport and the small heart that sustained her through the trauma of the move. But the other day, the small heart also gave out. No more liquid pumps through her veins; she sits quietly as though in a comma. Luckily, their metabolism is slow, and at this time of year, they can hibernate with no heart rate for some time without serious consequences, but when the liquid goes green…it is a hard road back.
This is beyond the skill of the Knights. We are helpless and, as usual…somewhat hopeless. Field surgeons have been called, and a major rebuilding of the main heart is in the works. The circulating heart is set to be replaced, but the defibrillator didn’t work. With any luck, the recovery will be quick, or the death painless. The surgeons have given much hope, and the Knights wait patiently. Tomorrow I am off on a new quest down under. I return in a fortnight and will tell you of the beast’s progress.

As I write this, it is a beautiful, sunny, crisp fall day in London, Ontario. However, yesterday, the day of the final move of the behemoth hot tub, was different. I awoke to the hurricane-like sounds of the wind rushing past my window and the unmistakable sound of sleet hitting the glass. Awe…Great day for a move!

So myself, the other three village idiots, two wives, a daughter and a junior village idiot (village idiot in training, if you will) gather at about 11:00AM to do battle with the beast. You only get to be a “Village Idiot” if you actually can be sucked into helping do battle with the beast. The “Team” gathered for warmth in the kitchen and sipped on Timmie’s coffee as we discussed strategy. Suitably armoured up – gloves, toques, hoody, jacket and thermal underwear we head out onto the field of battle, the driveway, where the sleeping behemoth awaits.

Now, if you recall…all that was needed was to lift the 1,687,462.51,687,462.5 tub on edge, slide it over a six-inch precipice, move it thirty feet down the sidewalk while avoiding the 45-degree drop off into the neighbor’s yard, turn it 90-degrees and drag it up four stairs and across 20 feet of patio, drop it over a foot high ledge into its final resting place; but now we get to do all that in a 45 mile an hour wind with driving sleet. What could go wrong?

Well, surprisingly…very little. One of the village idiots brought two sets of rollers, the kind you find at a grocery store that allows the teller to send your fragile eggs hurtling into the stop at the end with great speed. We were able to lay them end-to-end and roll the beast along. This worked so damn well we are thinking of kicking him out of the Village Idiots. Within 30 minutes, we were at the steps, another thirty minutes, we were at the top of the steps. Now, it is a simple run across the patio and into the pit. Done!

Not quite. When the beast arrived on the field of battle, I noticed that a bunch of the foam insulation fell out, in sort of pellet-like form. Odd, I thought. Then as we were pushing and shoving the beast to the backyard, it became apparent that the open-cell spay foam insulation had picked up a lot of water. What is open-cell foam? Well, to put it in common terms, think…sponge. Every board in the base of the beast was so saturated, waterlogged and rotten that some literally turned to mush in our hands as we pushed. So it was decided that the best plan was to replace the entire base of the beast as it lay upside-down on the patio. To do this, we had to remove all of the protective plastic base. This led to discovery number two. The reason for the pellet-like, chunks of foam. An animal had been living in the belly of the beast and had made tunnels throughout the foam. Kinda cool actually. Like a giant fort, we used to make out of the chairs and couches in the living room.

It is now about 1:00 and time to run off to Home Depot for more weapons of mass construction. Wood, miter saw, deck screws and drill in hand we are ready to, once again, do battle. To make the matter of rebuilding the frame even worse, some of the wood was so rotten you could not get a decent measurement, but we did our best and four hours later a damn good representation of the original base was ready to drop in place. Remarkably it fit…Perfectly! Wow…how did that happen?

Some people aren’t just born village idiots they have to be coaxed and cajoled to it. Such was the case with my son. In order to get him to come out on such a fine day and risk his life, I had to promise beer, 12-year-old Canadian whiskey and BBQ ribs. Well, it was dinner time and a promise is a promise so I departed for dinner.

Upon my return, we had new closed-cell foam for the bottom, as well as pest-resistant spray foam to fill cracks. It was a thing of beauty. All we needed to do was flip it over, fill it up and hook it up. So we stood the behemoth back up on end. After the major surgery, she was not happy and was eyeing the double glass doors into the living room suspiciously. But the village idiots prevailed, and she was wrestled into her final resting place and filled. Now all we needed to do was finish the wiring, turn it on and in about 24 hrs. enjoy a nice hot soak.

About 8:00 the others decided it was time for a dinner break and pizza was ordered. 30 minutes later it’s time for the final electrical test. Yes there is power to the tub; hit the “Jets” button and…NOTHING. Check the wiring again, tighten a few connections and…NOTHING. Follow the wiring diagram, and say “Oh…that is where that wire goes.” Turn it back on and, lo and behold, the circulating pump comes on. Great! But I think more water is supposed to be moved than just what we are currently seeing. So…flip breakers, tighten wires, swear, bang on things and, something finally goes kikikikikikikikikikik…kikikikik…kiki…kikikikikikik. Hmmmm. Follow the wiring diagram. It is the heater solenoid. Flip the breaker several more times, swear some more, bang a few more things and presto…we see the main pump try to start.

Try to start is the key to that phrase, followed shortly by “What is that burning smell?” Bang, swear, tighten, loosen, flip, kikiki, swear, tighten, loosen, “What IS that burning smell?” kick, swear, kikikikikikik, “No really, what is that burning smell?” Seems that the main pump on the beast is FUBARed. The pump tries to spin but can’t. The pump is hot enough to fry eggs on.

It is now 10:30 PM, 11 and a half hours after the battle began. The beast has been wrestled into place and has still somehow won. As I leave to go home for a much-needed glass of wine and a dip in my hot tub I glance back at the beast curled up contentedly in the corner and swear she smiled. TO BE CONTINUED? I Don’t know.