2,102 Miles

Jenna and Mike have moved to Victoria B.C.

Consequently she is 2,102 miles away. Or, looking at it another way, she is 1,826 Nautical miles away. And seeing it yet in still another way, she is 3,382 Kilometres away.

I looked it up.

If I didn't stop to eat or sleep, she would be 26½ hours away by car. If I did stop, she would be closer to 36 hours down the road. If I could secure a direct flight, she would be 2¾ hours away by plane, but when I include the 3½ hours it typically takes to change planes in Calgary she’s more than 6 ¼ hours away, plus another half hour by taxi cab at the end of the flight, just to add insult to injury. On horseback, it would take me at least three weeks to get to her, and on foot, I wouldn’t see her for three months.

No matter how I look at it – she’s just too goddamn far away.

The phone helps a little. The Internet helps a little more. But because of the interposing time zones, there’s a difference of three hours between my clock and hers, so timing our conversations can be a problem. Even the sunrise takes three hours to get from here to there…

I’m not used to thinking in terms of hours, or days, or weeks, or months. I’m used to being able to see her in about 20 minutes. And when we lived in the same building, I could be down the stairs in less than 30 seconds. Hell, she could hear me walking around in my kitchen and I could listen to what she was watching on television.

The other night we were talking over the Internet, using our web cams and sharing a virtual drink with one another. It was almost the same as when we used to get together after work and neither of us had plans for the evening. Of course, she got a little tipsy as the time passed, but it was good to see her relaxing in her new apartment with her new husband sleeping just down the hall and her new life waiting for her just outside her door.

As we talked, she challenged my perceptions a little, just like old times. And, in part, because she enjoys playing the role of the “unrepentant daughter” taxing the patience of her “overly protective father”, but mostly because she simply knows exactly what buttons to push, she decided to tease me a little and, again, it was just like old times. She made me smile a little and, from time to time, she even made me laugh a little. But mostly she just made me wish that she was here, or that I was there.

And afterwards, as I lay in my bed watching the lights from the occasional passing car play across the ceiling of my bedroom, throwing every imperfection in the plaster into high relief, I found myself thinking about how much my niece really means to me. Not just in terms of the fact that we are related by blood and share a common history, but also in terms if the fact that while she was busy growing up, I was busy growing old, and during that process we were companions, each to the other. And now, having to accommodate the bleak reality that 2,102 miles of obsidian highway separates us, each from the other, breaks my heart, at least a little.

Now What?

I’ve been away from the Blog for a while. Well, I did warn you that I’m not frequently moved to share my musings – so, you pays your nickel and you takes your chances…

I suppose that I might, from time to time, give the impression that I am unremittingly depressed or, perhaps, overly introspective, however, that is not really the case. I think that, like most people, I muddle along, vacillating between states of relative joy and relative sorrow and that my life is, generally, no better and no worse than anyone else’s life.

Certainly, I can think of any number of people who, at any given moment, are worse off than I and, of course, there are those whose lives I envy or, at least, I am envious of those aspects of their lives about which I am aware. After all, who really knows what’s going on behind the closed doors of anyone’s life? Those who seem exceptionally fortunate may be dealing with demons the rest of us don’t see, and those who seem exceptionally unfortunate may be truly at peace with their lot in life in some way the rest of us can’t comprehend.

As I said; relative joy and relative sorrow, nothing in the extreme – at least for the most part.

And when one considers life, in the so called grand scheme of things, (if there is, in fact, a “grand scheme” of any sort), one might opine that we all spend our lives moving from one crisis to another, with corresponding periods of relative calm between each storm, during which we regain our composure and, presumably, our perspective. This calm, if you will, serves as an opportunity for us to catch our breath, reflect upon what we might have learned, mourn any losses we might have suffered and enjoy what gains we might have made.

By the same token, should wondrous good fortune inexplicably present itself, I certainly would not ignore the prospect, provided that the cost of said good fortune represented a fair exchange and was, at the same time, within my reach. While I am willing to expend considerable effort to achieve a desired end, I am not prepared to sell my internal organs for a mere seat upgrade.

And the reference to a seat upgrade and internal organs allows me to segue to tonight’s topic…

You see; I’ve actually been out of circulation for some time now.

My wife and I, along with several of our friends, flew down to Las Vegas this past October in hopes of a sybaritic respite from the day to day grind that, as of late, seems to be the prevailing course of our lives. A few days before we were to depart, I noticed some discomfort in my upper abdomen, which I put down to pre-flight jitters. We landed in Vegas and, as it turned out, while my wife and our friends sampled the allegedly hedonistic delights of that fair city, I spent five days and four nights in our hotel room, patiently waiting for my digestive gremlins to tire of their capricious activity.

I did manage to attend one stage show and partake of a quick dinner at one of the strip’s better-known establishments, but only after ingesting enough pharmaceuticals to sedate a Percheron. By the time we boarded our return flight, I was on a first name basis with our hotel’s housekeeping staff, I had seen more of what passes for day-time television in Nevada then any sane person should be asked to endure, and I was just as ignorant about the allure of Las Vegas as when we first landed.

I was also pretty sure it was time to stop fooling around and consult my physician.

Nine weeks, three ultra-sounds, a CT scan, an endoscopy and innumerable blood tests later, I was advised by my personal saw-bones that the past twenty years of excess had finally caught up with me and that if I didn’t mend my self indulgently hell bent ways, various and sundry viscera were going to mutiny and abandon ship in some excruciating and, no doubt, embarrassing fashion.

Well, my body has been trying to embarrass me for years, usually in some disturbingly puerile manner and often in the company of surprisingly unsympathetic witnesses. You’d think that by now my corporeal form, such as it is, would have resigned itself to the fact that I am entirely without a shred of modesty.

In any case, it would appear that the sale of any one of my internal organs probably wouldn’t raise the funds necessary for the aforementioned seat upgrade. Again, most of us deal with life in terms of relative joy and relative sorrow; and in the meantime, I suppose, I’ll continue to muddle along.

Jenna Gets Married

Desperado, ah, you ain't gettin' no younger.

Your pain and your hunger, they're drivin' you home.

Freedom, oh, freedom. That's just some people talkin'.

You're a prisoner walking through this world all alone.

Don't your feet get cold in the wintertime?

The sky won't snow and the sun won't shine.

It's hard to tell the nighttime from the day.

You're losin' all your highs and lows.

Ain't it funny how the feeling goes away

Desperado, why don't you come to your senses?

Come down from your fences, open the gate.

It may be rainin', but there's a rainbow above you.

You better let somebody love you,

You better let somebody love you,
Before it's too late.

- Don Henley & Glen Frey

My niece, Jenna (the closest thing that I have to a daughter) got married this past Wednesday, to a young Aussie, Michael, who is as likable a fellow as one could hope for. They have plans, these two, and in my opinion, they are at just the right age to assume the risks said plans involve, i.e., they are old enough to make the best of things and, still, young enough to recover if things fall through.

The wedding and the subsequent “cocktail party” style reception was attended by about 30 guests, all of whom seemed to enjoy themselves immensely. The Bride was gorgeous, the Groom was handsome and appropriately deferential, and the food was terrific. The Best Man, Wayne, who flew in from Australia to attend the nuptials, (a flight of some 22 hours), gave a heartfelt speech welcoming Jenna into Michael’s circle of friends and family and the Maid of Honour, Nichole, exhibited that perfect balance between humour and serenity which every nervous bride relies upon to see her through her “special” day.

My brothers and I were, of course, our usual inappropriate selves, ogling Nornie’s breasts, drinking as if there were no tomorrow, ogling Nornie’s breasts, eating as if there were no tomorrow and, oh yes, ogling Nornie’s breasts some more. (I should point out that Doggerel inscribed some pretty “interesting” remarks on Nornie’s breasts for all to see… which, I would contend, contributed to the additional ogling).

In short, it seemed a perfect wedding.

A word about Reverend Bill…

Once again he outclassed the rest of us – but we’ve come to expect that.

A word about Chuck and Henry…

Gracious hosts and a great couple, to say the least, in that they opened their home to the rest of the wedding party, all of whom were in dire need of respite. I truly hope that our acquaintanceship can evolve into friendship. (I should also point out that my wife LOVES the centrepiece!)

As a final note, I must make mention of the fact that I am somewhat ambivalent about my niece getting married. On the one hand, I recognize that she is entitled to whatever happiness she can find for herself. On the other hand, I must confess that I, irrationally, resent “loosing” her.

It’s not that I’m jealous about losing her to another man – it’s just that I don’t want to give her up. And it’s really not about her getting married - it’s just about that the fact that getting married proves she’s growing up. And part of growing up means that she has to leave some things behind – and I’m afraid that I might be one of those things.

To Everything there is a Season...

A dear friend of mine lost her mother on New Years day.

Now, when I read that statement over again, it somehow seems to trivialize the occurrence – as if putting it in words has, in some way, diminished the tragedy. Perhaps it’s because death is inevitable and when we talk (or write) about it honestly, openly and, to a certain extent I suppose, clinically, we can’t help but distance ourselves from the insidious way that death stalks all of us and, indefatigably, hunts down those we love.

But when I recall the look of abject bereavement on my friend’s face on the day of her mother’s funeral, when I remember the deep, timeless and abiding loss that I saw in her eyes, and when I consider that her bowed head and trembling shoulders simply meant that this middle child only wanted her mother back - nothing more but certainly nothing less – it stops being trivial and it stops being clinical and I can’t distance myself from it and it becomes very, very personal.

In my fifty years I have, from time to time, unflinchingly, placed myself in harm’s way to give aid others who were at risk. I have carried my share of the dead and the dying and I have listened to those who were waiting to die and, as we talked, I would not avert my eyes as they whispered to me of their fears and misgivings.

I am not a stranger to death. But I am, of late, unmanned by the grief of those whom I love when they are floundering in death’s wake.

I could not bring myself to speak with my friend on the day of her mother’s funeral. I was entirely unable to give voice to the words of solace and comfort that I so badly wanted to share. The best that I could do was to hold her in my arms and weep for her.

And that seems inadiquate...

Something Cat-astrophic

Having left my indelible mark on my brother’s blog, I have nought to do but await his rebuttal. In the mean time, I thought I might, for no particular reason, bring you up to date with respect to certain goings on in my bailiwick.

There is, alas, a “new member” to our household, of the feline kind.

After having “stood fast” for a number of years, my good wife and I finally succumbed to the interminable petitioning of our youngest lad and presented, for Christmas, said begat with a kitten. The kitten, “Isaac” by name, (having been bestowed this sobriquet in honour of Sir Isaac Brock, hero of the War of 1812, by its “littermate”, that being, from the kitten’s point of view, our youngest), is adapting well to its new environs.

I, on the other hand, am having some difficulty adjusting to the presence of “fuzzy face”, in view of the fact that he has taken to attacking, with a gusto that belies his size, my toes in the middle of the night.

As admirable as this may be, given that the subject Kamikaze weighs a mere 1.5 lbs., I have to confess that I fear this might be the thin edge of the wedge. Having lived with more than a few cats, I anticipate, with a certain degree of trepidation, finding everything that I hold dear, eventually, festooned with cat hair and, more disturbing, I also expect, in the near future, to be listening to the little blighter coughing up hair balls under my bed in the middle of the night.

Don’t get me wrong. I like animals. I just prefer them in their natural state – either running free somewhere in the jungle or on my plate, done to a nice medium rare. Actually sharing living space with them, in my view, leaves something to be desired.

Unlike some “animal lovers”, I have little difficulty making the distinction between a “pet” and a “member of my family”. (I can just hear those squeaky little voices chanting; “Oh, Fluffy is just like my own child”).

For those of you who might be struggling with this issue, please let me point out a few things that might bring the matter into clearer focus.

1. In most cases, your children will share your DNA and, in fact, would have emerged from your womb or, if you happen to be male, the womb of your partner. (This observation, of course, presupposes that your “partner” is human. If, however, your “partner" is a llama, all bets are off).

2. In those cases where your child does not share your DNA, you will have gone through a rather lengthy legal process whereby said child is deemed by the Court to be, among other things, your heir.

3. In either case, assuming that YOU are human, it is highly unlikely that any child of yours would be completely covered with fur, and, oh, look, IT WOULD NOT HAVE A FUCKING TAIL!

Get it?

Human children DON’T HAVE TAILS!

I know this comes a shock to some of you – the whole tail thing – but you’ll just have to trust me on this one. If you have an opposable thumb, and you’ve been, let's say, breast-feeding something with a tail, you need to have a serious talk with your personal physician.

In any event… there’s a cat wandering around my house.

I suppose I’ll just have to adapt.

Yeah, well...

Listen, I don’t really have anything that I want to share with, or say to, the rest of the world, (primarily because most of the people occupying “the rest of the world” truly annoy me). I’m only doing this because my brother’s blog won’t let me comment on his convoluted submissions unless I am registered as a “blogger” myself. (He’s either a conniving bastard bent on inconveniencing me or he ACCIDENTALLY changed the default setting in his profile. For the record - it’s “even money” either way).

So, you can save yourself a lot of time, effort, frustration and potential heartache (the last possibility would only apply if you happen to be looking for reasonably literate prose) by just disregarding this drivel and finding yourself something more entertaining to do with your “web time”, like downloading the latest version of Diablo, or looking for porn, or updating your own damn blog, or whatever.

That said, I'll offer a couple of, more or less, random thoughts about Britney’s "nether regions" being plastered all over the internet, before I leave you shaking your head and rubbing your eyes in disbelief.

1. Nobody really cares. I mean, not really. It’s not like anyone is getting up in the middle of the night to write home to mother about it.

2. Britney – you should have taken the "Playboy deal" when you had the chance, at least then you would have seen some coin.

Oh well…

Now, off to hunt down and mess with my brother’s blog!