One Way Is The Right Way

Some group of brainwaves, in their infinite wisdom, have convinced Hamilton City Hall that it would be a good idea to revive the downtown core by switching as many streets as possible from one way to two way. I have to admit that when I first moved to Hamilton the heavy presence of one-way streets in the downtown area was a little confusing. But it didn’t take more than a few trips down those streets to realize the brilliance of one-way traffic. For example, I was able to get from our home on Hamilton Mountain to the GO station, to Fran’s downtown office, to Theatre Aquarius, to Hess Village or to Copp’s Coliseum in a fraction of the time because of the steady flow of Hamilton’s downtown streets.

With one-way streets, you can get four lanes of traffic flowing in a single direction. Even when people are parked in the two curbside lanes, you still get two solid lanes of traffic. And you don’t get the same old cross-directional “left-hand turn” issues that can slow down the flow. With two-way streets, those four lanes are cut down to two, and with curbside parking, you get a single lane of traffic in each direction. Hmm, I wonder which one allows higher volumes of traffic through?

On my nightly drive home through Hamilton, I enjoy taking different routes through the city. I enjoy experiencing the heart of our town. But lately, with the change of John and James Street to two-way streets, it’s taking me much longer to drive the route that takes me closest through the downtown core. This will mean one less regular visitor. How regularly do I stop and buy something downtown? Not often; maybe once or twice a month. But I’m sure if makes a difference and that I’m not the only one. If you increase traffic through an area you increase the possibility of money being deposited there. Just because I'm stopped in my car at the side of the road fuming because traffic is at a standstill doesn't mean I'm going to step out and purchase something from a shop on the side of the road. I'm more apt to chose a different route.

New York, one of the world’s largest cities, with the largest volume of traffic that I’ve ever experienced, has a plethora of one-way streets. Why? Because it’s one of the most efficient ways to move that many vehicles through that tight a space.

So if it’s good enough for the Big Apple why isn’t it good enough for Steeltown?

Lest We Forget

Today is Remembrance Day, a tradition originally inspired by World War I, “The War to End All Wars” that involves a ceremony and a two minute silence held on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. It is a short moment in time to honour our veterans and the thousands upon thousands of men and women who gave their lives for their country.

I’m embarrassed at the blatant lack of respect today’s society shows for Remembrance Day. Sure, banks and government offices are closed today, but most of the people who aren’t crowded onto the GO Train with me today aren’t going to be participating in any ceremonies nor likely observing two minutes of silence. They’re likely just sleeping in then doing early Christmas shopping or perhaps getting in a last round of golf if the weather permits. Perhaps they’ll think about Remembrance Day when glancing at the local newspaper or catching a news update (all the news anchors have been wearing their poppies since before Halloween after all - that’s a good sign, at least)

When I was young, I remember Remembrance Day being a full or half day off from school where everyone participated in a local parade that often included local veterans. The parade always ended at the downtown Cenotaph with a ceremony of remembrance and the laying of wreaths. One year, I had the distinct honour of laying down the wreath for our local cup scout troop. Later on, when it wasn’t a day off, our schools held ceremonies, veterans came in and spoke to us about the horrors of war and the honour of standing for your country -- it was a big deal.

When I lived in Ottawa less than ten years ago it was still a big deal -- businesses in the city of Ottawa would stay closed until noon on Remembrance Day. The streets near the War Memorial downtown were closed as thousands of people flocked to pay their respects and remember.

But here in Toronto, I’ve yet to see much respect for anything other than the almighty dollar. It’s a real shame. I remember in 1999 just a few minutes before eleven on November 11th, an internal email was sent out to everyone in the company requesting a few moments of silence. It has been years since I’ve seen anything of the sort -- we have critically important work to do, after all, and can’t waste two minutes out of our day. Despite the fact that there are still wars going on (I won’t get started on using words like “needless”) and that Canada continues to lose soldiers in peacekeeping missions around the world, it’s a pity we can’t take a few moments out of our day to remember them and think about it all. Here on the GO Train perhaps half of the people I see are wearing poppies.

Francine is planning on taking Alexander downtown to the Remembrance Day ceremonies in Hamilton. I’m proud of that. I hope we can instill in our son a sense of history, a sense of respect and a sense of personal responsibility that he can wear with pride. I want him to appreciate where we live, what we have and the mostly peaceful existence we take for granted.

As for myself, while I’m shamefully bowing down to the almighty dollar and going in to work today, I’ve set the alarm on my watch for 11 AM. I plan on stopping just for a few minutes to remember. It’s the very least I can do.

Conehead The Barbarian - HNT

Since I'm home sick today, I thought I'd pull a "Half-Nekkid" photo out of the archives. This one goes back to at least 15 years ago when I was at a Halloween party dressed in my "Conan The Barbarian" costume. It had been made for me when I was about 14 years old and I could barely fit into it by the time this shot was taken. I still have the costume and it's quite the challenge to get into.

But it is one of my favourite shots - it was taken at Pat and Mike's (some buddies of mine that I knew through Sock'N'Buskin Theatre Company at Carleton University) Halloween party. This was the last shot on the roll of film (remember 35 MM film?) and was taken as I was complaining that someone beat me to get into the washroom.

Yes, this post is really just an indication that I'm STILL trying to hang on desperately to Halloween.

Action Hero Diversion

Normally I write my little posts while commuting in to work on the GO Train - I usually do it as part of a writing warm-up. However, this morning, I did no such warm-up, but just jumped immediately into writing a review of a wonderful collection of short stories called "Outcrops: Northeastern Ontario Short Stories"

But rather than leave this space blank, I thought I'd insert a little fun "quiz result" from a quiz that I found on my friend Michael Kelly's (otherwise known as the Dark Knight) livejournal. Anyone who knows me wouldn't me all that much suprised by the result of my taking this quiz . . .


You scored as The Amazing Spider-Man. After being bitten by a radioactive spider, Peter Parker was transformed from a nerdy high school student into New York's greatest hero. Peter enjoys the thrill of being a super hero, but he struggles with the burdens of leading a double life. He hopes someday to win the heart of his true love Mary Jane, the woman he's loved since before he even liked girls. Right now, he just wants to make it through college and pay his bills.

The Amazing Spider-Man		83%
Indiana Jones		67%
Batman, the Dark Knight		58%
Neo, the "One"		54%
Maximus		54%
Lara Croft		50%
The Terminator		46%
Captain Jack Sparrow		42%
El Zorro		25%
William Wallace		25%
James Bond, Agent 007		21%

Which Action Hero Would You Be? v. 2.0
created with QuizFarm.com

Wham, Bam, Thank You Spam!

I keep getting these emails from a Nigeria man who asks me not to feel sorry for him, but is hoping, in good faith that I will listen to his plight. He is the son of a late general and is trying to keep vindictive government officials from taking his father's vast sums of wealth. If I can provide him with just my name, address, phone and fax number as well as bank account information, he will have his security firm deposit his father's 75,000,000 (seventy five million) dollars into my bank account. If I can help him, he assures me I can keep a reasonable percentage of this sum once the transaction is completed.

What, does he think that I’m a complete idiot?

Why would I do that?

Especially since I have this other email from a Saudi princess, who is offering, for the same details, 5% of her family’s 3 billion dollar riches. I'm no dummy. I'd rather take the sure thing, the 5% of 3 billion that an undetermined percentage of 75 million.

Kissing The Empty Page

I booked a table at Hamilton’s first Small Press Fair yesterday, thinking that the cost of the table ($10) would be a worthwhile price to give me a chance to get out and do a bit more self promotion.

That ten dollars was one of the best investments I’ve made in recent history. The event was well organized, well advertised (and slotted in to be run during the tail end of Hamilton’s literary festival, GritLit) and definitely well attended. I brought a book with me to read, thinking that there would be many quiet moments between noon and 5 PM that would need to be filled.

But on the contrary -- there was a constant and steady stream of people through the event. That, and I had the pleasure of sitting between two very interesting people: The talented Toronto artist eXavier Peterson on my left and humorist/artist/book binder James Spyker of 2X4 to the forehead on my right.

The fair had a stage in which different authors and musicians had a chance (about 15 minutes each) to read some of their work, providing a fitting and interesting background to the day. The stage area was, of course, hosted by Hamilton’s own literary renaissance man, Kerry Schooley. One of the scheduled segments on stage was spoken word with accompanying music (Dave Gould on percussion and Chris Pannell on bass guitar), and, when participation was a little lacking, Kerry jumped on stage in an attempt to show others how easy it was, and started reading random sections from the Fair’s show guide which included samples of each author’s work.

When Kerry started in on a spoken word rendition of my poem “The Sound of One Man Screaming” he gave it a far better reading than I could ever hope to do myself. Combined with the jazzy beat accompaniment, he kept jumping back to the following lines from the poem complete with perfectly matching body language:


The pen is lifted, balanced between three fingers

and brought down to kiss an empty page


I can honestly say that I’ve never heard my poetry performed in such a wonderfully stylistic manner. The whole spoken word segment, including the special bit performed by the New Phrenologists, a Hamilton music-performance poetry combo, was truly a thing to behold, and was quite addictive. I think I need to get out and listen to more.

In all, Hamilton's Small Press Fair was a wonderful way to spend the day.

Hamilton Literary Awards

Last night Francine and I were planning on attending the 13th Annual Hamilton Literary Awards. It’s not like I stood a chance of actually being one of the winners last night, but those same odds don’t stop us from buying Lotto 649 or Super 7 tickets each week, and we were looking forward to a fun literary event. Since we didn’t go with season tickets to Theatre Aquarius this year we needed our fix of culture.

However, Alexander was running a bit of fever and not at all in a pleasant mood, so Fran planned on staying home with him rather than having her mother come over to look after him. I couldn’t very well go out drinking cocktails and expounding the virtues of the latest literary trends while Francine stayed home to look after our sick baby. So I stayed home too.

And the funny thing is, while I certainly missed the opportunity to go out to a fun literary event with Fran and mingle with some Hamilton area writers and arts folks, I wasn’t upset at missing the event. Instead, Fran and I made the most of the evening. After we got the little guy snuggled into bed we ordered a pizza and watched Donald Trump fire another young hopeful.

The Naked Eye 2 1/2 - HNT

Here's a shot of my naked eye (since so many people loved my spooky eye boxers on last week's Half-Nekked Thursday, I thought I'd stick with the theme) - okay, my eye is not entirely naked, because I was wearing my Boston Lens contacts in the shot. That, and the photo was also touched up by my graphic artist friend Steve Gaydos -- he added the image of a skull (one that Francine's Grandmother drew in 1935) - this was used for the cover of my book.

Can you make out the skull? It's in profile view, looking to the right (or stage left for the theatre-minded) and in a slightly downward angle, with the back "ball" of its head right where my eyeball is.

To help folks with being able to "see" the skull, I've included a scan of the original sketch (which is right facing rather than right facing and tilted severel degress down inside my eye)

In any case, happy HNT!

Treats

I'm always a little sad when Halloween is over. I love the whole thing - dressing up, putting up scary decorations, playing eerie music and sound effects, watching Alexander check out all the cool sights and sounds, giving out treats to strange kids (whose parents likely advised them never to take candy from strangers -- except on Halloween, of course. For more great inconsistencies of parental advice, see my friend Francesca's blog).


The day after Halloween has always been, to me, a little like that minor let down the day after Christmas (you know how sometimes kids get, after all the wind-up and excitement, with the presents opened and Santa has already come and gone.....nothing to look forward to but several months of cold and dark) - for me, the day after Halloween is like that. Mildly depressing.

With Christmas decorations, there's usually a one month grace period on either side of the holiday where it's okay to have your lights and decorations out on display. But not with Halloween. Sometimes I wish that Halloween could be a week-long event or even just a weekend of fun, the way that Thanksgiving and Easter are.

Alexander certainly enjoyed his trick or treating last night (all 8 houses he went to), but what he enjoyed MOST was giving candy to the other kids - he loved picking up the treats and dropping them in the bags of the kids who came to the door. He also enjoyed pushing the button on our fog machine, sending a blast of fog to roll through the tombstones. He had a ball.

I'd Like To Meet His Tailor

Sunday was sunny and bright and perfect for putting the finishing touches on this year's Halloween decorations. Francine suggested that, rather than do my normal "fill the yard with all the Halloween crap" that we have, that I stick to a single theme.


So I just focused on the graveyard thing. I think it works (will look a bit cooler when I hook up the fog machine tonight). Alexander seems to like it.

Happy Halloween!

When Spooky Eyes Are Peeking

So there I am, about an hour into my book signing last night, when I shifted in my seat and moved my notebook into my lap (I usually fill vacant time during signings by working on various writing projects, making notes, etc.)

What to my wandering eyes do appear, but little glow in the dark spooky eyes, just trying to instill fear!

My fly had been open the whole time, and my spooky eye boxers were peeking out at the world, just curious, and wanting to make friends, as is their nature. (No wonder the ladies at the bookstore were all smiles when I arrived) So there I sat, waiting for just the right moment when it appeared that nobody was looking, so I could reach down and zip up my pants. (The last thing I wanted was a misunderstanding at what my hands were doing beneath the table, it all ending with mall security hauling me out as some sort of pervert)

But with a quick zip, the little spooky eyes were banished back to their world of darkness, and I don't think anyone saw me. I wonder if Stephen King ever had moments like this during his book signings?

Naked Eyes - HNT

I'm doing a book signing at the Coles in Limeridge Mall on Hamilton Mountain this evening at 6:30. I'll likely be wearing my skull tie and bringing along Yorick (my skull), but something I haven't admited to yet is that I often also wear Halloween or spooky underwear to my signings as well. Tonight, I think I'll be wearing my "spooky eyes" underwear.

If you're wondering why I would start posting half naked pictures of myself, it's because I thought it might be fun to participate in the HNT (Half-Nekkid Thursday) stream that blogger Osbasso started. After all, blogs are often about revealing parts of yourself to the world.

Hmm, now that I've revealed this much of myself I'm making a resolution to start getting back on that treadmill on a regular basis.

When Babies Attack

My son has always been fascinated with the camera. He certainly seems to know what the little device is, as he often smiles, poses and hams when he sees me readying for a shot. But he has always been excited (and aggressive) about wanting to hold the camera.

That’s probably why I have so many photographs of him seemingly attacking the camera, like a miniature version of Sean Penn clashing with the paparazzi, perhaps.

Based on all of the wonderful shots of Alexander reaching for the camera (as well as some video shots I have that document, first hand, how he’s actually been able to wrestle the camera from my hands), I always thought it would make a great half hour special on Fox television - like a cross between “America’s Funniest Home Videos” and “Cops”

A PenUltimate Evening

Last night I was a guest at my friend Kim’s writing group meeting. The evening was quite pleasant and much too short with a group of truly interesting people -- I would have loved to have stuck around longer and listened to the members tell me about some of their writing projects, because I found that being in their presence was inspirational.

When I was a teenager, I remember being a part of a local writing group in my home town, but the group seemed to just dissolve after perhaps 3 meetings. Over the years I guess I forgot the wonderful power that a writing group can have on an individual. You’re with a group of like-minded people willing to share and support. Second, you’re given the opportunity to give and receive frank and honest commentary on writing (often, giving commentary can help one’s own writing, because sometimes it’s easier to spot a “fix-it” item in another person’s writing rather than your own). You’re constantly learning from your contemporaries, and the ongoing writing projects and assignments keep you doing what drew you together in the first place -- writing.

One of the highlights of the evening came when Kim read the assigned “Postcard Challenge” stories and we all voted for our favourites. These are flash fiction pieces that had to be less than 250 words (ie, could fit on a postcard), included the words mummified, thriller and haunted, and fit within the theme of “Isn’t it Romantic?”

As I listened to the stories that were read I found something unique or remarkable about each person’s entry. Sure, three of us made reference to an album by Michael Jackson in order to work the word “Thriller” into the story, which was cute, but the subject matter, tone, voice and style of each tale demonstrated a creative mind dedicated to crafting a moment or scene, from the disturbing to the reflective, from pensive to gritty. And it's not easy when you're forced to keep it to less than 250 words.

In all, the evening was a real treat for me and I was glad to be a part of it.

WAF

There was an interesting article in the Hamilton Spectator today about the Wife Acceptance Factor (also known as WAF). Apparently the phrase is being used when describing high priced “toys” that men want to buy. For example, when describing a plasma television, one can talk about the picture quality, the sound quality and the size of the screen, but also feel it necessary to mention the fact that it’s thin and could be hung on a wall rather than taking up a lot of room can help create a positive WAF.

For me, Francine mostly humours my impulse purchases (likely because I haven't yet demanded that we buy a Harley or a sailboat, or even a 72 inch television), but I do rent movies and end up watching television shows based on their WAF.

TV shows with a good WAF: The West Wing, ER, Grey's Anatomy, Law & Order (all 3 of them), Commander In Chief, According To Jim, The Simpsons, The Apprentice, Medium, Three Wishes

TV shows with a negative WAF: The Family Guy, My Name Is Earl, Fear Factor, Alias, The Outer Limits, Supernatural, (anything after the first 10 minutes of SNL)

Not Just One, But All Of Them

I’m in desperate need for a haircut. That’s all there is to it.

I’m about two weeks overdue for that blissful Saturday morning ritual where I get up nice and early and head on down to see Russ at his shop on Mohawk Road. Even though he doesn’t officially open until 8 AM, if I show up at 7:15, I know he’ll be there, and perhaps I’ll even have to wait, because I’m not the only person who knows Russ gets there really early.

Perhaps it’s pathetic, but I feel better after a good haircut. And tomorrow evening I have a book signing at Chapters Festival Hall in Toronto and could really use the confidence that a good haircut provides.

When I was a young boy, I used to go to a barber, the same one my dad went to. Rene had a little shop in Levack. Good comic books, fun stories being told, and a haircut for a decent price. I fondly remember the time when I got big enough that I didn’t need to sit on that little board that was placed across the armrests, and also the first time that I went down to get my haircut on my own, without my mom or dad there with me.

Then, when I reached my teenaged years, I abandoned the barber shop for a hair stylist. Part of it was peer pressure, I remember, and a nice dose of vanity. But the idea of getting one’s hair cut at a barber’s was suddenly unthinkable. You see, apparently it’s important to spend more and get the exact same thing -- your hair shortened. Apparently it was also necessary to go to a hairstylist so that I could achieve the highly fashionable mullet which I sported from the late 80’s to the early 90’s. (I doubt that Rene would have let me walk out of his shop looking like that)

As I got older (and perhaps as I started losing my hair), I rediscovered the simple yet powerful pleasure of a barber shop. At Russ’s (the place where Francine’s father used to get his hair cut) I get a decent haircut for a great price, conversation about world events, recent sporting triumphs and loses, and of course, politics, good newspapers and magazines (and kept out of sight and reach of the young folks, there’s a selection of adult men’s magazines. Though I usually just stick to the Globe & Mail or MacLeans -- If I wanted one of the nudy magazines, I’m not quite sure the protocol. Do I just pipe up and say: “Hey Russ, slide me over a copy of “Bum Biter’s Monthly” would you?)

Alexander’s rate of hair growth is so slow that I doubt I’ll be taking him to see Russ for a while, but I certainly look forward to introducing my son to the experience of the barber shop. (Sure, when he’s a teen, he’ll likely escape to some other hair place that charges more, but I know he’ll come back home like I did, if not as a middle aged man, then for sure as a senior)

I’ve also recently looked around at the office, seen Zebing, Howard and Irwanto who all got haircuts recently (good wholesome haircuts like what I’m in desperate need for), and I think I’ve been having feelings of “haircut envy” - it isn’t pretty.

Battle Scars

Yesterday Fran called me at work to let me know that, during their morning walk, Alexander had been running down the sidewalk when he took a pretty nasty spill. He has acquired a lot of bumps and bruises over the past several months. A symptom of walking, I guess.

Actually he hardly ever just walks anywhere - last I remember he was doing the soldier crawl across the floor. Next thing I know he’s tearing across the room arms waving in the air, still belting out the patented battle cry that he began to perfect in his crawling days. (I think he might grow up to be a Barbarian, perhaps a Viking or maybe, and this is only if he gets really really tough, a Boxing Day Shopper, like his mother)

Fran described his wounds to me, also mentioning that, though he was crying, he stopped when she was carrying him to the house and he spotted the doorbell (he’s been enjoying both the act of knocking on doors and ringing doorbells lately). But it wasn’t until I got home last night and saw the large bruise on his forehead and scrape on his nose that it hit me. My poor little baby. These were his worst battle scars so far.

I know that this is just the beginning of a lifetime of hurts, of falls, spills, bruises, scratches and all the rest. But I didn’t realize how terrifying it could be, and how much I’d wish that I could be the one bearing the scars and feeling the pain rather than him.

And then, as often happens, I had a really morbid thought while we were out running errands together and Alexander was being his usual charming self flirting with store clerks and waving at people passing by. What if, someone seeing this toddler with the multiple bruises and scrapes on his face suspected that he was physically abused? It suddenly occurred to me as I looked at him grinning ear to ear at the cashier and she smiled back at him and my heart filled with pride and pure, unadultered love for this child.

Is this a common fear for parents? Or am I just paranoid?

I’d never thought of it before, but, before I became a parent, if I saw a young child who looked like he’d just been involved in a brawl (the way Alexander looks right now), would I flash back to the multiple terrifying news stories I’d heard over the years about the monster parents who beat their children to death and suspect this too could be the case? Or would I understand the reality -- that kids, especially active kids, get lots of scrapes and bruises? I’m really not sure. Damn, it's a tough thing to think about - but life's like that. And often it takes someone outside the situation to recognize the symptoms and step in and help -- especially since kids can’t often speak out themselves or in some cases, even recognize that what’s happening to them is wrong.

But how can a casual observer tell the difference? Is the risk of being wrong worth the accusation? In the interest of preserving the safety of a child, I would say yes. As a parent who dearly loves his son and would hate to be wrongly accused, the very thought of losing my child because of a misunderstanding or unjustified accusation frightens the bejesus out of me. But it's a frightening necessity for the protection of children. Isn't it?

While I continue to fail to understand how somebody could mercilessly beat on someone who is smaller than them and virtually helpless to defend themselves, I cringe with every bruise and scrape that Alexander suffers in his daily exploration of the world, hating to see my son in pain, and also trying to push away the underlying paranoia that someone would think that Fran or I did it to him.

One Hand Screaming Prize Packs

Yesterday we got the “One Hand Screaming” t-shirts back from Can-Doo Promotions. They were awesome - high quality t-shirts at a great price. Fran used Can-Doo Promotions regularly when she worked at the Health Unit in Brantford, and, as usual, her decision to use them (and getting her talented work colleague Donna Kemp to re-adjust the One Hand Screaming logo specifically for the t-shirts) was excellent.

As usual, Fran was instrumental in not only the idea, but in the planning, picking up the product, creating cute little packages in "bat" bags and keeping me from just being too silly (she's my own personal little Graham Chapman)

The t-shirts are being packaged together with a signed copy of the book, and a Halloween sound effects CD. Q92 (Sudbury’s Best Rock) will be giving them away during the week of October 24th to October 28th during the Terry & Mell morning show.

CHML Hamilton News Talk Leader will also be giving a few of these prize packs away next week. It's all part of the annual Halloween ramp-up when sales of my book tend to peak.

I’m looking forward to the book signing I’m doing at Chapters Festival Hall inToronto this Friday evening (the 21st) as well as the one at Coles Limeridge in Hamilton next Thursday evening (the 27th). In between, I have the honour of joining The PenUltimate Group's October meeting (my friend Kim is a member of this writing group) for a fun evening on Monday the 24th.

Strong Enough For A Man - Another Secret

Last week things were so busy at work that I kept forgetting I needed to buy deodorant. Actually, no, not deodorant. Fran recently turned me on to antiperspirant, which I found has been working well.

But last week, with my own supply depleted, one morning I tried Francine’s Lady Mitchum. I ended up wearing it all week, and I have to admit, damn, it worked quite nicely. Not only that, but occasionally I would catch a whiff of that "powder fresh" scent and think: My, that's a pretty smell. And then I'd realize it was me. I smelled pretty.

There's a slogan for this product that states: "so effective you could skip a day" (I don't think so, not with me), but it does bring back fond memories of an old "Secret" television commercial in which they tout that it's "strong enough for a man, but made for a woman"

Me, since I had a chance to get the usual "man" version over the weekend, I'm just missing that pretty "powder fresh" scent right now . I wonder if Fran would notice if I kept using her stock?

Ghost Voice From The Past

I recently had one of those freaky “is it ever a small world” moments -- my life, of course, has been filled with them, which is always an interesting injection into one’s day, like a clear dose of déjà vu or some other moment that makes one wonder about the mystical connectors underlying the universe we believe that we understand.

Last week was a long and difficult one at work with several projects that had been launched going wrong wherever we turned. Because there was nobody in IT to take ownership and understand enough of the many diverse pieces for a recent gift card change, I did my best to step in (despite not really knowing all of it, I can sometimes be good at winging things -- hey, I’m a writer who has found himself in an IT support role for the critical element of Master Data for Canada’s largest book retailer, so if that doesn’t suggest I can “wing it”, I don’t know what can) For the gift card mess, I’d interfaced quiet a bit over the course of a few days with Heather (no, not Heather Reisman, the head of our company, another Heather, although she sits on the same floor at head office as our chief booklover) trying to keep her in the loop as the situation was unfolding.

I think I first met Heather Harkness perhaps 10 months or a year ago, and, over time, we’ve connected a few times, been in meetings together, worked in parallel on projects here and there. But until recently we hadn’t spoken with each other for more than a few sentences. Last week, though, we were joined at the phone. That, I think was the key.

It was near the end of another long day when we were establishing where we were with the whole mess when that bizarre moment hit. As we'd been talking, there had been something about her voice that was familiar. It kept hitting me, again and again, there was something in her voice that I knew. This wasn't Heather's voice I was hearing, but rather a ghost voice from my past that had surfaced, almost like one of those fleeting glimpses you get where you're convinced someone just walked past, but, alas, nobody is there.

D'uh. That was it. Heather's last name -- the voice. It suddenly made sense.

So I asked if Heather was related to any of the Harkness family in Ottawa. She said yes. So I asked if she knew a Colin and Christine. There was a long pause (likely Heather suddenly all freaked out) before she said: “Okay, how do you know so much about my family?”

In the early 90’s I’d briefly dated Heather’s sister, Christine. And it was Christine’s voice that I’d been hearing when Heather was speaking, the tone of voice, the inflection, the subtle nuances. It was uncanny. Although I can’t recall speaking with Christine since the mid or perhaps late 90’s, I knew that voice as if we’d last spoken only yesterday.

Christine and I had only dated for a month or two, (no big surprise for anyone who knew me -- I’d fall for a girl, drool like an idiot and she’d realize that hanging around with me was a huge mistake. Of course, I still have Francine under a magic voodoo spell which might explain why she tolerates me and my drool). Anyways, while the dating thing hadn’t worked out, we did maintain a friendship, kept in touch via the occasional letter or phone call, but ended up losing touch with each other over the years.

It has been said that scent trigger powerful memories, and I’ve found that to be true. But this is one time that sound, a voice, triggered strong memories. I wonder if it’s because when Christine and I hung out, we spent most of our time talking. I’ll always remember her as one of those friends with whom I could chat endlessly, from deep and meaningful conversation to light, fluffy and silly things.

A friend of mine, Dean Watson, once commented that he enjoyed spending time with friends that challenged him (mentally, physically, etc) - he enjoyed someone who was capable of keeping him on his toes and forcing him to try new things. I think, along those lines, I’ve always been attracted to friends with whom I can have stimulating conversation. Dean was certainly one of those people, my buddy Steve has been one for most of my life, but there are many other people whom I’m realizing I enjoy spending time with for that very reason. Francine, of course, holds the top spot in my little world for the scintillating range of conversation we have, from the deepest deep thoughts and emotions to boughts of wild creativity, from politically charged topics to the silliest and stupidest things (although she prefers that I save my truly low brow guy stuff for my buddies like Steve and Pete)

But it was the talking, the conversation, that I’ll always remember Christine for. That’s likely why Heather’s voice had such a ghostly effect on me. It’s like I was hearing this voice from my past. And I was, in a way. It was really freaky.

I was glad to hear from Heather that her sister is doing extremely well, apparently the co-owner of a Yoga fitness club, going for her Masters in Montreal and is in a long term relationship with a great guy. Christine was a good soul, a kind person, and I’m really glad that she found a nice guy and is successful. The last time we’d had an in person long conversation, she was heading to Vancouver to do some exploring before heading to University. It's nice to see she found something good and is living happily ever after.

So, in the challenge with my buddy Pete to connect with long lost friends, he's leading the charge due to the popularity of his blog. I may not have had as much success via my blog, but at least all that overtime at work has allowed me to connect with the sister of a long-long friend. That's gotta count for something. No?