Blog it Up, Bloggers...

This just in: I have just now told my spell-checker to accept "blog" as a word. I am nothing if not the apogee of efficiency. So welcome to my lexicon "blog," no more will you feel the shame of the red squiggly line of infamy.

Although, to be honest, even though I love the blog like a second mistress, I have always been annoyed by the actual term. The word just falls with a thump. Blog. It’s like the onomatopoeic sound of dropping a soft-boiled egg into a bowl of lime Jello. Sometimes I wish the word had evolved in a different way: something with a bit more grace. But what can you do. Blog it is… along with all the bloggers in the blogosphere I have learned to accept and move on.

Blog on, You crazy Diamond.

Dave’s a Stand-Up Guy…

So yeah. Those of you who also check all the comments may remember that I was invited to participate in an open-mic Monday night. Propositioned through the blog… how exciting. I received a lot of encouragement from friends far and wide, so I decided to go for it. At first I was nervous about performing for a Pakistani audience, and I’ve always heard people say that 5 minutes seems like nothing, but is actually a lot of material. But I poured myself a drink and started jotting down ideas and in no time I had a page of notes to draw from. I had the opposite problem. I roughed out a general routine and then had to cut and slash it down to five minutes. Maybe I should just have my own comedy special.

Those who know me will attest that I have a, shall we say, slight tendency to procrastinate. So in typical Ford fashion, I didn’t really write the routine until the day before. I wasn’t too worried, because a) I’ve done the same thing for just about every event I’ve hosted or MC’d (I refuse to endorse the spelling "emcee"), and b) I tend to have everything simmering in my head, so writing it down is more of a means of ordering the bits and ensuring transitions. Another "problem," if you want to call it that, is that new jokes to add always occur to me as I go, so it gets tough to keep to the time limit. I finally got it down to about 7 minutes, but that was without audience laughs, so I figured on about ten minutes. Twice the time allotted me, but then I figured, oh well, fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.

I personally think the night was a great success. Everyone I spoke to really enjoyed it. Full Kudos to Saad for organising the whole thing. Saad was very funny with his own material, and did a good job of keeping things roling. The two musicians that participated did a great job, and I especially appreciated the Leonard Cohen cover that was beautifully done, and added a bit more Canadian content. Sami, who had extended the comment invitation originally, did a good job with some stand-up material of his own.

Here, more or less, is the routine I performed. I would imagine it loses quite a bit in transcription, and it was designed with jokes for this context, but what the hell. Who cares?


Hello….. My name is Dave, and I’m a Pakistanaholic. (Pause) Um, I’m not sure if you guys have seen any movies, but that’s the part where you’re supposed to say, "Helllllo Dave!" (Half the audience responds)… Too late… too late… thanks for coming out though. But it’s true, I am a Pakistanaholic. I have a problem. I can’t explain it. I wish I could. People say to me, "Dave, you’ve been here a year, why are you still in Pakistan?" And I have to answer, "I have NO Idea!" I’m addicted to you’re crazy-assed country.

I even tried to set up a support group once, Pakistanaholics Anonymous… P.A… but it didn’t really take off. I tried to hold a meeting but only one other person showed up, and he was like (half-assed British accent), "Hello, my name is George, and I’m a Pakistanaholic…. I said, "Hi George, I have a problem" He said, "Hi, I have a TV show." I was like, "There’s the door… yaar."

But the most amazing thing for most people is that I decided to come here in the first place… of my own volition. Hard to believe isn’t it. But it’s really quite simple. I was bored. Needed something to do. I walked into a travel agent’s and said, "I’m looking for some excitement, but I’m not sure where to go." The girl said, "Well, we have a new database here, you give us your criteria and it matches up destinations." So I thought about it and said, "Oh, ok, that’s cool, alright... I could go for some near constant political tension, that would be good.... Uhmm, how about some explosions and bomb-blasts to shake things up a little.... And I guess the potential for natural disaster would be nice, just to keep me on my toes... Let’s see… Oh, a figurehead democracy, that would be great... Religious fanaticism would be fantastic.... Oh, and throw in a massive divide between the rich and the poor." So she typed it all in and there were two hits: Pakistan and the United States of America…. The US? It’s full of crazy people, so here I am.

And now I’m addicted. I’m addicted to the people. I’m addicted to the food. I’m addicted to the clothes. I mean look at this (gesturing to the Shalwar Kameez I wore for the routine) it’s fantastic. You may be thinking I just wore this tonight to get a few extra laughs… and you’d be right… but I do love wearing them. I’m in my pajamas all day long... I’m sorry, I’m going to take a nap... I remember the first time I bought one of these outfits. I brought it home and opened it up, all excited like a little kid, and started unfolding the shalwar (that’s the pants part, westerners). I was prying it apart (unfolding actions accompanied by strange "prying" noises) because there’s more starch in these things than a truck-load of baked potatoes… If you’re on the Atkins diet you’re not allowed to wear them. And I’m unfolding, and unfolding, and unfolding… and I thought, "You have got to be kidding me. I’ve slept in tents made of less material than this." Finally I got it opened up, put them on, and I’m standing in front of the mirror like the "after" shot of a weight-watchers commercial (miming holding out the waist of a huge pair of pants with a goofy smile and thumbs up)(special thanks to Jeff on that joke).

I mean, how can you not love a country where people wear shoes like this (holding up the ornate, pointy, curly-toed shoes (saleem shahi?) I was purposely wearing)… and they’re being serious. Come on man! You’re a genie in a bottle… and I’m not going to rub you any which way... If you’re wearing these shoes, I’m sorry, but I have to laugh at you. I’m wearing them for this bit and I’ve been chuckling all night. You could be standing on the side of the road in tears, but if you’re wearing these shoes, I’m going to lose it. There are three things that I cannot NOT laugh at. One is these shoes. Another is when you fall down in a comic manner. I’m sorry, I hope you’re okay, but I’m going to laugh. And the third one is a running midget.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love midgets. Power to the little people. But when they run… when those little guys start to pick up speed, I just can’t help myself. Their little, big, asses start wobbling back and forth and I’m finished. A midget could be running towards me with a butcher knife and rage in his eyes and I’d be laughing saying, "Whoa, little fella, slow down, you’re making me giggle." Now, if a running midget were wearing a pair of these pointy shoes?… That would be just plain ridiculous. It would be like some kind of Pakistani Leprechaun. (Half-assed Irish accent) "Ahhh, there’s a pot o’ Biryanni at the end of the rainbow… yaar."

Ahhh…. Midgets…. We used to have a midget in my home town. What a little bastard he was. We had a dwarf too…. He was mean too… Grumpy… Our little town had a good representation of the little people now that I think of it. Cause, I mean, I grew up in a very small town. There are probably more people at the Special Olympics New Year’s ball than live in my whole town. We had one black family. Their name was the Grays… that was confusing... We had a Korean Family… no Pakistanis though. But I guess that makes sense, because my home town was way too small to need a Taxi… Oooh… low blow.

People ask me how I could grow up in such a small town and adjust to living in a metropolis like Karachi. Well, I was worried about the same thing when I first arrived. But after a while, I realized that I was actually very well prepared. Living in this Clifton Defense bubble, I was completely prepared by my small town upbringing. Let me explain. I’ll tell you what it was like growing up in a small town. You tell me if it sounds familiar… Growing up in a small town everybody knows everybody else… OR you’re related. You’re bidness ain’t your bidness, it’s everybody’s bidness… as the Grays used to say. Sound Familiar? When you grow up in a small town, there is NOTHING to do at night, unless you make your own entertainment. If you’re not going out to coffee, if you’re not going out to dinner, than what are ya gonna do? Rent a movie? I’m convinced that’s why the teen-pregnancy rate was so high in my town. Standing there (looking from left to right).. "Well… nothing in at the video store (turns and looks "girl" up and down)… Whatcha wanna do?"… When you grow up in a small town, every party is exactly like every other party. It’s the same people, the same faces, it’s just at someone else’s house. Maybe we’re partying at the beach, maybe around a bonfire, maybe by the pool, but it’ll always be the same. There’ll be a fight, there’ll be a break-up, and enough drama to get us through to the next party. Familiar? And back then, we were all under-age, so alcohol was illegal. We had to go to bootleggers and pay crazy prices for booze (pause with pointed stare at audience). So you’ve got kids chugging back booze like they’ll never see it again. (Half-assed frantic teenager voice) "What’s this in the water bottle? Is that Vodka? It’s Vodka… I’m going to drink it straight! Yeah! Chug!… Is this Scotch? I’m going to mix it with lemonade and Pepsi! Let’s Dance!" So after I’d been on the scene for about a month, I plopped down on the bed one night, stretched and said to myself, "Ahhhh, Home Sweet Home."

Thanks, you’ve been great.

Back to Business...

Well folks, it’s been hectic. Not so much hectic in the sense of a world gone mad, but more so that life just seemed to be conspiring against the blog lately. It’s annual report time at work, so what with writing, rewriting, editing and proofreading the same 40 pages over and over; the general tendency for every computer or internet connection in my vicinity to cease functioning (or electrocute me); and my own general lethargy and lack of adventures lately… the poor blog has suffered.

That may all sound like excuses. There’s a reason for that. They are. My dog ate my blog-work. In any case, things are looking up. Hopefully I can get back on schedule soon.

Thanks for continuing to check in.

Get Off My Tale...

I think it would be funny if I wrote something and then inadvertently spilled
a tube of crazy glue on the papers in some kind of comic fashion, and
then accidentally sat on the manuscript in some other comedic manner, so that when someone asked me, "What’s that on your ass?" I could say,
"That’s my story and I’m sticking to it."

And now you're thinking, "Hmmmm, maybe Dave should go back to neglecting the blog."

A Typical Conversation on the Way to Work...

Subaru: Where'd you guys go to dinner last night?

Me: A Chinese place called, "Yuan Tung." Pretty tasty.

Subaru: Yeah, that's an old Karachi favourite.

Me: I wouldn't know.

Subaru: No you wouldn't.

Me: Right. Well, it's across the street from another Chinese restaurant called "Little China." But I didn't want to go there because I've heard they had some big trouble a little while back.

Subaru: Ha! Big Trouble in Little China.

Me: You nailed that one.

Subaru: Ya, that was a classic film.

Me: Never seen it, I just make jokes about the title... Kurt Russel right?

Subaru: Yeah, basically, there's this demon loose in China-Town...

Me: Wait, I think you mean, "Little China"... hey wouldn't it be funny if there was actually a Little China full of Chinese midgets?

Subaru: Shut up Dave.

Me: What? It just strikes me as something those wily Chinese might do. Anyway, there's a demon...?

Subaru: Right. And the demon has been hunting for thousands of years for a green eyed Chinese girl.

Me: Virgin?

Subaru: Couldn't hurt. So Kurt Russel's friend is dating a green-eyed, Chinese girl.

Me: Convenient.

Subaru: So the Kung-Fu guys that worship the demon go after the girl, and the Kung-Fu guys that support Kurt Russel go after them.

Me: Were those cats as fast as lightening?

Subaru: Ya. It was a little bit frightening.

Me: So then?

Subaru: So then, I dunno, a whole lot of shit goes down.

Me: Ok, so two Kung-Fu gangs are battling an ancient demon for a green-eyed girl and then a whole lot of shit goes down.

Subaru: Pretty Much. Oh, and it also features an early appearance of Kim Cattrall.

Me: Who's Kim Cattrall.

Subaru: The old, slutty one on Sex and the City.

Me: Isn't that all of them?

Subaru: The oldest and sluttiest.

Me: Oh right. You're a big fan are ya?

Subaru: I'm not the one who's seen every episode of Desperate Housewives.

Me: I'm telling you, it's a good show! And since I'm an honest guy, I'll tell you that while you were at work last Saturday I watched Season Six of Sex and the City.

Subaru: What!

Me: In my defence, there are a lot of naked women in that show.

Subaru: A lot of naked men too.

Me: That's why you watch it, you mean?

Subaru: Shut up.

Me: You shut up.

Subaru: Anyway, now I'm thinking we'd better find a copy of "Big Trouble..."

Me: Oh yeah, sounds like a quality film. We should track it down.

Subaru: But we won't.

Me: No, no we won't.

It's Dave... Naturally...

The monthly magazine, The Herald, has published a review of our play, Picasso at the Lapin Agile. It’s a pretty favourable review, but for some reason, I think this is my favourite part:

Of all the actors, David Ford, who played the bar owner, Freddy, was the most natural.

Luckily, the review comes out just in time for all of you to come and see my "natural" performance at the PACC Auditorium in Karachi, a month and a half ago.

I Sing the Body Electric...

I was typing something up and listening to some tunes on Subaru Kazoo’s laptop the other night when I felt a strange sensation, like a small prick. I know what you’re thinking, but I checked, and Subaru Kazoo was not behind me. No, rather, it was like a pin-prick in my left wrist – not painful per se, but irritating. I thought maybe one of the stickers on the surface of the laptop had a sharp corner sticking up, or maybe there was a piece of plastic or something, but I couldn’t find any likely culprits. It was happening sporadically enough that I started to think that maybe it was all in my head, so I just rubbed my wrist and kept typing. Just then, the next song started with a heavy bass track and the middle finger on my left hand spontaneously spasmed, causing me to hit the "D" key three times. It was only then that I realised that Subaru’s laptop was discreetly, but diligently, electrocuting me. Something in the speakers must not be grounded properly, because when you’re playing music on the computer it sends a charge up through your wrist. This meant that I had to find an appropriately sized, non-conductive material to place under my wrists while I typed. I decided I would file the whole thing under "W" for "Why the hell do such weird, little things happen to me?"

But speaking of shocking experiences… In my entire life, I think I have electrocuted myself maybe three times (in a minor way obviously, otherwise I’d be dead, which makes it harder to blog). Three times, that is, before I came to Pakistan. In the year that I’ve been here, I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve blitzed myself. I’m telling you, I’ve been shocked so many times I feel like Galvani’s Frog (wow, that was a little obscure).

The worst occasion was when I reached blindly under a cabinet (like an idiot) to plug in my cell-phone charger. Somehow, I managed to touch something I shouldn’t have and wound up on my ass in the middle of the floor. The best part was that I was on the phone at the time, which was the reason for my blind plugging attempt. I wish I had a recording of that conversation that went a little like this:

Dave: Yeah, well, I think that on Friday we should probably try to …BzZOWP!!

(THUMP)

Mbbs: We should what? Dave… Dave…?

Even funnier, was the time that I was trying to plug a USB device into the back of the computer in my room. I was in one of those awkward, leaning over the desk, craning my neck, reaching in behind the computer type positions. I couldn’t find the right hole by feel (no comments necessary) and so I leaned forward to try to see the back panel. I located the socket and as I tried to plug it in, my thumb touched the back of the computer and I felt the throbbing sensation of an electric shock. I was startled, and tried to pull back, but because of my awkward position, I ended up falling forward onto the desk. My hand slipped further down, resulting in a heavier shock, and because my head was behind the computer, I kind of fell sideways against it. This meant that not only was my hand throbbing with electricity, but so was my face where it was pressed against the metal like a kid against the school-bus window. I don’t know if you’ve ever received minor electric shocks simultaneously to your right hand and your left cheekbone, but I wouldn’t generally recommend it. For the rest of the night I was clasping and un-clasping my hand and my cheek kept twitching. I must have looked like a squinty-eyed gun-fighter in the wild-west.

But to be fair, I have to say that all my shocking encounters are not entirely my fault. Electrical sockets here really are ridiculously dangerous. Nothing is ever grounded properly so you never know when you’re going to catch a current (once I was shaving and touched my mirror and got a shock). The two-prong, rounded plugs only barely fit the sockets. They dangle from the wall like limp, exhausted snakes hanging on to their stubborn prey by their fangs. Just about every time you plug something in, there’s a blue flash to tell you that it’s working. You have to tweak and twiddle the plugs into place, so that the connection is made, and then the next day, you have to do it all again because the cleaning lady has knocked them all out of place with her broom.

So yeah, that’s my latest complaint about Pakistan: Bad electrical sockets. I blame the Brits, it’s their standard after all. I’m just sick of getting shocked. I would call someone and complain, but I just can’t get up the courage to plug in my phone.

At least all these electric shocks haven't electric shocks haven't really affected me affected me in any real way.

Oh yeah… I forgot… I’m fine…

It really wasn’t really until I started getting emails and comments asking if I was ok, that I remembered that the KFC and McDonalds had been bombed the other day. So yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for your concern though. My penchant for fried chicken did not endanger me on that particular day. The KFC is actually at the bottom of my street, but not to worry Mother, that’s still about 25 blocks away. I was sitting up with a friend that night when the bomb went off and I didn’t hear a thing, so it couldn’t have been a huge explosion. It certainly took the windows out of the franchise though. Interestingly, Subaru Kazoo and I got a craving for KFC the very next day. I didn’t think to ask which location it was delivered from.

Anyway, I’m not exactly sure how to portray that this isn’t that big of a deal. It would be more frightening to me if it was random, but it wasn’t. There was a nationwide general strike called by one of the opposition parties for Friday. Generally, I love it when strikes are called because the whole city shuts down and I don’t have to go to work. The best ones are transportation strikes due to fuel prices or some such beef, because then no buses run, no one can get anywhere, and I’m definitely not headed for work. Strikes here are serious business. But since this one was politically motivated, they try to rile up the radical elements to put on a show. It was a pretty half-assed strike to be truthful, the city wasn’t really affected on Friday because not many people really reacted to the call for strike.

So the bombings early Friday morning, may or may not have been directly linked to the group that called the strike, but nevertheless, it was definitely the motivation. I guess the logic is that they hate President Musharraf, they hate his cooperation with the United States, and thus they hate the symbols of American capitalism. So, the poor fast-food outlets get blasted. It doesn’t seem to occur to anyone that the franchises are staffed and frequented by Pakistani’s and that that’s the only people who will be hurt in something like this. It’s a tiny blip on KFC’s global radar. Thankfully, no one was killed this time around, but last time, while I was in Africa, a KFC was gutted and 6 people were killed.

Anyway, the long and the short of it is that I use my head. When a strike is called, I don’t go to any areas I would consider of higher risk. In general, I don’t go to the fast-food outlets very often anyway. Why eat the same crap I can get at home when I’m surrounded by amazing food?

Sock it to Me...

Yesterday morning I was sitting on my bed in a daze, pulling on my socks, trying to clear the haze of sleep from my head. To be fair, I usually accomplish this around 11:00, but I start working on it around 8:30 (the haze, not the socks). As I pulled on my left sock, which theoretically, could just have easily have been my right sock, I felt a lump down in the toe area. This made me immediately pause, because I grew up with a cat that would leave lovely, little wildlife presents in our shoes. As unlikely as it might be that a decapitated, chipmunk head would be hiding in the toe of my sock, I still wasn’t going to take any chances. Gingerly, I wiggled my big toe and touched whatever was taking refuge in my stockings. Due to the amazing tactile recognition skills of my left foot, I quickly determined that it was a wad of paper. When I pulled it out, I discovered that it was a used and abused, washed and wadded, Ten-Rupee note.

My mood immediately brightened. Imagine if my socks could become a source of income! Of course, at Rs. 10 a day, I wouldn’t exactly be raking it in hand over foot (nyuk,nyuk). Still, I was excited. On my way to work, the fog in my brain cleared slightly and I remembered that two weeks previously, I had gone for some exercise at a walking park near my house. Since I’d never been to that particular park, and since some such parks charge an entrance fee, and since I had no pockets in my shorts, I had stuck 10 Rupees in my sock. End of mystery. I must not have picked this particular pair of socks off the shelf since they had been washed. Even though I was slightly disappointed that the earning potential of my socks was not all I’d hoped it would be, I still basked in the general good-feelings of having found money unexpectedly.

When it came time to order lunch, I gave some money to one of the servants (a little guilty that one of the notes had spent two weeks in a sock) and realised that I was about 5 Rupees short of a meal. I checked my wallet again, but had no more small change. "Does anyone have 5 Roops?" I asked my coworkers, "I just need 5 Rupees." As my coworkers were digging around for coins to help me out, I shoved my left hand into my pocket and discovered a 5 Rupee coin. I was once again astonished. Immediately, I said, "I just need 100 dollars," and shoved my left hand in my pocket again. But unfortunately, magic is a mystery: you can’t force it. This time, I remembered fairly quickly that the last time I had worn those pants I had made some purchases at Agha’s Supermarket and had tossed the coin in my pocket. Excellent.

As I sat back down at my desk, I wondered whether I had any more surprises in store. After all, I had just brought in 15 Rupees, and was now sneaking up on 30 cents Canadian, and when lunch costs me 50 cents, that’s not half bad. I reached into my desk drawer for a pen and my hand fell on an envelope that had been pushed toward the back. I pulled it out, only to discover that it was filled with money that I had left there like an idiot last Friday. Thousands and thousands of Rupees. I had now made a giant leap forward in my serendipitous currency discoveries. I was now up over three hundred bucks.

Now, I realise this was all money that was already mine to begin with. But you have to admit that just finding it in places you don’t expect is great. I think I will begin surreptitiously hiding cash around my room and office when I’m not looking. You just can’t beat the feeling. It put me in mind of back home in Canada, when you pull on the ole winter jacket for the first time that year and find twenty bucks in the pocket. Because of my new found wealth, I left work in a good mood, and I couldn’t wait to see how much more money I would discover.

As it turns out, that was it. But later on, I did find a rock shaped like a duck.

Have You Seen This Man...

5c48
Originally uploaded by Artsaypunk.

Well, for those of you who have been demanding an updated photo, this was taken a few months back. It's a little pose I like to call "The Evil Jesus."

And don't worry, just because I've finally found a connection that I can post photos from doesn't mean I'll become a photo blogger. I know, I know, you're thinking to yourself, "You know, Dave hasn't been posting as much lately, maybe he's running out of steam. He'll probably just start throwing six pictures up there and say,'Here are six pictures,' and then next thing you know he'll think he's some kind of photographer and start taking pictures of himself taking a picture of himself in the mirror."

Rest at ease, my friends, it shall not come to pass. However, I do have some funny shots from the last year, so I'll have to get them posted up here soon.

The Face of Radio...

For anyone in the Pakistan area that might be interested, I will be on the radio today at 4:00.

A friend of mine has a show on FM 89.0 and featured me in the second hour as "The Second Most Popular White Guy in Pakistan...." Damn that pesky George!

Anyway, it was a fun interview and features five songs of my choosing. Even if it's not true, I'm taking full credit for introducing Pakistan to The Tragically Hip.

So check it out if you get the chance.

Plus, if I do say so myself, I've got a great voice.

Rug-Burn...

I love this story. Maybe because, in a strange way, I can relate.

A friend of mine, let’s call him James, had been interested in a girl for quite some time. The problem was that they had been friends for years, and he didn’t know if she felt the same way, or if it was all in his head. I think we’ve all been there before, when you feel like your sensors are on the fritz and you just can’t interpret the signals properly. Finally, they decided to get together and watch a movie at her place. Now, this was good news for James, because they had never spent time alone together (I think "alone together" is a funny phrase) and the best part was that it had been her idea. For once, they wouldn’t be surrounded by all their friends, and he could try to gauge the situation.

So they’re watching a flic in her basement - things are going well - when suddenly James feels his stomach cramp. Not good. With a sickening feeling (that I know all too well), he realizes that if he doesn’t go straight to the bathroom, there will be terrible repercussions. Now, any guy will tell you that using the bathroom at a girl’s house is a delicate matter. There’s a definite comfort level that must be reached before it can even be considered. And at this point, on their first real date, and with his insides gone super-nova, the idea of desecrating her toilet is about as appealing as a nudist fish-fry. He tries to hold it for as long as he can, but it’s just no good, he knows that this feeling is not going to pass. Finally, as casually as he can, he asks where the bathroom is. She points to the door across the room. Of course, this is the last thing he wants to hear. If only the bathroom were upstairs… out of range. As far as he’s concerned, it would be ideal if the bathroom were in a different house.

His soul full of doubt and trepidation, he heads slowly for the bathroom. He decides that he’s going to try to get this done as fast as possible, so that maybe he can make the whole venture seem like one long pee. He makes his deposit as quickly as he can without pulling a muscle, while staging a coughing fit to try and cover any untoward noises. Everything is going according to schedule. He is beginning to feel confident that everything is going to work out fine (so to speak), when he realizes that there is no toilet paper in sight. He looks to he left... he looks to his right. No relief in sight. Gingerly, he opens the cupboard under the sink. Nothing. He performs the pants-around-the-ankles-dirty-assed waddle over to the closet to check for supplies. Nada. He scans the whole bathroom and there isn’t even a magazine to help him through.

The clock is ticking. It’s around this point that James starts to panic. In fact, if he hadn’t already, he probably would have lost his shit. I think it would be safe to say that James abandoned all capacity for rational thought. All he could imagine was his potential girlfriend sitting in the other room wondering why he was taking so long. The idea of popping his head out to ask for more toilet paper either didn’t occur to him, or else it just seemed too far beyond embarrassment to even contemplate.

Instead, in his now frantic state, a different solution occurs to him. Pulling out a Swiss Army Knife, he gets down on his hands and knees and cuts a piece of carpet from behind the toilet. He then proceeds to wipe himself with a swath of prime, 1970’s orange shag. I don’t think it’s exactly necessary to point out that behind the toilet is never the most sanitary area in the bathroom either: guys always miss. But at this point, he just doesn’t care. As far as he’s concerned, his problem is solved. In fact, he’s proud of his resourcefulness.

He calms himself and returns to the rec-room, where this poor girl has been sitting with the movie paused, unaware of the drama unfolding in the washroom. "Are you ok?" she asks. "Yeah, yeah," he says, as non-chalantly as possible. He even uses his new found adrenaline rush to snuggle in closer to her for the rest of the movie.

About an hour later, the girl’s father gets home and comes downstairs to say hello. He sits and chats for a minute and then heads for the bathroom. James isn’t worried until he runs out shouting, "Where’s the plunger, the toilet’s flooding!" James slowly shrinks back into the corner of the couch. He is seriously considering cutting his losses and trying to make a stealthy escape when her father shouts from the bathroom, "Jesus Christ! There’s a God-Damn piece of carpet in here!"

And the best part is, last I heard, they’re still together.

Just Curious...

If a dentist has a bad day, is he allowed to say, "Man, that procedure was like pulling teeth"?

Along those same lines, I’ve often wondered if brain surgeons ever shrug sarcastically and say, "Well, it’s not rocket science."

Caffeine Dreams...

T: I’ll have a Caramel-Flavoured Latté.
Waiter: Pardon sir?
T: I’ll have a Caramel-Flavoured Latté please
Waiter: Yes sir, What flavour?
(Pause)
T: Umm… Caramel.
Waiter: Yes, Sir.

Me: What are the latté flavours?
Waiter: (points to menu) Here.
Me: Ok, I’ll have Hazelnut.
Waiter: Hazelnut?
Me: Yes… Latté.
Waiter: Latté? What flavour?
(Pause)
Me: … Hazelnut.
Waiter: Yes sir.

G: I'll have a Hot Chocolate.
Me: Good Call.

The Writing on the Wall...

Last night, while out for a stroll, I wrote down all of the interesting graffiti scrawled on one large wall. In retrospect, I must have looked a little strange standing in front of a large wall like a modern day Daniel (my life having its fair share of lion’s dens), madly typing graffiti into my cell phone, but then, realistically, I always look a little strange.

Without further delay then, here is the wisdom of the wall… with commentary:

Born Horny
Thank You, Sigmund Freud

Fuck Others
Save your energy: Go fuck yourself.

Full Stop
Period.

Fuck U All Only
Oh, as long as it's only all.

How Do You Do?
Exuberant, and you?

I Am A Drummer
Whatever you say Ringo.

Chomsky Wozzy
Uhmmm….

Where the Rubber Hits the Road...

Condoms make me laugh.

Well, not the latex itself, but more so the brand names. And I guess they don’t make me laugh so much as chuckle ironically. It just seems to me that whoever it was that decided on these names just wasn’t using his head (or the right one anyway). Think about it:

Trojans? Listen, Troy fell. The Trojan defenses failed. The walls of Troy were penetrated. Sure, the Trojans defended their city for a decade against thousands of marauding Greeks, but when it really came down to it, when push came to shove, they let a big horse-load of Greeks in the backdoor.

Then you’ve got Ramses. Who was the genius on this one? I think that it’s just plain brilliant to name a birth control method after a guy that had 200 kids. Plus, unless I’m mistaken, wasn’t Ramses the pharaoh that had the little skirmish with Moses and the Isrealites? So that means firstly, that all his people got plagues, and secondly that he really wasn’t that great at keeping things contained. I mean he let the slaves split the Red Sea and escape to "the Promised Land," which, as luck would have it, was a land of milk and honey.

Sheik? I really don’t think it’s a good message for kids these days to name a condom after a guy with a harem full of women. It’s certainly better than having 200 kids, but who knows what goes on in there? Besides, take it from me, having a harem is hardly worth the trouble.

Lifestyles? For some reason, it just sounds sketchy to me. If there were a lifestyle channel on TV, I wouldn’t watch it.

I guess there’s Durex. I can almost accept Durex. There’s not a whole lot wrong with the name. The name seems to be indicative of strength and durability. But still, I’m suspicious, I feel like you're tempting fate... like naming a condom "Never-Fails," you should just never say never. "I’ll have two tickets for the Titanic please." I remember we used to have "Duralex" drinking glasses in our kitchen when I was growing up. They were never supposed to break, but we sure managed it.


You know, looking back over this post, I’m starting to realize that it reads like a bad stand-up act: "What is it with condoms these days..." Oh well, I don’t think I’ve ripped it off from anyone because I first wrote something like this in Dave’s Big Black Book of Mystery, which was the early print predecessor of the blog and was stolen out of the back seat of my car in late 2002. I just hope that whoever that asshole was got a kick out of it… why would you steal someone’s journal?

Anyway, I’ll leave you with one more condom story. A friend of mine worked in a pharmacy while she was in college. One day a twelve year old kid walked up to the counter with a 12-pack of condoms (one for every year of his life I suppose). When she raised an eyebrow, he didn’t shyly place the package on the counter and pay, instead he gave her "the wink and the gun" and said, "Hey, No glove - No love, baby!"

Dave Fiction...

I've decided that the next time someone asks me why I'm in Pakistan my answer will run along these lines: 


VINCENT
                       So if you're quitting the life,
                       what'll you do?

                                  JULES
                       That's what I've been sitting here
                       contemplating.  First, I'm gonna
                       deliver this case to Marsellus.
                       Then, basically, I'm gonna walk the
                       earth.

                                  VINCENT
                       What do you mean, walk the earth?

                                  JULES
                       You know, like Caine in "KUNG FU."
                       Just walk from town to town, meet
                       people, get in adventures.

                                  VINCENT
                       How long do you intend to walk the
                       earth?

                                  JULES
                       Until God puts me where he want me
                       to be.

                                  VINCENT
                       What if he never does?

                                  JULES
                       If it takes forever, I'll wait
                       forever.

                                  VINCENT
                       So you decided to be a bum?

                                  JULES
                       I'll just be Jules, Vincent -- no
                       more, no less.

Let's Make a Deal....

Saturday saw me, once again, engaged in my favourite quarterly distraction of obtaining a visa extension. It really seemed to sneak up on me this time around. I just can’t believe it’s been three months since I was in Africa; almost two months since my birthday; and almost a month since the play. Time is screaming by me like a red-neck in a pickup truck throwing beer-bottles at the road signs. Well, to be expected I suppose. Tempus Fugit, as Augustus might say.

Anyway, I found myself in the office of the Assistant Director for the visa branch once again pleading my case. This time I had my boss with me who was working on getting her own machine-readable passport and had gained the respect of the Ass. Director the previous week by tearing a strip off of everyone in his office. I commend her. He had told her that if she needed anything else at all, she should go straight to him. And so there we were. Sometimes things just work out well.

I think it’s the fourth time I’ve been in this guy’s office, and on each occasion, he’s started shouting at a subordinate while I’m sitting there. Since I don’t understand what he’s saying, and he seems so upset, it makes for a fairly intimidating experience. However, this time I was expecting it, and when it happened, I started wondering whether he sets it all up on purpose to show how important he is. "Ok, when the white guy’s been here five minutes, you come in and I’ll scream at you in Urdu… Theak Hai?.. Watch his face, it’ll be hilarious."

In any case, as soon as the stage show was over, he asked me why I was still in Pakistan. Now, you would think that by now I would be prepared for this question. Apparently not. I reiterated that I was enjoying the country, that I was travelling and writing and volunteering for TRC. This apparently was not a fully satisfactory answer. "But Why?" he demanded. I thought I had just answered that, so I stalled for time and said, "Pardon?" He stared at me for a long moment and then said, "No one wants to stay here this long. Before this you were here for six months. You leave for one month and now you are back? Who likes Pakistan so much?" For a fleeting moment I thought of launching into a diatribe about how Pakistanis don’t value their own culture enough, but quickly thought better of it and simply replied, "I do… I’m strange." "Yes you are," he said, which I didn’t really know what to make of.

We sat in silence for a while, my boss spoke up for me and they chatted in Urdu a bit. The mood was lighter than some of my previous visits so I figured that things were going well. I heard him offer tea, which was politely refused. Then he turned to me and said, "You will have tea." I tried to refuse as politely as I could. "If he wants to be Pakistani, then he will have real Pakistani tea with me," he said to my boss. I tried to protest that I had just had a mug of thick, milky chai only an hour before, but he would have nothing of it. My boss told him how I eat local food every day, and that when it comes to food I’m more Pakistani than she is. "If you like Pakistan…" he said cryptically, tapping his finger on my passport with every word, "You will have tea." He raised his eyebrows, glanced down at my application again, set it to one side and said, "Chai?"

I blinked. I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like he was only going to give me my visa if I had tea with him. Was this really happening? Was this some sort of Chai-Way Bribery? (sorry…) This is ridiculous, I thought to myself. But then, I continued to think to myself, it’s not like he’s asking me to kill someone (which was the last I saw of Ecuador). I looked up. "Yes," I said, "I will have chai." He smiled and made the order. This meant we had to sit for another fifteen minutes while tea was made. But in the meantime, my passport application went flying through the ranks and arrived back at the desk ready to be processed. The tea arrived and I tried to sip it with an appreciative air. I didn’t even flinch when the thick skim on top escaped from the cup, slid across my teeth and lodged at the back of my throat, tickling my gag-reflex.

With a slurp, the Ass. Director finished his tea, set down his cup and then picked up my form and signed it with a flourish. He smiled and handed it back to me. I stood and thanked him, and then got the hell out of there.

I had hitherto underestimated the power of chai.

Cunning Linguists...

The latest billboard ad from the Karachi branch of Nando’s, the international chicken chain, states:

Nandos:
A Chick That Looks Good and Tastes Great!

Of course, that is an admirable goal, one that I suppose I seek myself, but considering their audience, I’m not sure exactly what they’re going for with this one. If they weren’t going for the innuendo, I can’t see why they would choose the word "Chick." And if they weren’t going for the innuendo… then I don’t get it.

Nando’s last ad campaign was quite good, but difficult to explain to someone who hasn’t been to Karachi. They had a big billboard near Three Swords saying :

Why did the chicken cross the road?
Because the underpass will take forever.

Now, if you don’t live in Karachi, you’re saying, "What in the hell is that supposed to mean." It refers to the ongoing road-construction project to build an underpass through the high traffic intersection of Schon Circle. I thought the advert was clever because of the timing. When they put that billboard up, the construction was just beginning and the contractors were assuring everyone that the disturbance would only be for six to eight months. Of course, everyone knew it would take much longer, and sure enough, it’s been at least six months and the whole area still looks like the surface of the moon during some kind of inter-orbital nuclear war. A good question might be: What will last longer in Karachi? The Schon Circle Underpass Construction? or David J. Ford?

On a related note, this latest Nando’s tasty chick campaign puts me in mind of the old Cape Breton fried chicken restaurant: Lick a Chick. Every time I drive across the island I see that big "Lick a Chick" sign, think to myself, "Don't mind if I do," and then laugh the rest of the way to Sidney.* But of course, you can't blame them, "Lick a Chick" has been around for decades... back before sexual innuendoes were invented.



* Geographical Note: In case anyone was thinking that I drove from Canada to Austalia... Sidney is also the largest city on Cape Breton, an incredibly beautiful island off of Nova Scotia.**

** Further Geographical Note: In case anyone was wondering, Nova Scotia is a province on the East coast of Canada. ***

*** Further Geographical Note for Americans: In case you were wondering, Canada is an extremely large country to your North

Balls to the Wall...

One summer, I was home from University and my brother and I decided to play Soccer in a summer men’s league. Technically, it was called the International Men’s League, which makes it sound like we played Slovakia every third week, but all it meant was that we played one team from the State of Maine. Now, I’ve seen a lot of soccer in my day, but I have never seen a rougher, rowdier, or more violent league than this one. Basically, you’ve got a lot of guys who used to play, but are now pushing into their thirties and don’t have the wind that they used to. What they still have however, is their pride and competetive natures. So, when they get frustrated, they tend to lash out and try to compensate for their slower footwork by, you know, body-checking a guy. But I guess I shouldn't talk, since I got the nickname "Tank" for (accidentally) knocking a guy unconscious. What can I say, there's not much I can do about momentum... it's physics... I'm a big guy... I have to admit though, it was kind of satisfying that he was out cold and in the fetal position before he hit the ground.

Anyway, this particular game we were up against one of our principal rivals from St. Andrews. The last meeting of our classy, gentlemen’s teams had led to three separate fights, one of which involved me being forced to knock a guy off of my brother where he was kneeling on his chest about to pummel him (although I bet my brother still would have got the better of him). So, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to the game.

We were warming up, taking shots on goal, when one of our balls sailed over the fence and into the yard opposite. Charles, a childhood friend of mine, started over to retrieve it because it happened to be his own ball. But just as he was crossing the street, in a streak of grey and pink, an old lady ran out, grabbed the soccer ball and then ran back into the house. Charles stopped in the middle of the road and turned back to us with a look that would have perfectly accompanied the phrase, "What the fuck?"

You see, St. Andrews is a resort town. It is a tourist destination. It is the site of the Fairmont Algonquin hotel and an international golf-course (where my canoe and I once pitched a tent). It is a beautiful location, there’s no doubt about it, but for me the place always rings a little false. The town swells in the summertime when all the Americans come north to their summer homes. My town, on the other hand, is just as beautiful, but more like a country cousin. My little town is quaint; St. Andrews is faux-quaint. The way to make this distinction is by counting the gift shops. Who needs 24 gift shops selling the same thing on one street? Anyway, the town has a reputation locally as being snobby and elitist, and like most reputations, some of that is completely undeserved, but then, some of it isn’t. There are some great people who live in St. Andrews, but as we were about to find out, the lady who had just athletically whisked away Charles’ ball was not one of them.

Charles continued across the street and knocked on the door. Eventually, the lady opened the door, releasing a small white poodle that immediately started barking and relentlessly jumping on Charles’ legs. Ever the gentleman, Charles began, "I’m sorry Ma’am, but it seems our ball landed in your yard, and I was wondering if you might have found it?"
"Yes I did," stated the woman, "but you little bastards can forget about getting your ball back."
This took Charles aback, not being used to hearing the elderly refer to him as a little bastard. But still, he maintained his composure. "We are very sorry Ma’am. But you see, that’s actually my own personal ball, and I’d like to get it back."
"Young man, there is no way in hell you will ever see your ball again."
"Look, I understand you’re upset, but maybe you should talk to the town about raising the fence around the field or stringing a net or something…"
"The town?" she sneered, "Those bastards are the worst bastards of them all."
Charles took this in stride, but the dog jumping up his leg was starting to annoy him. "Listen," he began.
"Don’t you "listen" me!" she shouted in a shrill voice. "I’m not putting up with this anymore, you can all go fuck yourselves!"

At this point, I heard escalating voices and started over there. I arrived just in time to hear Charles shout, "Listen you crotchety old whore! You go into your musty, old-lady house right now and get my god-damn soccer ball!"
The woman gasped… so did I. "Chuck!" I said, completely at a loss for what to say.
The woman recovered first. "Have respect for your elders, young man!" she squeaked.
"Fuck You." said Charles.
"That ball was on my property," said the woman, "It’s mine now!"
"Fine" said Charles as he bent down and scooped up the annoying, little dog, "You keep the ball, I’m taking your dog."
"You can’t do that!" she screamed.
"Watch me! Your dog is jumping all over me, so he’s my property now… See ya." Charles turned and started down the walkway. I stood rooted to the spot.
"I’ll call the police you little bastard-shit-head!" she screamed at his retreating form.
"You go right ahead, you old bag!" Shouted Charles.

The police arrived shortly. The officer in charge went inside and retrieved our ball, begging us to try our damnedest not to let it land in this yard again. "That woman," he confided in us, "is a God-Damn crazy lady."

We thanked the officer, and headed back to our already delayed game, heady with the victory that a bunch of guys in their twenties and thirties had just achieved in getting our game ball back from a mean old lady.

Ceylon-Soph

Well, Sophie-Super-Star, one of my best friends, has struck off for Sri Lanka this morning. She’ll be doing volunteer work for Tsunami Relief under Project Galle on the Southern tip of the island for the next three months. I can’t say I’m not a little jealous. It’s a great feeling to get away from things and work on something where you really feel like you’re helping someone. That, and it doesn’t hurt that Sri Lanka is beautiful, Galle is stunning, and the people are fantastic.

Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to get back to saving the children, one report at a time.

Good Luck Soph!