Friday, December 30, 2005

Gora-Vision

Yes, that’s right. Dave is on TV. The boob is on the tube. The first episode of my show aired last week on national television. Now, I have to admit that before I left, when people asked me what the hell I was planning to do in Pakistan, I certainly did not foresee acting in shoddy television productions. Wasn’t exactly on the radar, as they say. Still, I’m never adverse to the ways the winds blow me (or anyone else for that matter), so I’m just going with the flow.

But you know, it is a rush seeing yourself on television, no matter what it is. And honestly, the show wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Don’t get me wrong, it was still pretty terrible, but happily, it was not the complete catastrophic destruction of all things good and natural in this world that I thought it might be. I also happen to have the inside scoop that the episodes do get better… marginally. I took over writing around the fifth episode, so I guess I have to get behind the show at some point there. In the meantime, I was pretty confident that not many people would have caught the episode. But sure enough, within days, I had aunties and co-workers stopping and saying, "I saw you on TV!" Usually, I responded with a simple, "I’m sorry." But even though I’m living proof that you only have to be in the right place at the right time to be on Television (oh, and being white helps), people still have an inherent respect of someone on the screen, no matter the quality.

But I guess that’s where things have to start. You put some shows out there, you make some money, you make a better show the next time, and then gradually you’ll have a solid base to work with. And it’s cool to be a part of that. But this morning, I had a sobering thought. When I return to the school to teach next week, I know for damn sure that one of those kids will have seen the show. I’ll never hear the end of it. I don’t know why that hadn’t occurred to me before, but I’m going to have to face that one down.

And now… the only thing to do is to start scheming for my own show. Look out George, here I come... And as it happens, I’m already here.

Thursday, December 29, 2005

A Festivus for the Rest of Us.

Well, sadly, and surprisingly, there was no white Christmas in Karachi for me this year. I waited up until midnight, gazing wistfully from the balcony, hoping for that light dusting of snow that makes Christmas so much sweeter. But alas, it was not to be. Of course, the fact that I was wearing a T-shirt outside at midnight should have tipped me off, but as I mentioned, I was full of wist, and, as it happens, a bottle or two of wine. In fact, at that point in time, I would have been well and truly satisfied with a light dusting of ashes on the Karachi streets. I was half-tempted to go to the vacant lot next door and light a pile of garbage on fire, but the prospect of catching the flakes on my tongue seemed less than appetizing, and even in my inebriated state, I knew it would lose a little in translation. But then, with a flash of insight, I walked down to the kitchen, smashed up some ice and tossed it around like confetti, singing, “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow” in my best Bing Crosby voice (which is surprisingly similar to my own voice). It was nice for a few moments, but sadly, my “Christmas in the kitchen” idea was short lived, as I almost immediately slipped on the now saturated floor and hit my head on the counter. That more or less destroyed the effect, but at least I had visions of sugar plums dancing ‘round my head.

Yes, it’s admittedly difficult to get into the Christmas spirit here in Karachi, but I tend to try my best. Maybe it’s the concussion talking, but I believe that it’s the spirit of Christmas that matters, so I did my best to consume as many Christmas spirits as I could, without decking the halls with pools of unpleasantness. You see, the real trouble, is that Christmas just comes sneaking up on you over here. There’s none of that month and a half long build-up of the North American Christmas scene, which has less to do with what Christmas is really about, and more to do with selling a million sleigh-loads of GAP khakis. As a result, I had no running tally of how many shopping days I had left, and with a shock, about a week before Christmas, I realized I had better get around to ordering my Christmas turkey. It was then that I learned of the Great Turkey Shortage of 2005, and that my bird this year would be even more exorbitantly priced than last. Something to the tune (a carol I presume) of $100 for a ten kilo bird. A far cry from 79 cents a pound. I shrugged it off though, figuring that it was indeed Christmas, and the only time of year I would allow myself to drop that kind of dough on frozen poultry.

One way that I measure the success of my Christmas season is by the number of turkey dinners I’m able to consume. By that measure, all things considered, I did pretty damn well. Christmas Eve, my friend Komal cooked her first ever turkey for Steve, her Canadian fiancé (who I happen to be staying with at the moment) and 30 odd guests. It was a great success, and as a Christmas connoisseur, I give her full marks. I played bartender, a role I am quite comfortable in, whether it be professionally, on stage or off. It was a great little shin-dig, considering I really didn’t know anyone at all. The last guests left, and I slid out to a get together nearby and came home just in time to call Mother at 3 AM. I don’t think she noticed my inebriated state, at least, no more than usual.

Christmas morning, I woke up at 11:00 to my cell phone ringing and ringing. I picked up, only to hear Norma, Steve’s coworker from Newfoundland (and you thought I was strange) screaming in my ear. “Dave! The only other goddamn Maritimer in Karachi and you’re sleeping through Christmas lunch! Get your ass over here!” Fair enough. I got up, took a shower and got my ass over there. I entered a scene that would have chaos theorists in a tizzy. Kids were running and screaming and peeing everywhere, wrapping paper was scattered about, and Norma was yelling curse-filled instructions in the kitchen. I took a deep breath and smiled… Ah, now this was Christmas. I rocketed into the Kitchen, cracked a beer and started cooking. The turkey and all the fixin’s were phenomenal once again, and I stuck around to watch the kiddos open some more presents, cause really, nothing beats it.

So then it came time for me to don the apron and stuff my bird, so to speak. I planned to cook on boxing day, but logistical issues made me postpone a day. So on the third day of Christmas, I set aside my turtle doves and got to work. I threw out open invitations and coordinated with my pal Ameena, the queen of the dinner party and self proclaimed opiate of the masses. She took care of appetizers and the opening courses and I stuck to Turkey, garlic mashed and veggies in a cheese sauce. About an hour and a half into the cooking, I opened the oven and thought to myself, you know, I shouldn’t be able to hold my hand in here like this. I touched the turkey and thought, you know, this really shouldn’t be ice cold. Then I had a fleeting memory of some wise figure saying, “Watch out for those local ovens, you just never know.” My turkey was cursed. I was upset, so I stuck my head in the oven, but only so I could light that sucker up, top and bottom. Now, as Big Dave Lewis would say, I was cooking with gas.

In any case, the late, great turkey was finally ready at about 1 am. By that time, everyone was starving, but the back-bar was covered in empty bottles, so the Christmas cheer was palpable. To my relief, it was just as juicy and tender as always, thanks to the skills handed down to me from my mother and grandmother before her. A secret technique that, faulty ovens notwithstanding, has now, literally, been enjoyed the world over.

At that point, I changed out of my kitchen garb and entertained until dawn. Not too shabby if I do say so myself. A little snippet of Christmas in the Islamic Republic. Falalalala-lala-la-la.

Friday, December 23, 2005

Rats...

Now, I know that at some point I should ceased to be amused by the grammatical goofs of advertisements and packaging over this way… but not yet baby… not yet. I came across this one on a cute little package of rat poison at the supermarket.

Rats are your enemies and of your economy!
Combat rodents onslaught with czar rodent killer
which is an attractant to rats mice, no matter rodents,
eat steal food they fancy.

Going to Cashmere…

This just in…

Boy do I have news. It’s incredible really, and I don’t actually expect anyone to believe me; truly, I can hardly believe it myself. On the International Scale of Basic Credibility, it would rate slightly above the tooth-fairy but certainly below the moon-landing. Yes folks, here it is… I, David J. Ford, wore a sweater.

Yes, that’s right. For the first time in Karachi: A sweater. The Canadian in Pakistan wore a nice, cosy, little woollen number. We’re talking about the very same Canadian who lost forty pounds just by sweating.

I can see the headlines now: Profuse Sweater Prefers Sweater

Yes, I was set to attend a late-night, rooftop barbecue a few weeks back and on a whim, I decided to pull out the sweater that had been conveniently taking up a sweater-sized space in my suitcase for so many moons. And I have to admit, I was completely comfortable. Of course, it helps that Karachi is currently mired in the deep, dark days of winter. That six-week stretch when the mercury dips below 30 degrees, the air conditioners take a rest after their ten-month terms of service, and we all talk about how fantastic the weather is.

So I wonder just how much I’ve acclimatised? I have been here for over a year. I have lost a lot of weight. Will I freeze my ass on my triumphant return to the Great White North? It’s true, I have found it slightly chilly lately, even though it’s probably 22 degrees out there. Granted, it’s actually colder indoors during the winter in Karachi than it is in Canada. Hard to believe, but true. The buildings are all made of concrete, with high ceilings, and designed to stay cool. Having a heater installed for the two weeks you might appreciate it is about as sensible as having central air-conditioning in New Brunswick.

Unfortunately, while Canada has four seasons, Karachi only has 1.2, and it won’t be long before winter will once again be replaced by the sweltering, shirt-drenching season we like to call, "The rest of the year," which is about as comfortable as chilling out inside a Dutch Oven (both types). Which reminds me… what the hell am I doing in this climate? Oh wait, that’s what everyone asks me…

For now though, I will be out there, soaking up all the winter for as long as it lasts. I love it. Who knows? maybe the sweater will make another appearance.

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

The Darkest Day...

Dad,

I miss you still. More than words... and unfortunately, they're all I have.

Love,
David



Crossing the Bar

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.

- Alfred Lord Tennyson

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Mark My Words...

In an unfortunate, Dead Poets’ Society inspired delusion of grandeur, I recently accepted a position teaching English Literature and Language to Grade 9 and 10 students at a private school here in Karachi. The idea being, that I could inspire young minds in the mornings, continue working with the NGO in the afternoons and evenings, and still write and shoot the odd television show (and I mean odd in both senses of the word). Little did I know that I would be walking into the classroom like a one legged man, dripping blood into an open shark tank.

Now, I’ve had a lot of jobs over the years: Teenage Landscape Artist; Junior Forest Ranger; Computer Fix-it-Guy; Forest-Fire-Fighter; Salmon Kidney Remover; Office Clerk; Teacher’s Assistant; Bartender; Tech-line Call Centre Operator; Bar Manager; Restaurant Manager; Writer; Editor; Researcher; NGO - Third World Educationist; TV Writer; TV Actor; Sometime Stand-Up Comedian; and Body Guard for Mr. Burns… but so far, teaching is by far the most challenging. Growing up as the son of a popular high-school teacher, I have always been well-aware of the supremely undervalued, overworked and massively underpaid status of educators, but I still was not quite prepared for the work involved. I was unaware at the outset that the previous teacher had "resigned" under special circumstances, that I would be starting two weeks before the end of term, or that ADHD and dyslexia have somehow become more common than paperjams in a copier. In any case, I’m not one to give up easily (after all, I’m still in Pakistan), so I’ll keep you posted.

Anyway, all that set to one side, what’s been getting my goat lately, is that it actually stipulates in my teaching contract that I am not to mark student work in red ink. Studies have shown that students have an adverse reaction to red, they feel demoralised, associate the colour with blood and pain, and many educators feel that it emphasises the students’ errors. Ok, but here’s the reason that I like using red ink… because it emphasises student errors. Call me a battleaxe, but I feel that we’re losing the forest for the trees here. I’ve heard about these "red-ink" studies over the last ten years or so, and gradually they seem to have taken hold. Even Staples and other such Office Depots have changed their marketing strategies for a younger generation of teachers who have been taught to grade in the less offensive colours of green and purple. The idea is that students should not be discouraged when they are wrong, but rather encouraged when they are correct.

Sure ok, I’m all for that, obviously, but I feel it’s gone a bit too far. Aren’t we now just coddling children too much? I don’t think it’s actually possible to fail a grade anymore, even if you tried. It seems to me that repercussions have become a thing of the past. I mean, can’t we presume that the human species has evolved to the point where they can handle a little red-ink? Why can’t we give kids a little credit and teach them to accept and work with criticism, after all, they’ll be dealing with it for the rest of their lives. On my more sceptical days, I question whether cradling student self-esteem might actually do them more harm in the long run. But I certainly do think that student-self-worth (whatever that actually means) has come at the cost of actual learning. I can insist all day (in pale, purple ink) that a student is very creative, but if I am not allowed to point out his or her tragic writing skills, because it might hurt his or her feelings, then what help am I?

The reason I use red to mark papers is for the very fact that it does stand out. I want students to see their errors. Maybe, although it’s admittedly far-fetched, they will attempt to learn from their mistakes. To be truthful, I want them to know when they have done poorly. Perhaps they may just garner satisfaction from writing a paper that has fewer errors next time. I don’t know. I’m no expert. As far as I’m concerned, green and purple just aren’t effective when you’re trying to correct papers written in dark blue and black. I’m not looking to shock anyone, I just want my corrections to be visible and plain. As for my current situation, I’ll probably end up getting a few bad-assed, dark green pens to commit my demoralisation of the youth. Which makes me wonder, if all the teachers switch to green, can’t we assume that eventually students will come to associate green with errors instead of red?

Because ultimately, red is an effective colour for the very reason that it does attract attention. In my opinion, that’s what Red is for. That’s why God made our blood a nice shocking crimson, so that when it leaks out, we go, "Whoa, Shit! That ain’t good." There is a reason why traffic lights don’t cycle from pink through peach to a lusty shade of teal. Perhaps as we continue to avoid that which causes distress and slide further into self-serving, self-esteem building, we will all be trying to remember to stop for pastel coloured stop signs, or for aqua-marine fire-trucks squealing by and playing "Always look on the bright side of life." Because, after all, sirens are distressing.

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

The Cellar Pub

I stumbled over the last few uneven steps before my eyes had a chance to adjust to the gloom. I peered into the room through a haze of smoke. A single ceiling fan sliced languidly at the air, leaving a ring of cigarette soot on the ceiling tile. Jim and The Doors drifted from the sound-system… This is the End… My only friend, the End… I walked up to the bar and ordered a beer: “Keith’s. Please.” The bartender grunted, then said, “Two-Seventy-Five.” I smiled. The times may change, but the prices stay the same. I tossed him three bucks, “Keep the change,” I mumbled. “Gee, thanks…” he said with a smirk.

I turned my back on him and looked out across the room. The patrons looked up from their miseries and eyed me with suspicion. Yes. This was it. The Cellar. The dark, subterranean tavern of my subconscious. Where elements of my past came to linger and die slow deaths, every now and then, reeling up the stairs to make an appearance before stumbling back down to their stupor. I saw a table of regrets downing shots of flaming Sambuca and dwelling on past mistakes. A group of guilty memories played ‘Truth or Dare,’ led by a manifestation of my young self, insisting that he hadn’t pushed a centipede down the furnace grate. “Don’t trust him,” I said, as I walked by, “He’s a liar.”

I focused my attention on the darkest corner in a room that seemed to have more than the standard amount of dark corners. Half-hidden by a suspiciously stained pillar, I spotted my quarry. I pulled up a chair and sat down. I tried to make light of the situation, “So, do you come here often?” I asked.

The blog looked up from the pint of Oland’s Red, “Oh, it’s you…”
I glanced around, “Look, I just wanted to say…”
The blog shrugged and took a slug of beer, “You’ve gotta lotta nerve…”
“Just listen, I’m sorry… I’ve been busy.”
The blog scoffed, inasmuch as blogs can scoff, and said, “Busy? That’s the best you can do?”
“Well, I have been working four jobs you know…”
“Oh, boo-hoo. Try juggling hundreds of posts and comments. You’ve been busy before. Did you even think about how I feel? Sitting there, being accessed, with nothing to show?”
“I cast about for another angle, “Well, the internet barely works, and I haven’t been able to post anything.”
The blog slammed down the nearly empty glass, “You haven’t posted in a month!... a whole month… But forget that… you haven’t even checked in.”
I hung my head, ‘I know… I know… I feel bad.
“Ha. Tell me the truth, there’s someone else, isn’t there.”
“Well…”
”I knew it!”
“But I’m back! I’m reorganized. We can start over, just like old times.”
The blog looked up, “Really? I dunno…”
“Oh come on…” I shifted closer, “Remember when we were in Africa? The jungle, the treehouse, the internet café computers named after the twelve apostles…”
“I remember…”
“Then let’s do it. We’ll get back together.”
The blog was all smiles. We walked up the dingy stairs and stepped blinking into the light. “Are you sure you’re going to keep this up?” asked the blog.
“Well…”
The blog sighed. “It’s ok, I understand… but you’re back for now, right?”
“Yeah.”
"Thank God, because that was ridiculous.”
“What? This post?”
“Yeah, come on, anthropomorphizing a website is one thing, but drinking beer in the dark, watering-hole of your soul? That’s just plain stupid.
“Shut it, Blog.”


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