David Pretty, Author

Good day to you, Kind Sirrahs!

Okay, so I've written this book.

Now, I know what you're thinking: "Big, fat, hairy deal.  Who hasn't written a book?  I'VE written a book, fer Chrissakes!" 

Yeah, but when I say I wrote a book, I mean I really wrote that sucker.  With a capitol "W"...like, with  "THE END" and everything.

So, what inspired me to start writing this epic project back in the Pleistocene Era (I.E. High School)?  What carried me through to the very end when so many people start to write novels only to give up part way through in frustration?  Pull up a chair and I'll tell ya...

In between all the pulpy disposable stuff that kids in middle school are forced to digest (like Flight into Danger, for example), I clearly remember the impactful short stories of William Sydney Porter, better know as O.Henry.  First off, as a kid I thought it was kinda cool that a famous author had named himself after a chocolate bar (Okay, so I wasn't the brightest bulb in the socket, alright?).  Secondly, Henry's twist endings were often unpredictable, organic and often blindsided the reader as effectively as a pedestrian being smoked in the crosswalk by an RV without brakes.

It's also pretty obvious to me that M.Night Shyamalan must have read his works as a kid too, what with the initialed moniker and penchant for popping up and blurting "WHATTA TWIST!"  Ten points to any reader that recognized that little Robot Chicken shout-out, by the by.
     
In Grade Seven or Eight we covered Romeo & Juliet, which completely fascinated me.  The wellspring of quotable sayings, the magical language, uncompromisingly tragic resolution and universal commentaries on human nature were all mind-blowing  to me.  It was like nothing I'd encountered before in my life (up to that impossibly short span of time).  The fact that Shakespeare wrote this hundreds of years ago and it was still just as relevant today as was when it was first scribed certainly taught me about the immortality of artists. 

I could never have publicly confessed my love for Shakespeare at the time for fear of being blacklisted.  Er, even more blacklisted I should say.  Some of the knuckle-draggers in the class had taken to calling it Fag-eo and Fag-iet and made it clear that anyone who liked this was clearly a freak.  It's memories like this that make me wish I could go back with just a fragment of the confidence and conviction I posses now.  I'd soon tell these organ donors to shove their small-minded, homophobic opinions right where Paddy stuck the doughball.

Before I go on, I'd just like to make it clear that I have no idea what that last phrase means.  I just remember sometimes as a kid hearing my Mom say "Jesus Christ, I felt like telling that friggin' annoying telemarketer to stick it where Paddy stuck the doughball".  If it's dirty or something, it's not my fault.  I'm just the product of my environment.  Send the angry emails to my mom, she'll tell you what to do with them...

Anyhoo, a year later we covered two ancient Greek tragedies by Sophocles: Antigone and Oedipus Rex.  Both were immaculately plotted, labyrinthine little morality plays that spoke volumes about fate, free will, familial loyalty, civil disobedience, tragic irony, hubris, and the dangers of blind ambition (pun not intended).  I considered these to be mind-blowing works of art and although I think they were given short shift by our teachers (not to mention a small minority of attention deficit disorder morons in our class), it still made a major impact on me.

Around the same time Shakespeare made a re-appearance in the form of MacBeth.  Part of me wishes this had been the first exposure to Shakespeare for my class since it's so gory and violent I still refer to it as McDeath.  Frankly, I maintain that a creative instructor could teach any of these works to kids because, at it's core, these plays are still based upon universal, immutable and relevant observations of human behavior.  Well, of course kids are gonna tune out if you try and force them to read it aloud in class or watch some crusty-looking filmed stage play without any discussion, illustration, context or modern-day parallels.

I maintain that the things that Shakespeare and Sophocles were writing about are certainly just as compelling as the average episode of Gray's Anatomy.  Wow, if anything might cause these great writers to do backflips in their respective graves, that was it...

Around the same time I began to read fantasy novels.  I started at the top with J.R.R. Tolkien's The Hobbit and promptly graduated to his Lord of the Rings trilogy.  Despite Tolkien's propensity to document the walking tours of his characters in excruciating detail, I still loved the scope of his imagination, his attention to detail and the thematic subtext running just underneath the surface.  I loved how Tolkien was clearly lamenting about how industrialization was eroding his beloved pastoral way of life and how the horrors of global war instantly turned aggressors into something less than human.

As I tackled a few more imaginative works, however, I began to realize that not every fantasy novel was created equal.  In fact, after a while it started to feel like the literary equivalent of the law of diminishing returns.  Each new book seemed like a plate of warmed-up Tolkien leftovers.  

Worse still, I thought many of these works were of the “quick flip and dispose” variety.  Although many writers are gifted in creating worlds of imagination, they often fail to invest in solid stories, compelling characters and thematic relevance.

So I started my book as a response to this deficit.  I made a conscious effort to avoid the trappings of most fantasy fiction, which is the writer’s tendency to wallow in the minutia of their own world to the detriment of all else.  By combining my love of Greek and Shakespearian tragedy, historic detail and mythic archetypes, I tried to craft a novel populated with contemporary characters and driven by a pretty intricate plot.  Although readers can be perfectly content just following the story to it's conclusion, they're also free to prospect for a vein of universal themes that address the human experience.

The story itself centers around two young brothers, Valarius and Tyrian. When their tutor makes the mistake of lecturing about a distant and mysterious land called Heldmark, the two young men experience an awakening that neither of them can account for.  Spurned on by years of rumor, lies and concealment, the brothers venture north on disparate paths to glean the truth about their origins.  Their journey leads them across the realm to where secrets are revealed, loyalties are strained, and their convictions are tested.  Soon the two are forced to decide if their quest for knowledge is worth courting betrayal and death.

The setting for the story is evocative of a fantasy equivalent of our own world.  This was done to keep a sharp focus on the story, the interaction of the characters and also give readers something to relate to on a unconscious level.   

So, basically, I wrote a book that I would want to read myself.

At first, I tried going the traditional publishing route by getting a copy of the Writer's Market and doing some submissions.  I promptly began to run into a classic "chicken and the egg" scenario: you can't get published without an agent and you'd be hard-pressed to get an agent without first being published.

Plus, I'm a sensitive soul and could only cope with two or three rejection letters.  It's hard to believe it now, but J.K. Rowling's first Harry Potter book was rejected about a dozen times before the CEO of a small publishing house in London decided to take a chance on it at the insistence of his eight-year-old daughter.

The wonderful thing about technology today is that creative and talented people don't have to get beaten up and discouraged by traditional routes anymore.  Right now, we live in a day and age where the Arctic Monkeys can get a record deal by giving away their music at concerts and film-makers like Fede Alvarez can parlay his brilliant youTube sensation Panic Attack! into a full-blown career in Hollywood.  

So, today, Sunday the 6'th of March in the year 2011, my first novel became available to the world as an e-book.  Basically, if you've got a a Kindle, PC, Mac, BlackBerry, iPad/iPhone/iTouch or Android, you can read my book! How trippy is that?!

Now, I've done some research, and to attract a traditional publisher I just need to get a mere ten-thousand people to buy it.  And, hey, let's face it, ten-thousand people is just a drop in the bucket when you consider that close to seven billion people share this rock with me as it hurdles through space.  Surely I can get .000001% of the population of the planet interested in what I legitimately believe to be a decent little yarn?         

Live to dream, folks.

PRETTY FRIGGIN' EPIC:  Well, here's a link to my baby...

INSPIRATION FOR THE AFOREMENTIONED HUMBLE EPIC:

EPIC FOR ENTIRELY DIFFERENT REASONS, BUT NO LESS EPIC:

Here's the brilliant short film from Fede Alvarez that snagged him a six-figure development deal with Sam Raimi's production house... 

FAIL:  For shame, publishers, for shame...

http://www.examiner.com/book-in-national/30-famous-authors-whose-works-were-rejected-repeatedly-and-sometimes-rudely-by-publishers

Decision By Attrition

Greetings, True Believers!

Two more information sessions punctuated the end of my epic career exploration saga. I swear, the whole process has been the equivalent of Moses leading the Israelites out of slavery in Egypt to the Promised Land of New Glasgow.  


January 18'th (6 PM)

Still queasy from my Health Information Management test drive earlier that same day, I bus across the pond to an evening info session for Environmental Engineering Technician (Water). Here's the program's description from the college's guide:

"Water resources throughout Canada and the world are being impacted by stresses from population and technological growth, contamination and mismanagement, along with global climate change. The Environmental Engineering Technology - Water Resources program will provide you with the necessary skills, education, and training to be able to assume responsibilities as an engineering technologist in the management, protection, development, and use of this essential resource."

I wanted to check out this possible career path for two very important reasons:

1. I truly believe that one day pure water will be as scarce as gasoline was in the world of Mad Max.  Or, in our own world, for that matter.  Assuming you're aware of the concept of peak oil.  You are aware that we're eventually gonna run out of oil, right?  Hey, you wasteful twat in the Navigator, I'm talkin' to you!  Ahem.  Sorry. 
2. I'm a water sign.

Hey, these reasons are no less valid then the ones I eventually used to settle on my choice.  Stay tuned, kiddies, and don't skip ahead for spoilers!

After another threadbare 15-minute propaganda session we're led away by one of the program's instructors to a very official-looking lab.  En route I'm delighted to recognize a fellow survivor from my last place of employ.  She's already registered for the program but wants to check out the information session just to make sure "it's still for her".  She thinks I'll be "really good with this course" but almost in the same breath mentions   that she's already doing math upgrade classes to get the necessary accreditation to get into the program.  This isn't boding well.

In the lab are sinks, beakers, bunsen burners, mini ovens, and aquariums bearing bored-looking trout.  Extra bored.  As if I can tell.  Anyhoo, after a few cursory questions the gruff-looking instructor leads us all into an empty classroom for a proper Q&A.  Here's what I find out:

• There are numerous prospective employers in the Halifax area for those who complete the two-year program.  They include (but aren't limited to) SLR Consulting, SNC-Lavalin, the ESANS (the Environmental Services Association of Nova Scotia), CBCL Limited, the CRA (Canadian Revenue Agency) and, of course, the FGEFSRTEET(W)ARBAGA or the Fraudulent Generic Employer for Something Related To Environmental Engineering Technician (Water) As Represented By A Gratuitous Acronym.
• The instructor himself is awesome: he's loud, clear, boisterous and gregarious.  There wouldn't be any nappin' in this dude's class, lemme tell ya!     
• Typical careers that may result from your study include doing water testing for the Halifax Water Commission, Environmental Technologist, Project Manager, Lab Operator, Lab Technician, Treatment Plant Operator, and Prehensile Titanium-Niobium Tentacle-Equipped Mad Scientist.  
• "Who gives a s#!%?  How much does it pay already!"  Starting wage is typically $35,000 to $45,000 a year.  Cha-ching!  Halifax Water Commission water testers earn about $25.00/hour.  Mad scientists earn about a billion dollars per extortion/ransom.  
• Current job prospects...wicked awesome.
• Required math skills.  To quote the instructor:  "Relatively high.  Higher then construction, imagery work or architecture.  In fact, I'd say that this is the most rigorous program at the college."  To which my internal Lost In Space robot starts screaming "Danger, Will Robinson!  Danger!"  Entrance requirements demand High School Advanced Math, which I actually do (technically) have.  Now, I have to confess that's kinda like saying: "Yeah, I managed to jump over Snake River Canyon but I kinda wrapped my Sky-Cycle around a mesa and now they gotta feed me through a tube."  As if what the instructor has already said isn't daunting enough he then has to go ahead and use the "C"-word.   Yes, that's right, folks...calculus.   Frankly this was as much of a game breaker for me as that friggin' slide of the dog with ectoplasm coming out of his snout.  You're welcome, by the way.   Please stop sending me angry emails. 
• In addition to full-time class hours, Student sin the program can expect to do about ten to fifteen extra hours of homework. Jesus, how can I be expected to go Back To School  Rodney Dangerfield-style (with all the requisite "partying down" this entails) with so much homework?  "No respect, I tells ya..."
• The academic year started with thirty-two students.  Only twenty-one remain in the second year and out of those twenty-one students, only six are still clinically sane.

On the way out, my fellow work parolee says:

"Wow, wasn't that fantastic?"

"Sure was.  It certainly made up my mind," I replied. 

"Awesome!  When I was talking to admissions last week they said this program fills up pretty quick.  You may want to get your application in as soon as..."           

"Oh, I'm not applying to this, are you nuts?"  I laughed.  "If I drag my sorry, academically flabby, prehistoric ass back to college, there's no way I'm gonna be totally miserable and possibly borderline suicidal the whole time.  F#@$ that, noise!"

Hmmm, in retrospect, that may have sounded a tad discouraging to her...

January 19 

I'm back in my usual seat same Bat-time, same Bat-channel the following night for my final information session: Screen Arts.  Yes, that's right, the same Screen Arts program that every one of my career transition councilors has been trying to systemically beat out of my head as an option for the past four months.

I decide to give the presenter a break tonight and get up and do the fifteen minute introduction for him since I've committed the f#@$%^ thing to memory by now.

After Screen Arts is called, I go over to the instructor, who acts alarmed that I'm the only one who showed up for this particular information session.  Well, we're off to a promising start!

Despite the fact that there's only two of us, I have plenty of questions so there's never any dead air.  I continue to surprise myself lately.  I guess I've gotten to that point in my life where I feel less socially awkward then about 90% of humanity (including people who are older then me) in 90% of most social situations.  I used to be so shy, but now I'm a freakin' social butterfly.

He takes me on a tour of the film department.  I don't get to see the editing bays but he raves about how "state of the art" everything is, and frankly, based on what I'm privy to, I have no reason to doubt him.  He takes me onto a mock sound stage and I get to check out some props and scenery cobbled together by the students.  We drag a couple of chairs into the middle of the room and get down to brass tacks.  

Here's a summary of what I learn:

•  Upon completion of the two year program, the goal is to get hired by a local film production company in the hopes that when the next major Hollywood production comes down the pike (Read: the next Jesse Stone movie), your company will be hired and, subsequently, so will you.  At least, I think that's the theory.
• Pay as a starting union crew member is about $150.00 to $200.00 a day.  Not too shabby, but if you factor in the low end of that scale and the fact that it only takes a coupla months to shoot even a major film production, we're only looking at about $12,000.00 earned for one project. 
• Maximum class size is twenty seven students, currently the program has 16.  No surprise to me, 60% of the students are only one or two years out of High School.  Wow, I can just imagine what realistic, slice of life, laconic films these grizzled veterans must be producing every year.  
• Although there are certainly only a finite number of positions available on any given production, the Screen Arts program cross-trains students in a variety of different roles, whether it be editing, sound, set design, construction, and craft services complainer.  Sorry, I know I've only been on three film sets but on every one, some d-bag was just standing around bitching about the food even though it was awesome.  Assholes.
• The instructor claimed that even when large productions aren't in town to give employment opportunities, you do so much networking over the course of the two year program that you often end up working on your friend's projects and vice versa.  Of course, this could mean working for peanuts.  And that would really suck 'cuz I'm allergic to peanuts.

 Now perhaps the most eye-opening bit of info: the instructor maintains that out of the last graduating class, only three felt compelled to leave for Toronto or Vancouver to get a job.  It goes back to the previous comment about networking for freelance opportunities.

"Frankly it makes a lot of sense for them to stay here.  After all, if they leave for another city they have to start the process of networking and making connections all over again."

This makes sense, but I'm left wondering about what sort of jobs the "all but three graduates" are working at.  Is this my own skeptical voice at work or the voice of my councilors who know I won't get sponsorship for something so blatantly "artsy-fartsy"?

I thank my host and although we wrap up early I still feel a tad guilty keeping him as long as I did.  But, hey, I needed to get all my questions answered and I wasn't about to leave until I grilled this dude like a cheese sandwich.

January 25

I meet with my career transitions councilor and she prods me for a decision on what I want to go back to school for.  I tell her I've certainly ruled out Health Information Management and Environmental Engineering Technology and stall for more time by telling her that I'm going to consult with three industry professionals for more information about careers in IT.  Unbeknownst to her, this merely consists of me sending an email to three of my friends about how much they think their respective jobs suck.

In what I'm sure is a completely unrelated announcement my councilor tell me she's retiring in a few weeks and I need to make up my mind by then.  I feel like screaming in her face: "Cripes, what's with all the friggin' pressure, lady?!  I've only had five months to work on this.  Sheeeesh!"   

For the record, these councilors also don't like it when you tell them that you plan to make a final decision by assigning the numbers one to six to your options and then rolling an over-sized novelty foam die down the hall in order to "determine the winner."   Yeah, they don't think that's very funny.    

January 27

I start to get responses back from my three insiders RE: the following informal survey:

1. What are your main duties?  Besides playing boardgames at work that is...(name withheld to protect the not-so-innocent).
2. Generally what skills/qualifications/experience is needed?  Are math skills important for coding?  By the way, if your answer to the first question is "hard knees and suction power" I'm taking something else...        
3. Without getting two specific can you give me a general idea about entry-level pay in your industry?  Feel free to scan and email over one of your pay stubs... 
4. Does your employer prefer certain specific schools/accredation?  Or am I okay going with Beothuk Data Processing?  They do still exist, right?    
5. What are the job prospects like for what you do?  What about the next few years?  Are there any particularly "hot" specializations right now?  Are you sick of these questions already? 
6. How do you feel about your current employer?  Try to avoid gratuitous use of the word "f#@%tards" if possible... 
7. What do you like most about the work?  What sucks big hairy knutz about it? 
8. How do you think the job will change over the next 10 years?  Use those psychic powers! 
9. What personal qualities are required to succeed in this line of work?  Knowing me like you all do, do you think I can do it and what do you think my own personal challenges would be?  What sage advice would you give to someone who wants to persure your line of work?  Hopefully you all won't reply "RUN!" 

Oh, by the way, I've set this Monday as my deadline to decide so please send back as much info as you can muster before then.  And remember, your replies will have direct impact on my future, so...no pressure!  Kidding!

Some eye-opening replies include:

• "Positive energy is key, I spend a lot of time in front of customers and they need to see me as their personal technical guru.  Inspiring confidence and trust (along with other soft skills) are just as important as any of the technical stuff"
• "A hot career path right now is in social media.  Awesome people doing an awesome job.  Social Media analysts answer questions on Twitter, Facebook, Forums and blogs.  Awesome.  I've never seen them do it, but they're generally happy people."
• "Don't you have anything better to do?  Why aren't you watching crappy daytime T.V., eating corn chips and masturbating like every other unemployed slob?"

In light of such responses, I'm now ready to publicly declare my decision.  

February 1'st           

Without any specific instruction, I show up for my final meeting with my career transitions councilor with my "Career Assessment Report" not filled out to completion.

 "Well, I just filled out the part of the report that I decided on.  What's the sense of filling out the other two options if I'm not going to pursue them?"

My persistently patient councilor casts a world-weary sigh skyward.  I'm sure she's counting the seconds before she runs screaming out of the office, drives to airport and climbs onboard a plane to Florida like one of the Ramones.  I notice she hasn't even turned her computer on.

"You need to fill in the details for the other two occupations to show that you've done some comparative research." 

She leaves me alone for ten minutes and I scramble to fill out the balance of the document from memory.  When she bursts back into the office earlier then promised she catches me cheating using her encyclopedic Canadian Guide to Job Prospects tome to fill out the last few "What skills or qualifications are needed?" blocks.  Awkward!

I'm sure she was of two minds when signing off on the report.  On one hand she was probably pretty depressed that this moment would serve as the exclamation point on an otherwise stellar career.  On the other hand, by signing her name on that report, the thought of never having to deal with my indecisive ass ever again likely promised a rush of endorphins that would make sky diving look like making toast.

I walked out of her office with the precious document in hand.  I had made my decision.

Come September 1'st, I would be perusing the Information Technology program at my local community college.

May God have mercy on my soul.     

EPIC:  Oh, Orion pictures, how I miss thee...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iRpUAdI_F_o&playnext=1&list=PL6C06AD3378261B9B

This trailer embodies similar expectations RE: my return to college...


FAIL:  How we take our water resources for granted is well documented in this tremendous documentary...

"Ummmm, Is This Thing On My Neck Getting Bigger?"

Olá leitores gentil!

January 18'th 

I'm back at the IT campus again, this time for a "Test Drive" for the Health Information Management program.  A secretary kindly offers me another swag bag filled with orientation goodies but I can't except it in good conscience lest it lead to a "Hoarders"-like spiral of collecting hundreds of identical Day-Glo lime green satchels, pens and notebooks.  As it stands, I'm already paranoid that the administrators are starting to suspect that I'm doing these "Test Drives" just to get the free lunch.

My guide today is Samson, who seems genial but distracted.  He leads me into a classroom where a veritable spread of baked good is laid out on tables.

"We're doing this for our 'Teams in the Workplace' class."

"Making apple cinnamon fritters?   Are you sure you guys didn't end up in the Baking and Pastry Art class by mistake?"

"No," my host replied, 'dumbass' connotations in his tone, "We're raising funds for a local health-related charity and a large part of our mark is determined by whether or not we make our goal."

Although I thought the good karma that might result from such an unorthodox academic pursuit was obvious, I really had a hard time picturing myself going back to college for Bake Sale 101.
 
We proceed on to the first class, and Samson does a great job when he can giving me the strait dope on the program.  I say "when he can" since all day long he seems to be besieged at every turn with a constant bombardment of pop quizzes, pop tests and pop, er...essays.  Frankly, I didn't even think there was such a thing as pop essays.

At one point, after my overseer begins rocking back and forth and muttering "Krusty is coming, Krusty is coming" when faced with an impromptu writing assignment, I take the opportunity to go up to the front of the class and barrage the instructor with more questions that were asked during the Nuremberg Trials.

She tells me that upon successful completion with the program you usually end up working in some capacity with the Canadian Institute for Health Information.  You typically start with coding medical files and then you can sometimes move on to a supervisor/managerial role with the Department of Health or in some aspect of data analysis. And you all know how much I would ♥ that!

***SARCASM*** 

I discover to my chagrin that the job would involve a tremendous amount of sitting.  Despite its $20 to $23 hourly starting wage, the entry-level jobs mainly boil down to data entry.  You basically take one medical file after another, try your best to interpret the chicken-scratches, and then code all the information into an electronic template and then send it away for data compilation and analysis.  

I'm encouraged when the instructor is honest enough to confess that there was a shortage of job opportunities "a while ago" but things are really starting to pick up again, especially on a the national front.  There are approximately fifty people employed locally in the three major hospitals in the city, and the lion's share of jobs involve the aforementioned dreaded coding.

I go back to join Samson and he's since been forced to move to a new computer to complete his in-class assignment.  While I'm waiting for him to resurface, I flip through a text book which is filled with various symptoms, etiology, diagnosis, treatments, and prognosisi.  Basically, this is pure hell for a hypochondriac.  I'm disgusted that the textbook isn't content with just describing these horrible signs of illness, n-o-o-o-o-o, they've gotta photograph each one in high-resolution color closeup.  I'm only three hours in and already I'm starting to itch.

I begin to glaze over as I'm inundated with constant abstract references to ICD-10, CIHI, NACRS (Not as in, "Oooo, what a nice set of...".  Don't make the same mistake I did...), DAD, CPE, CHIMA...Cripes, this program has more acronyms then the friggin' I.R.S.  This isn't boding well.  Somehow I'm not surprised when Sampson informs me that class attrition has been brutal: they started with twenty-one students and are now down to twelve.

One favorable thing he does point out is the pronounced dearth of male students.  If the guy can be envied for anything, it's the male to female student ratio.  He's the only dude in a class of bona-fide hotties.

Little wonder baking skills are so important.  Kidding, ladies, kidding!  

I get a chance to chat with one of the gals, Melissa, who seems to be taking all the challenges in stride.  Our backgrounds are similar: she once worked for a certain major office supply chain before another (more evil) office supply chain bought them out and made working conditions so unpalatable for her that she had to quit.  Hence, her academic aspirations and hopeful career reboot.  She bright, genial and easy-going so I'm confident she'll do fine!

The next class was a spot of apparently necessary yet unfortunate dreck dealing with Sensitivity in the Medical Profession.  You would think a lot of this would boil down to common sense, but since that phrase has become an oxymoron in this day and age, such training is required.  To me the class was way too painfully similar to the insufferable Sexual Harassment awareness sessions at my last place of employ where you were politely asked by your managers to avoid touching each other's Danger Zones.  Really?  You actually have to tell us not to do this?   You, in particular?        

Some of the issues raised are valid, but I can see how they can irk the average health care professional.  Some examples:

• Jehovah's Witnesses don't accept blood transfusions.  While it's important to honor this stance, I imagine to a lot of doctors it's the medical equivalent of not wanting to get your picture taken because you're afraid the process will "steal your soul".
• Rastafarians believe that the body should remain intact.  That's all well and good in theory, but just think how much richer the whole world would be if Bob Marley had just lopped off that pesky cancerous toe?  
• In some Asian cultures the character for the number 4 is pronounced the same way as the character for the word “death.”   Needless to say, being assigned to stay in the "death" room in the hospital would do little to speed up your recovery process. 

One of their class assignments involved coming up with a slogan and image to represent the group's collective ethos regarding tolerance for different economic, ethnic and cultural backgrounds when it comes to patient care.  I really don't want to belittle what is, I'm sure, a very important issue but the whole time I felt like a kid in grade school who was about to express the sentiment "Drugs are Bad" in the medium of pipe cleaners, painted macaroni and glitter glue. 

The final class of the day was all about symptoms, diagnosis and treatments.  If glancing through the textbook earlier didn't give enough reason to believe that I already had fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva, then this class put the capper on my paranoia altogether.  The instructor was a young, gregarious and micheviously funny lady who couldn't resist sneaking some subversive slides into her otherwise sober Powerpoint presentation on various ailments.   When it got to the section on colds and flus, it wasn't enough for her to describe the condition of rhinorrhea (which is a runny nose, by the way, not when a certain gray-hued, one-horned Spider-Man villain is explosively incontinent).  Noooooooooo, she also had to show this slide...

 
Sooooo, between the program's exorbitant tuition costs ($9000.00 a year, zoinks!), the mind-numbing reward of doing glorified data entry and knowing I'd end up feeling more germ-infested then Howard Hughes, Health Information Management is a BIG thumb's down for me.   

EPIC: Whatever you wanna say about his skeezy interest in disproportionately and vaguely related young Asian girls, Woody Allen is still the prototypical hypochondriac.




FAIL: Here's a tip...don't FAIL
http://www.gotoquiz.com/are_you_a_hypochondriac


"Hey, kids, be the first on your block to collect them all!"
http://www.healthburp.com/diseases/10-rarest-diseases-in-the-world.html

Stalemate

Hey, y'all.

Well, just to let you know, my quest to try and figure out what I might go back to college for Rodney Dangerfield-style, has been going on all this time.

So much has transpired since I last wrote about this (http://emblogificationcapturedevice.blogspot.com/2010/11/i-just-hope-i-dont-end-up-like-hiromu.html), I feel as if the next two chapters of this woeful saga would be best rendered in a time-line format.  So here goes...

November 29'th

I have a meeting with my career transitions case worker to go over the results of a second Career Aptitude Survey.  Some tolerable "Pursue" recommendations include Manufacturer's Representative ("Look, just because the Ferris wheel rolled into the river it doesn't mean our bolts are to blame!"), Marketing Director  ("Our product only causes anal leakage now while jogging, how can we spin that?"), Advertising Account Executive ("It's the new and improved Slap Chop, now with 20% less suck!"), Media Executive ("Fox News, fair and balanced!"), Public Relations Director ("We truly believe that technology  is a tremendous boon for humanity here at Cyberdyne Corporation."), Corporate Trainer ("We truly believe that pharmaceutical bioengineering is a tremendous boon for humanity here at Umbrella Corporation."), Commercial Artist ("Hey, can I do a caricature of you for five bucks?"), Liberal Arts Professor ("So, basically, in ancient Greece, homosexuality was more commonly practiced then Sudoku."), Librarian ("Don't choo know de Dewey Decimal System!?"), Translator/Interpreter ("Shaka, when the walls fell!"), Writer/Editor ("Reeding bookz makz Inglish speeking gud!") and Architect ("Whups!  I fergot to drawr in some terlets!").

Some questionable "Explore" recommendations for me include Attorney ("I'm out of order?  You're out of order!"), Financial Planner ("Um, crazy idea here, but why don't you just stop buying stuff you can't afford?"), Hotel Manager ("Man, you do not wanna see what they pulled out of the drain in 204!"), Realtor ("Yep, this home sure is...homey."), School Superintendent ("Skin-NER!"), Secretary ("Only if I can train under Christina Hendricks."), Psychologist ("Vat ist ze nature of ze psychosis?"), Bank Manager ("Hey, look, I did find a way to take it all with me!"), Insurance Agent ("Well, sir, it says quite clearly here in section four, subsection 'B' of your policy that any claim you make will be ignored."), Retail Store Manager ("Please, kill me."), Accountant ("Please, I'm begging you, kill me."), Chef ("Mmmmm, just like mom used to boil!"), Restaurant Manager ("How the f#$@% did you manage to burn the ice cubes?"), Landscaper ("Okay, let's put a happy little tree right over here..."), Agribusiness Manager ("Hey, look, I made a tomater!"), Fashion Designer ("Fabulous!") and my own personal favorite...CEO!

Regarding the last one, I've been thinking about driving down to the headquarters building of Exxon Mobil, walking into their lobby and announcing: "I'm here, bitches!  Where's my penthouse office, $80 million dollar compensation package and private jet?" 

November 30'th

Since I hadn't "picked a specific program yet" for exploration I was prompted by the community college's website to sign up for a "General Information Session".  The introductory propaganda was actually quite amusing, since it featured rebuttals to the following hoary old myths: 

•  "Community college is for people who can't get into university."  FALSE!  
• "Community College is easier then university."  FALSE!
• "All Community College degrees come with rainbow clown wigs, squirting flowers and a free trained tutu-clad Pomeranian."  FALSE!  

Actually, I kid, there were some interesting stats.  For example, one-third of the student body has previously attended university or college, 96% of students would recommend their instructors and 94% of graduates found employment in Nova Scotia.

At which point in time the Dana Scully in me has to ask: "Okay, but what percentage are actually working in their field of study?"  Sorry, I know, sometimes I can be such a prick...   

Although the meeting that followed was facilitated about as well as I could have hoped, regrettably it only covered the same self-appraisal/occupational resource/life-wheel drawing crap that I'd already been doing for the past three months.  Since this whole experience was a total bust, I immediately made a one-on-one follow-up appointment with the councilor (who henceforth will be known as "Diego") for December 14'th, hoping to glean just a little bit more information on the five or six hundred programs I was still trying to decide upon.

Meeting low point: being asked to turn to our neighbor to discus "What brought you here and what questions do you want to have answered?", only to be confronted with an apathetic, pimply-faced teen who could only grunt and say "Um...nuthin'."

Quote of the evening: (from a clearly hung-over girl to her boyfriend during the 15 minute introductory presentation) "I promise not to throw up during this and embarrass you." 

December 14'th

I drive all the way over to the appointed campus across the pond for my afternoon meeting with Diego.  When I get there I'm stunned to find that he didn't come into work that day due to a power outage in his area.

Gee, it would have been swell if someone from the college could have given me a head's up on this so I didn't schlep all the way over there for nothing.  But, hey, whattaya gonna do?

His reply email is sincerely apologetic but he tells me he's booked up for the week leading up to my departure home for Christ...er, The Holidays.  The meeting is re-scheduled for January 2'nd.

January 2'nd

The meeting with Diego proves to be helpful, inspiring, eye-opening and, ultimately, a complete waste of time.  Previous to this, two other councilors helped me pare down a short list of programs I might be interested in.  This list was arrived at, in large part, due to the likelihood of receiving some sort of partial sponsorship for retraining through Career and Transition Services.  Thanks to their efforts I'd whittled things down to Architectural Engineering Technician, Environmental Engineering Technician (Water), Library & Information Technology, Business Administration, Human Resources, and Information Technology.

Now, for the purpose of taking sponsorship into consideration, my number-one choice, Screen Arts, (which hypothetically would give me the nuts n' bolts training to work in the local film industry) had already been completely jettisoned, but I kept it on the table just because it really does represent my one true passion.  In the meeting with Diego, however, he looked at my list of seven options and noticed that, in the immortal words of Big Bird "One of these things is not like the other."

"Hmmmm," he began, "I see you've included Screen Arts here, which is a bit of a departure from everything else.  How much of your free time would you say is dedicated to some pursuit regarding film?"

I paused for a second, raised the People's Eyebrow and then cautiously waded into a response to the curious question.

"Um, I dunno," I said, suddenly feeling like my lamentable, acne-ridden ward.  "If you take into account watching movies, reviewing movies, volunteering to do background work in movies, writing something that could possibly be turned into a movie, writing actual screenplays and whatnot, I'd say, oh, maybe about seventy percent of my time.  Easily."

"Well, I think you have your answer," he replied, adding fuel to my burgeoning fire of excitement.  "When I saw you come in here with all of this information you've researched and how well you'd organized all of your findings, I think that maybe some of these other options were worth looking at.  But frankly, I think you already know what you want to do."

Before I got too carried away, I explained my dilemma about being tempted with funding to study what the state considered to me more "practical".  He went on to tell me that I shouldn't dismiss the Screen Arts option outright, since he was personally aware of some students getting funding for such diverse programs as Culinary Arts (!).

"The powers that be are starting to realize that it doesn't necessarily make sense to give funding only for certain programs," he went on to explain.  "Often it's the equivalent of jamming square pegs into round holes.  Sure, these people get sponsored to fill some sort of manpower demand but what we've started to see lately is that a lot of them end up back at square one because the so-called 'practical' career they trained for either doesn't interest them or they aren't suited for it."

"Wow,"  I replied.  "That's pretty encouraging.  Frankly, the difference between me taking Screen Arts in September versus anything else is that if I was taking Screen Arts, I'd actually be excited to start school as opposed to feeling a sense of dread."

"Now I don't want to set up any unrealistic expectations," he cautioned, sensing that certain wild horses needed holding.  "Get in touch with the case worker who'll facilitate your application and find out for sure if it's a viable option."

Before I ran back across the parking lot yelling "WHOOP-WHOOP-WHOOP!" I had to ask:

"I was kinda hoping that, with your close proximity to the school itself, you might be able to answer a few lingering questions I have about each of the other programs, just in case I do have to pick one of them."

"Well, actually, I don't have much inside knowledge about the other specific programs you have listed here.  But frankly, I don't think you need any more information.  I think if you end up getting more information it's just going to result in more confusion and paralysis."

"Yeah!" I enthused.  "I agree!  That's exactly what's been happening to me lately!"  

I thanked Diego profusely, rushed home, composed an email to the appropriate councilor, sent it off, and then spent the rest of the day filling out the application.  The next day, this was his reply:

While any program recognized by the provincial department of education is technically eligible for consideration under Skills Development, there are some significant practical considerations that must be covered in the application. The application package must clearly define the specific reason why you are unable to find sustainable employment using your current marketable skills and assets, how the chosen training would help you to overcome each of them and how likely you are to find employment upon completion of the training. It is this last one that works against screen arts. The local film and TV industry was hit very hard by the recession and, coupled with the recently announced cancellation of the provincial rebates for film projects, there are very few opportunities in this field (as an aside, Culinary Arts, while a creative program, does qualify graduates for a specific type of employment)."

I sat staring at this for awhile, realizing that a response was futile and feeling somewhat defeated.

I then proceeded to sign up for three more information sessions that I wasn't really interested in.

EPIC:  "Hey, kids, wanna see what unrealistic fantasy job that doesn't exist in the real world that you should be doing?"
https://www.profiler.com/cgi-bin/ciss/moreform.pl?client=ncs&referrer=assessmentssite&page=index


FAIL:  Hey, who hasn't wished that they could just pee into their golf club?

The Typical Teacher

Howdy, Pahdnahs!

The best thing about being a reasonably good student in High School is that you could typically flirt with borderline slanderous behavior.  If the following diatribe came from a student with poor marks, it would instantly be interpreted as burgeoning antisocial behavior.  But coming from a kid who was academically respectable, it was just an example of someone being "creative".

But looking back, I really can't believe I got away with this.

Ladies and Germs, I humbly present my Grade 10 essay entitled "The Typical Teacher":

Teachers are odd beings found with frequency in and around any education facility.  However, the chances for a successful encounter are greatly reduced on weekends and holidays when the troop disbands for rest, relaxation and/or mental therapy.  At any rate, expeditions on any other weekday will surely yield an entire congregation of these bizarre creatures.  

Teachers are easily spotted, even if placed amidst a dense crowd of common-folk.  They are frequently clothed in attire dating from 1950 to 1970.  These motley raiments often feature archaic styles and colors typically indicative of a toxic waste spill.  Their hair tends to be short, conservative and reminiscent of the styles  popularized by either Jackie Kennedy or Harry S. Truman (and sometimes both).  Male teachers commonly employ a flat-top haircut so precise one can calibrate scientific instruments based on its dimensions.  Female teachers often keep their locks bound in a ponytail so tightly constructed that they often risk impeding blood flow to their brains.  In fact, if you are ever able to close within ten feet (not recommended) of a female teacher, you may notice a curious indentation on their necks.  This is, in fact, their navel which has been pulled up from it's traditional location in the mid-drift region by their tension-filled hairstyle of choice.

Approximately ninety-two percent of teachers are bespectacled.  Their eye wear is also woefully outdated, in fact some sets are so archaic that it is surprising that the lenses are still intact.  In the way of physical build, teachers are often short and slim.  Very short and slim.  Some appear almost minuscule in stature.  Other more uncommon physical mutations include morbid obesity or freakishly unnatural height which often results in chronically absurd levels of clumsiness.

Teachers are typically equipped with chalk, a gross of multicolored pens (one featuring blood-red ink), a ream of paper, and their infamous method of defense: the meter stick.  This terrifying piece of paraphernalia is a multi-purpose tool used for diagram construction, directional orientation and physical assaults.  It's use as a weapon to inspire fear and dread alone is unrivaled.  

Despite their oft-diminutive stature, teachers possess the temperament of a rabid, starving wolverine wounded after being backed into a corner where subsequently got caught in a bear trap.   They are notoriously short-tempered and their potential for fits of unrestrained rage seems to be boundless.  Indeed, these creatures are dangerous if provoked.  

Hand in hand with their fury is the auditory delivery system for their wrath: their voices.  Some possess a loud, grating system of communication that can eclipse the volume level of a Yamasaki 9000 stereo system.  A considerably more rare vocal signature is a squeaky, high-pitched wail which often veers into a pitch that only canines can hear.  Those teachers with weak voices tend to have matching personalities since they typically inspire hilarity instead of fear.  Through natural selection these pitiable creatures are becoming increasingly scarce since they are often bullied into early retirement.                         
Clearly teachers are unique lifeforms.  They are distinctive creatures that occupy a unique niche in society.  With their borderline obnoxious intelligence levels, conservative appearance and tendency towards unprovoked bursts of psychosis (coupled with a periodic flirtations with bouts of unearthly patience), they have become a pivotal, if not odd, pillar of our social structure.  

Please note that the preceding depiction of teachers is purely for the purposes of parody and any resemblance to any person living or dead is strictly co-incidental.   

The comment from my teacher:

Note: This statement is not legal protection against libel!

EPIC: This teacher proves a little humor goes a long way...


FAIL: Well, maybe she IS a loser...

Chairs Can Smile

Hello, Kind Reader.

Apparently I come by my music snobbery quite naturally.  Here's a school essay I wrote at the tender age of seventeen:


The late Seventies ushered in a new wave of music.  Technology had a dramatic impact on our lives and, culturally speaking, music wasn't exempt from this.  The synthesizer was developed and the music we listened to entered new phase.  These devices have sparked a heated debate between those who believe it represents an innovative new sound-scape and those who are dedicated to traditional musicianship.  It is the latter opinion I strongly support: synthesizers remove the human element from music and place programming skills over instrumental talent.

Synthesizers have allowed many "artists" who are completely devoid of musical talent to enter the field.  Today the qualifications seem to lean heavily towards the style and "look" of the group as opposed to musical aptitude.  To illustrate this, let's say a fictional group (usually endowed with an infantile, pop-influenced moniker such as Chairs Can Smile, or whatever inane catch phrase comes to mind) is getting ready to show up at their local recording studio to perfect their latest opus.  They're completely up-to-date on current fashion trends and possess the ability to craft catchy, disco-influenced, formulaic music.  

These embryonic "songs" are heavily dependent on repetitive, "danceable" rhythms, melodic vocal crooning and lyrical fluff.  At the studio, they meet "Eugene", a sound engineer who has developed the band's core material after hours of programming.  His computer is connected to various synthesizers, each one representing a different canned instrument.  

Upon typing a simple "RUN" command, the synthesizers leap into a senseless mish-mash of overlapping racket.  The band's lyricist (who isn't technically a member of the band) soon appears with the album's pesky "words" in tow, a necessary evil that probably kept him busy for an entire evening.  

By now the synthesizers have cooled off and the album's musical tracks have been recorded.  The dulcet voices of our musical heroes are quickly filtered through an equalizer ("Read auto-tuner for any reader under the age of thirty," - Your Humble Narrator), twisting and contorting their harmonic warbling into the realm of annoying perfection.  Lo and behold, with a dash of vocal layering, the latest album from Chairs Can Smile is ready to hit the stands.            


Before the advent of the synthesizer, performers needed vocal and instrumental talent to succeed in the realm of music.  Music of this period is soulful, passionate and decidedly human.  Today's pop music has become the product of a robotic assembly line, mass produced without innovation, genuine skill and creativity.  

Today's groups tend to sell records with their stylish appearances and synthesized, computer-assisted sound.  It shows a severe disregard for the talent traditionally needed to succeed in the realm of music.  These interchangeable bands also tend to lean heavily on music videos to promote their careers.  Mercifully all of these videos, along with television and movie appearances, can be lip-synched with a mimed instrumental performance over a backing track.  

Since many radio stations also find this sort of product very attractive, the lead single from Cats Can Smile will soon see heavy rotation and will be instrumental (no pun intended) to both album sales as well as convincing indiscriminate music fans that what they're listening to isn't total garbage.  This will ensure that the sensitive subject of concert performances (which would surely reveal their complete absence of talent) can be overlooked.  As a result, yet another form of musical expression becomes stagnant.


In a recently released (!) song by The Pet Shop Boys (a group many consider to be a prime example of this new wave of techno-pop) the following lyrics appear: "I've got the brains./You've got the look./Let's make lots of money."  Straight from the horses mouth emerges a confession that the synthesis of sound has been reduced to an investment in illusion and trickery.  I firmly believe that technology has created many damaging effects on the music industry.  What we listen to now is less the product of creative energies and genuine skill and more the symptom of our techno-computer age.  


Perhaps the classic rock sound is unrefined but there is little doubt that it is considerably more...human.

Well, mercifully this trend has since reversed itself and the music industry now actively finds, fosters and bountifully rewards genuine musical and artistic talent.

Man, I'm so glad what I wrote about over twenty years ago didn't come to pass!  We really dodged a pop-culture bullet there, didn't we, folks?   

EPIC:  Not all pop/synth-assisted music in the Eighties was soulless shite.  Witness Nick Kershaw:



Or Soft Cell:



Or A-Ha:



Or Wang Chung ("Dance Hall Days" only, mind you):



Or The Cars:



Or the Alan Parsons Project:



Or Eddy Grant:



Or Thomas Dolby:




FAIL:  The video that inspired my teenage rage.  Now I just think it's ironic...



And here's the kind of vacant, passionless, fluff I was talking about at the time:




Billy ocean - get out of my dreams
Uploaded by kareem93. - Watch more music videos, in HD!



And who could forget this tremendous mound of poop which single-handledly killed Prince's career?



And here's the inspiration for the name "Chairs Can Smile":

The Driving Test

Picture it, Persistent Reader:

Stephenville, Newfoundland, January 12'th, Ninteeen-Eighty-Eight. 

This was back in the day when it used to start snowing in November and didn't let up until April.  It was a time when the word "accumulation" really meant something.  That year winter had run its typical riot across the island, leaving ten foot snow drifts all about and roads dangerously slick with ice.

A perfect day for a driving test.  

Honestly, the roads were so bad that morning, I should have strapped on my Bauer's, skated down to the test site and endangered the structural integrity of one of their cars.  Better that then risk turning my own vehicle into an elaborate luge while en route.

The temperature that day was a balmy thirty-five degrees below zero, which I figure was probably about minus seventy-eight with the wind-chill.  My test was at 8 am and I gave myself a good hour to unearth the Wondercar, which was buried deep under a mound of ice, sleet and hail, perfectly preserved deep beneath the Arctic surface like a some sort of steel mammoth.

After I was finished excavating the vehicle I crawled down from the roof, brought the atomic batteries to power, charged turbines to speed and then prepared to ease her into Warp Factor One.  Given the condition of the roads that morning this translated into flying down the road at a blinding twenty-four klicks an hour.


On the highway.

At the Department of Motor Vehicles & Child Endangerment I was "warmly" greeted by "Officer X" (name withheld by request).  Instantly I was terrified by how sharp this guy seemed to be, despite the early hour.  My barely-conscious seventeen year old brain marveled at how anyone could be moving upright at such an ungodly hour, so I just assumed that he must have been hooked up to a coffee IV drip before I'd arrived.  Despite his irritating mutant ability to catalog every single mistake I made, his sloth-like demeanor kinda reminded me of Benicio Del Toro on Quaaludes.           

The test officer and I tried to pick our path carefully across the parking lot to get to the Ninjamobile.  I'd hoped to slowly drift into the driver's side door like a curling rock, but instead I lost my footing and power-bombed myself onto the ice-covered asphalt.  This promptly knocked the wind out of me and all I could do for about forty seconds was lay there make a mournful "hup, hup" noise as "Officer X" came to tower above me.  While I was ordering the bridge crew of my body to give me a damage report, "Mr. Helpful" just stood there staring at me, threatening to bombard my upturned face with nasal drip runoff if I didn't hurry get up and get out from underneath him.

I got to my feet and gingerly scuffed the rest of the way.  All this time I knew the instructor was probably thinking:

'Jesus Christ, he can't even walk his uncoordinated ass across the parking lot and I'm supposed to get into a car with him?  F$#@, I don't get paid enough to do this!'

When we were safely ensconced in our bucket seats, "Officer X" helpfully reminded me: 'Now, this is a driving test, not a flying test'.  He told me in no uncertain terms that any more deviations from standard procedure would result in instant failure.

Despite the dire warning, my confidence spiked.  After all I was now hermetically sealed in my familiar power armor; a steel roll cage of invulnerability.  In an instant I'd gone from being a soft target to feeling that regardless of whatever came next I'd certainly give just as good (if not better) than anything I could possibly get.  My instructor seemed to sense this unwarranted delusion of grandeur and despite the frigid temperatures, beads of cold began to manifest on his forehead.

Seat belt...check, mirrors...check, lights...check, tray tables stowed and seats in the upright and locked position...check, emergency exits and safety features of the vehicle illustrated...check.  The flight attendants in my mind completed final cross-check for departure and I began to taxi away from the terminal.

I began to come hard about at a sharp angle in order to give sufficient clearance to the vehicles parked behind me.  I brazenly turned to check the "objects-are-a-helluva-lot-closer-then-they-appear" rear-view mirror when suddenly I heard:

"Hay!  Hay!  Hay!  Hay!  Hay!  Hay!  HAY! HAY! HAY!!!"

Assuming that the dude didn't have a fetish for equine dietary preferences, I whipped my head back around.  It didn't look good.  If not for the dulcet screams of my terrified passenger, the portside bow of my Autobot would have taken the side off of a Porsche 944.

After a reproving and somewhat dazed frown from "Officer X" I gave the drunken helmsman in my brain a hasty course correction and slowly edged out straight.  But I was now coming out too straight and I narrowly grazed the ass-end of Datsun pickup truck behind me.  Honestly, there was less room in that place then the average impound lot.


With me nerves already on life support, I didn't like my chances with the next vehicular Olympic event: parallel parking.   Undaunted, I edged up,  my bumper next to the far pipe representing the boundaries of the sweet spot.  I rammed her in reverse, cut her hard, and then slowly rolled back.  Satisfied by my depth in the spot, I cranked the wheel in the opposite direction, leveled her out, pulled ahead a bit for good measure and put her in park.  My self-satisfied grin quickly withered when I turned to see my instructor looking as me like Ben Stein.

"The pipes are supposed to indicate where cars are parked both in front and behind you.  The white line on the ground by the bank right there is meant to represent the curb.  The idea is to park directly between the pipes and not on the curb."     

"Okay," I replied, suddenly alarmed by the white line intersecting my front windshield.  "If that's the case, where would I be now?"

"You'd probably be in somebody's mailbox," came the deadpan reply. 

'Your sister's a mailbox...' I muttered just under my breath.

Despite the double-barreled blast of wide-assery I still managed to nail it on the second attempt.

"Haw!  In yo' face, dawg!" I shouted at my tormentor.  He said nothing in response, choosing instead to etch a cryptic note on his little wiener clipboard with his little wiener pen.

The next Herculean trial was backing into a spot, once again represented by four impossibly-skewed metal poles, conveniently camouflaged by some chucklehead who obviously decided it was a bright idea to paint them all snowdrift white.

But as I got ready for my own version of the Death Star trench run, I heard my Dad's voice whisper in my ear, Ben Kenobi-style: "Remember...Use the Rear Brake Light, Luke!"

As a side note, dontcha think it's kinda weird that my own Dad used to call me Luke?  I know we didn't hang out together constantly or always see eye to eye, but, c'mon!  You think he'd remember the name of his only son!  Hell, his only kid!   

Sorry.  Regardless of this heinous insult my Dad had been an incessantly patient and wise driving teacher.  One of his best chestnuts of sage advice (besides "Y'know, you can always drive ten kilometers over the speed limit on the highway and the cops won't stop you") was: "When backing up, just make sure that the brake light in the middle of the rear window is positioned exactly between the white lines of the space."

So, I took a deep breath, let go of my conscious self and acted on instinct.

"Wait!" yelled my instructor as I started to edge back.  "Are your eyes closed?"

"Well, yeah," I said plaintively.  "My eyes can deceive me.  I shouldn't trust them."

"Really?  Is that so?  Well, I'm tellin' you to keep your friggin' eyes open, there, Dr. Spock."

Despite being handicapped by having my peepers at maximum aperture I still backed up perfectly between the pipes!  It was on to the road test...

Intoxicated by a heady draught of self-confidence I also killed on my road test.  Not, killed, literally as in vehicular manslaughter/ran over a pregnant woman, I mean that I did so good that my instructor had to pass me!

So, folks, the lesson of the story is: even when you seriously cock up at the start of something, just keep pluggin' away!  Sometimes when you think you've already failed, the pressure is suddenly off and you end up pulling through.  Or, at the very least, keep on sloggin' through 'cuz it's always good experience for next time!

Or, maybe the lesson of the story is: don't be afraid to really suck at something in the beginning 'cuz then there's no where to go but up. 

Whatever.  Happy motoring, folks!

EPIC: My Dad was a cool teacher an all, but nowhere as pimp as this dude:


FAIL:  I can't tell if this kid is a genius or deserves a kick in the knutz...