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1. The Candy Conspiracy

Now, let me be upfront, I’m a writer and I don’t know anything about economics, but I think I understand the common principle that everything gets more expensive over time. What’s that word? I forget it. It’s like economic swelling. Inflation.

Yesterday, I had a little extra time to consider economic theory as I got gas at my local Husky station. I had the extra time because it’s a full-serve station and I was waiting around inside for the attendant to finish filling my car. Not only that, but there was a second employee inside the small shop that stared at me while I shuffled around the store. As I didn’t want to converse with the mouth-breather behind the counter, I began to review the prices of the candy and tried to look really interested in that so the mouth-breather wouldn’t talk to me.

Now that I am 27, I feel I am on the far side towards 30. Late 20s. Not mid 20s. And as I get closer to 30 the more I find myself saying things like: I remember you when you were… When I was a kid there was… In my day it only cost… And as I surveyed the prices at the Husky gas station and saw 2 chocolate bars for $3 I thought—It used to be 99¢. And this is when I learned of the candy conspiracy!

All the prices in the candy aisles went up. Inflation, they say. However, 5¢ candies—you know, blue whales, sour soothers, gummy worms, gummy bears, strawberries—are still 5¢. CONSPIRACY! Where is the inflation? How can it be possible that in 20 years inflation has not affected these delicious candies?

Well, after making this stunning discovery I started to wonder if any inflation was necessary at all. I started wondering what else has stayed the same. I started to wonder if women are actually the conspirators because… well, women just seem like the obvious group to blame for a candy conspiracy. Every time I offer Leah candy she says no. And then I paid for the gas and went home.

Oh, but before I paid for the gas, the mouth-breather offered to sell me bottled water so that I could get $1 off gas by paying $3 for the water. But I told the attendant that I have water at home and it comes out of the tap. And then the mouth-breather went on to explain that it’s all about up-selling and marketing and that they have to offer it to everyone. Then I had to explain how I was just joking and that I understand the concept of up-selling, but the mouth-breather didn’t understand so I had to draw a picture and act it out which then turned into a rousing game of charades mixed with Pictionary…

Lost story short, there is a candy conspiracy and I am onto you conspirators!

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Today, I am 27 and this is what I look like today.

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I guess the real problem is coming to terms with how plain I really am. When I was 18 I was sure I was something special. Meant for something great or meant to do something great. University was a bit of a stall for all of this. I was studying to be something great. A great writer, I hope(d). Over the last few years, entering the real world my ideas have been challenged. I worked 9-5 jobs. I certainly wasn’t producing anything great. And I have lived in a city where greatness is more often than not measured by wealth. And the culmination of all these expectations and realities was topped by moving to the burbs.

The suburbs represent a plan. A plain plan. Societies plan. A white-collar plan. I move to the suburbs, have a job, pay my taxes and have kids. Frankly, all of those ideas seem awful and some are terrifying (mostly kids). I’m about as on-grid as possible. I’m living up to the dream of every generic white male. I even painted my fence white. But it was a little off-white. So that makes it better.

So there has been a certain amount of dissonance between what I thought I might be living and what I am living. But I’ve also had to come to the conclusion that even though I hold extremely liberal ideologies, I am actually quite a conservative person. And that I am white and male and boring. And so maybe I should just live that life. But I still can’t help the fact that I do want more.

And ultimately I think the real problem is not that I live in the suburbs or that I am living some plain life and not a great life. My real problem is that I spend all my time planning for when I will have a great life that I forget to make it great now.

I think the suburbs can be incredibly pacifying when everything is made so easy. But the suburbs aren’t the problem. I am not going to be any better or worse of a writer if I lived in a small condo in Kensington (trendy neighbourhood in Calgary). I just need to be great where I am now.

I have something to be passionate about and that’s creating. So that’s what I’m working on. Finding ways to create and I’m not going to plan for it anymore—when I have the right desk, or the right computer, or the right lighting—I’m just going to start. So there is a lot you can look forward to here.

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1. Becoming a man

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1. Becoming a man

Joseph Campbell, Thou Art That

Let me begin by explaining the history of my impulse to place metaphor at the center of our exploration of Western spirituality.

When the first volume of my Historical Atlas of World Mythology, The Way of the Animal Powers came out, the publishers sent me on a publicity tour. This is the worst kind of all possible tours because you move unwillingly to those disc jockeys and newspaper people, themselves unwilling to read the book they are supposed to talk to you about, in order to give it public visibility.

The first question I would be asked was always, “What is a myth?” That is a fine beginning for an intelligent conversation. In one city, however, I walked into a broadcasting station for a live half-hour program where the interviewer was a young, smart-looking man who immediately warned me, “I’m tough, I put it right to you. I’ve studied law.”

The red light went on and he began argumentatively, “The word ‘myth,’ means ‘a lie.’ Myth is a lie.”

So I replied with my definition of myth. “No, myth is not a lie. A whole mythology is an organization of symbolic images and narratives, metaphorical of the possibilities of human experience and the fulfillment of a given culture at a given time.”

“It’s a lie,” he countered.

“It’s a metaphor.”

“It’s a lie.”

This went on for about twenty minutes. Around four or five minutes before the end of the program, I realized that this interviewer did not really know what a metaphor was. I decided to treat him as he was treating me.

“No,” I said, “I tell you it’s metaphorical. You give me an example of a metaphor.”

He replied, “You give me an example.”

I resisted, “No, I’m asking the question this time.” I had not taught school for thirty years for nothing. “And I want you to give me an example of a metaphor.”

The interviewer was utterly baffled and even went so far as to say, “Let’s get in touch with some school teacher.” Finally, with something like a minute and a half to go, he rose to the occasion and said, “I’ll try. My friend John runs very fast. People say he runs like a deer. There’s a metaphor.”

As the last seconds of the interview ticked off, I replied, “That is not the metaphor. The metaphor is: John is a deer.”

He shot back, “That’s a lie.”

“No,” I said, “That is a metaphor.”

And the show ended. What does that incident suggest about our common understanding of metaphor?

It made me reflect that half the people in the world think that the metaphors of their religious traditions, for example, are facts. And the other half contends that they are not facts at all. As a result we have people who consider themselves believers because they accept metaphors as facts, and we have others who classify themselves as atheists because they think religious metaphors are lies.

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1. The Standard Questions

I just uploaded more images to my “The Yard” photoset on Flickr. Everything but the cucumber and zucchini (I spelled that correctly on my first try, by the way) are up. The garden is in motion. Even the grass I planted is starting to come up. And the peonies look like they will be beautiful.

And with all that motion, there is a frost warning tonight. Poor ‘maters. Hope covering them up will help.

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1. I am the destroyer

Generally, I probably would have never agreed to watch this film. But I just spent four intense days of manual labour and as you all know I am too pretty for such things. I was basically comatose and my parents were our guest so I didn’t make a stink. Mom (and surprisingly Dad) thought this was a good movie. It was awful. I mean, you think it’s going to be bad. But it was worse. Way worse. King of Queens bad. I shouldn’t know that. But you know what. That’s fine. It filled up a couple hours and I went to bed.

But here is where this goes from awful to I-just-stepped-in-cow-poop-and-then-licked-my-boot awful. I forgot to return it. For a week and a half, I forgot to return that damn movie. I’ve written about judgement before, but I can’t ever walk back into Rogers Video again. I’ll go into the store, pick out a really fantastic movie (something for which no one would ever dare question my impeccable taste in movies) and they will pull up my account and say—There’s a late charge on your account. You had Mall Cop… *snickering* for a week… *laughing* and a half *rolling on the floor laughing and probably peeing a little*. That will be $X and an extra $50 fee for your awful, awful taste in films.

Usually, I wouldn’t tolerate being judged by some hipster teen with an asymmetrical hair cut, but in this case they’d have every right. But I’m not ever going back. I’m not ready to face my prosecutors. Maybe I can send Leah in my stead.

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1. Something to be passionate about

Currently, I am in Calgary, Alberta and Leah is outside Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan on her parent’s farm. Leah is taking a break after a rigorous first year in her Masters program at the UofC. So I said, being the wonderful and ever loving husband that I am—Go take a break. I have to work. But before you dive into your thesis. Go spend time away from it all.

On Saturday we are sending txt messages back and forth. Innocent. Innocuous. She’s out shopping and garage saling. Having a nice afternoon with her mom. She asks if we have the fifth season of Seinfeld and wonders if she should get it. And that’s where you see my response. (Leah’s on the left and I’m on the right in the picture)

I, on the other hand, am out. Picking up the necessities for a garden and to water the grass seed I planted. I am hard at work. Well a couple hours passes. After toiling through the heat of the afternoon and I decide to sit down at my computer for a little computer gaming and a cool beverage. Though I am alone and lonely, I at least have gin to keep me company. And then I get her text. I have news…

And then silence. I respond—Okay? And more silence.

I honestly don’t know how women would read that message. But I can garauntee every male knows what’s going on here. There is only way to read this. And it’s the perfect time too, right? Leah’s in school. She has another year. She has scholarships. There is no maternity leave here. And then that’s it. I realize it right there. We are broke. In an awful city. Going to have a baby. And I am never going to play another video game again. Never going to drink another gin. There will never be another dollar to enjoy the subtle flavours of life. Just a poopy, stinky, awful baby. And I bet it would be an ugly baby. Knowing the endless nothingness that forever pervades all life—it would be an ugly baby. And this is the end of all hope and happiness and the sun won’t shine and the hot will never be hot enough again.

And wouldn’t this just be a great story. I’m 800 kilometres away. And Leah—out with her mom—starts putting the dates together and one thing leads to another and they decide to buy a home pregnancy test. And they don’t even want to wait until they get back to the farm. So Leah pops into a McDonalds bathroom stall. Pees on a stick while her mother waits anxiously at the sink. They spent a little extra and got a test that tells you in seconds. And she screams and they cry and they hug. All the while the smells of fast food grease permeate every inch of this fantastic moment. And knowing the hardships ahead, but not wanting to wait another minute to share the good news, she opts to save money on a very pricey long distance cell phone call and sends a simple txt.

I have news…

And she stops. Maybe she should just call. And she ponders for a minute.

And while she is pondering I made up that entire story. All that is good in the world falling apart before my eyes. As I try to come to grips with the fact I am going to be a father. And well, holy shit and I need another gin.

And then silence.

I run to the phone and call her immediately. Sheepishly, I ask—what is your news? I take a drink. Her friend, who I know, is pregnant. Leah you can’t do that to me. I thought you were pregnant. She laughs. She knows. She’s messing with me. And then the history and knowledge of all women was unveiled to me. There’s a reason why Eve ate the apple. Knowledge of Good and Evil. Eve wanted to confirm she was evil—just like Leah is. Alright, maybe not evil. Maybe just sort of cruel to my poor, lonely heart.

And all God’s people said—Poor Rhett. Poor, poor Rhett.

Or maybe I just prefer when I am making the jokes.

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Just do what the video says. (via Poploser)

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