Small Town Tales of Anthrax and Naked Seniors .... by Adam (2001)

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The last few months saw the release of a few stresstronomical upheavals into my life: death of my father, new job, a cross-country move and, of course, terrorism. Not to mention a series of bad haircuts and enough unrelenting throat phlegm to lubricate the entire casts of Deep Throat, Saving Ryan's Privates and Forest Hump. But I have weathered it all and am savouring seizure-provoking levels of contentment.

Perhaps the real reason for my hiatus is the lack of complainworthiness of the supporting characters in my life - no compulsive liar / diarrhea spewing coworkers; no vindictive little yoda-nuns; no bands of leering pot-bellied fellow teachers and no bosses capable of welding iron with his breath.

So where to start? Well, since May, I have been working in Chiang Mai, Thailand with Internews, a media NGO that supplies training and organisational support to Burmese refugee media groups. You still reading? If the interest level of most of the people I spoke with back home is any indication, you probably stopped mid-sentence and gave birth to a yawn the size of Dick Cheney's ass.  Sure, I can relate.  When people bleat on about real estate speculation or parenting, I nod intermittently, count the pores on the speakers nose and think about luncheon meats. But at least I pretend to be interested. People at home asked an average of 1.3 questions about my life in Thailand.  And if my answers surpassed 6 or 7 words, their eyes would roll into the backs of their heads and they'd start rubbing their crotches.

Anyway, my new job is awesome.  My boss is a giant Zimbabwean supermodel.  She is quite stunning, being a smidgen over thirteen feet tall with cheek bones that could slice through a pork chop and legs beginning just behind her ears.  During meetings, I recline in the space between her thumb and forefinger as she regales me with stories of her experiences in various war zones.  (I usually think about real estate speculation during these sessions.) After my last job, it sure is nice to have coworkers whose ideas of social skills amount to more than 'don't bite anyone'.

It was a pleasure to move on in many ways. Storm clouds of tension lurked over my old boss' shoulders, waiting to pour down negativity and ill-feelings on anything in his path.  When we were nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize, my friend Jeff said, "I hope Kevin never wins the Nobel Prize.  He's such an asshole." - something rarely heard about Ghandi. 

He did not exactly employ a creative management style. He seemed to perceive any new ideas as a threat to his control.  In fact, he once said to me, "Adam, I perceive any new ideas as a threat to my control."  He also claimed that my writing style is too sensational for human rights documentation.  But, come on, what the hell is wrong with: "Fueled by inhuman sadism and an insatiable thirst for ethnic blood, depraved Burmese rat-bastard goons have launched an orgy of blood-soaked slaughter campaigns."??  Or maybe he just meant, "Wow, your writing style is sensational!!"

More about the new job, the fantastic new boss (I just threw that in cuz she's on the mailing list) and life in Chiang Mai next email if you can handle the suspense.

Yes, I did make it to Canada three times this year. My Dad was diagnosed with assorted cancers and then passed away in October.  I miss him. We had a good time giving each other a hard time. He had mellowed in his retirement years, with a decline in incidents like the time he raged out of the car, face reddened with anger and arms swinging cuz I took too long to buy a muffin. I will miss his curmudgeonly humour, his eerily strong sense of diligence and determination and the way he was never afraid to tell me he loved me.  Who's gonna make fun of everyone with me at the family reunions now?

When he died, I spent 5 weeks with my angelic mom in her quaint, weird little hick-town. I wanted to make her feel needed so I charitably allowed her to cook my food, wash my underwear and buy me stuff. She is doing pretty well. Had I seen her lift a car and throw it over a fence, I couldn't have been more awed by her strength. The silver lining of it all was the time we spent together.

The funeral was sad but peaceful.  No one was asked to leave for belching I Will Always Love You or anything. The reception was a little tougher. I spent most of the afternoon dodging curling buddies of assorted body shapes. It seems my Dad was pretty popular down at the rink and the local golf club.  Had he been fatter and weirder looking he probably could have run for mayor.

My sister and her husband are doing well. Together they lost something like 300 kilograms of excess body contents and now Julie is a young, seductive high school vice principal. They still have 2 kids and a puntable little dog that takes 2 D-cell batteries.  My little niece is, well, lets call her the euphemistically applied 'precocious'. And my five year old nephew is so cute you just wanna squeeze the crap out of his little face. I miss them all now that I am back in Thailand (except for that little dog-thing). My friends are all pretty good, apart from the steady gravitation of conversation toward kitchen flooring and soccer practice.

Life in my Mom's small town of Brockville, Ontario (where I am glad I didn't grow up) was tranquil. I spent most of my time counting fat people at the Thousand Islands Mall and trying to carve Joey Lawrence from my skinny, love handled frame at the local YMCA.  The Y attracts the Brockville sophisticates - the laptop to mullet ratio being much higher than in the mall areas. But there are a good number of hockey baboons grunting in the weight room.  At first we co-existed in mutual fear, but after crouching quietly and mimicking their movements, they began to accept me as one of their own. I even got one to eat a carrot out of my hand on my last day.

By the way, why do men walk around naked for so long in gym change rooms?  I always seemed to be in there just as the seniors' hockey team got off the ice.  There's nothing like a room full of naked sixty-year-olds -- penises swinging, ass hair erect after a vigorous toweling -- to make me scramble to get my pants pulled up. Buddy - you've got a towel hung over your shoulder, how about using it to cover up some of those skin folds and private bits? I will never feel comfortable with the whole naked-shaving-at-the-sink thing.  But they sure do. Face slathered with crème, wrinkly genitalia bouncing off the edge of the counter and they talk to their buddies about baseball! Weird.

It was useful to get the home perspective on this whole terrorism thing. I come away believing the continent of North America is crazy. Even the Brockville police chief is going on about how the town needs an emergency terror plan - being only an hour from the Kingston military base.  I have a feeling, if Osama is decorating his cave wall, it is not with maps of Brockville or instructions on how to breach security at the Thousand Islands Mall.  Any self-respecting terrorist would set their sights higher than Brockville, I am sure.

There were several anthrax scares around town. Brockville's goon cops secured a Tim Horton's Donut shop after the baffling discovery of some white powder. No word yet whether it was sugar or non-dairy creamer.  In the most ridiculous (and true!) case, a guy in a neighbouring town discovered a mysterious packet of white powder in his box of noodles. On arrival, police informed him that the powder was to be mixed with milk and butter, whereupon it forms a rich and delicious sauce to be poured over the aforementioned noodles. These people are allowed near kitchen appliances?!?

Then there began all sorts of bombing.  (In Afghanistan, not in Brockville, stupid.)  When pro-Bush rebels seized the White House last year, I knew the national machismo-meter would jerk up to around 9.5. So the 'Do Something! Anything!' bombing didn't surprise me. And Afghanistan certainly offers an array of attractive military targets, including both large and small heaps of rubble, orphans with shelter, orphans without shelter and of course, widows sleeping in tents.  Anyhow, the logic is apt:  We will bomb them until they stop hating us. And when they stop hating us, there will be no more terrorism! We will all play twister together and, who knows, they may even invite Bush to throw out the first rock at the next riot. And if we can succeed without obliterating the whole Muslim world, we will reap one added bonus: the creation of a new fertile market base to eat our hamburgers, wear Calvin Klein briefs and watch I Still Know What You Did Last Ramadan. The only thing that did impress me was Bush's commitment to creating a broad-based coalition. Broads have been denied their rights for too long in Afghanistan.

Anyway, what better place to end than on the ominous notes of terror, anthrax and naked seniors...