Mar. 30

Once again finding myself unemployed, I was left to figure out what I was to do. Going through The local community rag, I saw an ad. for amateur night at one of the local comedy clubs. The prize money was $500 which was looking pretty good by that point. I have also been told that I'm pretty funny. I always liked comics on TV and though I should give it a try. There was a phone number to call and book a place. My place secured I went to the local donut shop to celebrate with my first strawberry jelly of the year (I try to limit myself to two dozen a year).

Properly supplied with fatty, sugary treats and caffeinated beverages, I wrote out and practiced some jokes trying to get them really good. Or as good as possible anyway, practicing every syllable so I couldn't mess any of them up, no matter how nervous I got. That was the monkey wrench in the scheme. I had an inherent disposition towards stage fright. I could have sworn it was genetic. Still, there were ways around it.

The club was actually in a nice part of town. I had been lead to believe that most such establishments that had "amateur nights" tended to be more on the "dive" end of the the spectrum. I was soon to find out why. I'm not sure why I wasn't tipped off by the nice location, or nicely dressed, professional demeanor of the other performers and staff or the fact that the other performers all seemed to be getting paid. I just walked in, gave them my first name and I was told where to wait. Imagine my surprise, and dread, when I went out on stage and saw, not a couple of dozen as I had anticipated, but a couple of hundred people in the audience. My heart literally stopped for a couple of seconds. It was so quiet, one could hear the buzzing of the P.A. equipment. I saw someone who fit the profile of a heckler prepare to yell something. I decided to beat him to the punch. This went on for the rest of my "act". My tried and true method of masking crushing, devastating, ulcer inducing dread with self-depreciation. The owner asked me to come back the next week.

(Here ends the series Even Steven)

Mar. 19

Is it me, or is it impossible to tie a good single Windsor knot? This is the question that ran through my mind as I tried for the tenth time to do up my tie. I still haven't figured out how to tie one properly. After a couple of instances of near asphyxiation, I got it done good enough to be passable and set about the rest of the set. It was my first office job in about six years and I was somewhat nervous, hoping to hades it was not one of those work places with a "casual Friday" allowance. I would look a right pillock.

The company, publisher called RAYENR BOOKS, had hired me on as a proof-reader. I lied so thoroughly on my resume, I seriously considered a career in politics but I got the job and felt well fit. I always got A's in English in school and some very nice comments on my spelling. It was the suit that scared my most. Mostly because the weather had started to get warm again.

It soon became clear the situation in this particular office. The floor I worked on was ruled over by Mark. He was known as Atilla the Hun with a cinnamon bun, due to his long hair black beard, foul temper and taste for the aforementioned pastry treats. The job was easy but Mark made it hard. I didn't make mistakes but it seemed like he wanted me to. Finally I snapped and told him exactly what was one my mind. I was summarily fired before quitting time. It was by far the shortest time I had ever spent at a job. Can't say I was exactly sad. I just gathered my personal possessions, which consisted of the clothes I was wearing and was out of the building by three.

My feelings of indifference were replaced by one of mixed horror and morbid satisfaction tinged by relief when I heard later on the news that the company had been bought out and everyone had been fired. There was footage of Mark in tears, going in about his fifteen years at the company. This Shaudenfreude was replaced with another feeling all together when I got the cheque for my severance pay a few days later.

Mar. 10th

It was just another day in the neighbourhood. The sun was shining, the birds were singing the sweet smells of spring were in the air and I strolled down the street wishing I had eyes in the back of my head. In an attempt not to get paranoid, I stopped off for a relaxing coffee. Getting my paper cup with heat guard I was faced with the delimma of whether to sit inside and risk a robbery or outside and hazard a car jumping the curb. Going with the known statistics I headed out to the patio.

Well caffeinated I headed off, my little cup still half full, slurping periodically to keep up my resolve. It was a fairly good day, without anything weird happening, until I let my guard down. Walking by the door of a bank, weirdness struck. A person with a pistol in one hand and cloth-bag in the other, his face hidden by a ski-mask came barreling through the door of the back I had the luck to pass. Time seemed to slow down. It was one of the most perfect chain-reactions in the history of physics. The bag man ran into me, taking us both down. The impact caused my coffee cup to go flying, hitting the second man out squarely in the head, soaking him in luke warm coffee. Understandably surprised he flailed backwards, losing his balance and knocking into the third man out. Nearly an entire hold-up gang taken out by a cappuccino. It's true. The universe does have a sense of humour.

Mar. 3rd

I managed to get into the shower by myself today. The first time after getting the cast off my leg. It's lucky I'm so agile, otherwise I would have a shard of chrome show-head lodged in my brain. I had heard about internal pressure building up but this was the first time I had seen it. It would be quite spectacular were it not so frightening.

After my near-death experience I sat down to a tranquil breakfast during which nothing out of the ordinary occurred. Strangely, this put me even more on edge, waiting for what would happen next. My paranoia was rewarded when I walked out into the bright, sun-shiny day. And saw the strange black car parked in front of my house. It all happened fast s soon as the door closed, the guys jumped out of the car. It was incredible how fast they moved, throwing a hood over my head, tossing me in the trunk and driving away before any of the resident snoops got to their window to "investigate".

It wasn't so bad in the trunk. There was plenty of air, as long as I didn't breath too fast. I already had a sack over my head so I couldn't see anything anyway. I passed the time by telling my self jokes. It must have been odd for the kidnappers to hear their victim laughing his head off in the trunk.

I was led up a flight of stairs and through a door into a room where my arms were tied to the back of a chair. Judging by the metallic rattle of the door, it was a factory of some sort. And going on the fact that my arms were bound to the back of the chair it was one of those two piece deals.

I stayed quiet and pretended to be unconscious. Eventually, two sets of feet headed for the door. There was only one guard. I could have tried something right then but I didn't know if or how he was armed. It didn't matter though. All people are only human and, eventually, nature called. After a moment's hesitation, there were several quick foot steps and a door slam.

Taking that as my que, I stood up quickly and with great force. As hopped, this yanked the back of the chair right out of the back of the seat. Getting that far it was a short job to untie myself and tipy-toe to the window. It wasn't that far down and there wasn't anything too nasty to break my fall. Or leg. Again.

I was ten blocks away before I stopped running. I occurred to me then that I might actually want to tell someone, preferably with some sort of authority, what had happened. Thank goodness for cell phones.

My confusion about the situation was soon allayed by Lieutenant Adam Marx of the city police force who, upon seeing me, explained that I bore a striking resemblance to a billionaire industrialist and the trio of idiots, mistaking me for him, were trying to hold me to ransom.

Feb. 14th

It had been a weird week. Still giving blood. Trying to figure out way the wheels fell off my car or why every video I rented seemed to be bootlegged. It was getting a bit much. Having sensed my dismay, like the good friend she is, Macy called and told me I was going to the amusement park with her and Herald. She didn't ask me mind you. She literally told me that I was going and I knew there was no point in arguing with her when she had set her mind to something.

Picking me up in her recently acquired new used Toyota, she commanded Herald into the back and had me sit with her in the front. I really hoped that some of her irrepressible confidence would transfer to me. She is one of those people who seemed to radiate self-assurance. I admired and envied her.

Macy paid for all of us at the gate. Herald and I traded a glance but knew better than to say anything. Completely passing the rigged carney games (their continuing existence proof that P.T. Barnum was onto something), we went to the scram-machines, also known as "rides". Not having the nerve for the more Herculean of geometry abusing death-defiers (the worst of which could make Pythagorus puke), we went to the bumper cars. Herald was embarrassed. Macy was embarrassed but game so Herald didn't dare say anything. After having our tickets torn and being warned against any head-on collisions we were off and to our cars.

The three of us had an unspoken agreement and avoided hitting each other while slamming mercilessly into everyone else. The joy was short lived however (no surprise there). Turning out of another t-bone collision, I was rear-ended by a jock type who had worked up by a good bit of speed. Party by geometry, partly by aerodynamics, with no small help from bad luck. I went skidding across the smooth surface, through the barrier and out over the grass. The last thing I remember seeing was a metal fence.

The doctor said I suffered a sprained wrist and a mild

concussion. According to a police officer that showed up in my room, a Lieutenant Maddox, I assisted in halting the progress of a fleeing bank robber, when the fence I hit was knocked over on the fleeing felon, during an ill-fated attempt to lose the police in the fair ground.

Feb. 7

It didn't seem like it could get worse. There was hardly any cereal left and one warm beer. The cereal included a "prize". A double-edge razor blade. Apparently, a former line-worker, hearing he was going to be fired decided to leave his mark. In an odd way I'm glad it was me that found it in the nick of time.

Later in the day my relief turned to nausea. Oddly enough it had nothing to do with nearly having the inside of my mouth cut up like confetti. It was not until my third, world-record setting, dash to the lavatory that I realized that something might really be amiss. I tried a clinic first. I was informed by a tired and surly desk nurse that the estimated wait time was three hours (if I was lucky), I decided to risk worse infection, not to mention my upholstery, and take my chances at hospital triage.

In my thirty-one years of life, I have never seen such a large number of medical professionals so thoroughly befuddled than the parade of doctors that came by my bed that day. There were so many blood (and other) tests it was amazing I didn't die of dehydration.

Turns out I had contracted a previously unknown strand of a devastating disease that had been ravaging parts of India and Africa for the last three years. I was the first North American to get it and the only person to survive. This piqued the interest of medical researchers around the world. There was, apparently, a component in my blood that made me resistant to the worst features of the virus. Looks like there are going to be a few more needles in my future. And I couldn't be happier.

Feb. 2

It was a bitterly cold winter day (what other sort is there?) and it was getting me down. Still having a lot of money from the little shooting debacle I decided to take a trip and relax a little. I know. Stupid. Especially under the circumstances.

I didn't dare take my lovely new car. It would be gone by the time I came back, having been either stolen or towed(which are really the same thing). The bus didn't seem a terribly attractive option, neither did the idea of a taxi. Plus it wouldn't do anything for my timing as there would be a couple of laps around the city before we actually headed to the airport. I instead got a rid with my friend Andy who still owed me a favour from a few years back.

To say the airport was crowded that day, would be an understatement along the lines of "Fransisco Franco wasn't crazy about elections." Luck must have been swinging a bit because I managed to get through the airport without any delays, my name coming up on any "no-fly" lists, strip searches or serious injuries. There was a bit of comedy at security when I showed the officer a bag of fluids and he asked,

"Is that all your fluids?" I had to stifle a laugh and had resisted to say something about having to go for dinner and movie first. But as I heard the door of the plane close and lock, a word flashed in bold, neon letter in my brian: CRASH

The wheels touched down on the runway with the plane still in one piece and I figured we were okay (I mean sure, there were still the gas tanks to worry about but what the heck). It wasn't until the pilot came on and made the announcement that reality, as I knew it, reasserted itself. The flight I had boarded. The one headed for Maui, Hawaii, landed in Malawi, Africa. It was sixteen hours before the mistake was on its way to being corrected. The airline felt so darn bad about the mistake they refunded the ticket fares for all the passengers, along with a free trip anywhere in the world.