MILAN MICHAEL MAKOVAC

                                                           TORONTO, ONTARIO

bluequadrivium@gmail.com

MOTIVATION         To make a living and simultaneously enjoy working in an environment                                   where people can relax and savour one of life’s great pleasures; Food.

PERSONAL ATTRIBUTES         Independent, Honest, Diplomatic, Organized, Reliable

CAREER STRENGTHS              + Able to identify and respond to potential problems and                                                               needs of customers and staff

                                                    + Expedient and resourceful under challenging                                                                                 circumstances

                                                    + Able to engage customers in the dining experience and                                                               thereby entice people to visit again

                                                   + Understanding and responsive to a diverse and multi-                                                                 cultural clientele

                                                    + Excellent at all practical aspects of being a waiter

EMPLOYMENT EXPERIENCE          2003-2017   Chartreuse, Waiter                                                                                                           2001-2002   Club Victoria, (Croatia) Bartender                                                                                 1997-2001   Sassafraz, Waiter                                                                                                               1989-1997   Ed’s Warehouse, Waiter                                                                                                   1987-1989   Artful Dodger, Waiter/Manager                                                                                     1983-1986   Bloor Street Diner, Waiter                                                                                               1982-1983   Frank Vetere’s, Waiter/Assistant Manager                                                                   1979-1982   Sunshine’s, Busboy/Waiter

INTERMITTENT/PART TIME          George Bigliardi’s, Ribiero’s, Zum Rhein, Golden Griddle

EDUCATION                                     + University of Toronto (Political Science and Economics                                                             + York University           (English)                                                                                                         + Centennial College      (Accounting)

POLITICAL INVOLVEMENT           Vice President——-Davenport Liberal Association                                                                                                            (Federal)                                                                                                                  Policy Chair———-Davenport Liberal Association                                                                                                            (Federal)                                                                                                                  Delegate—————-Liberal Provincial Leadership                                                                                                             Oakwood Association                                                                                          Delegate—————-Federal Liberal Leadership                                                                                                                   (Davenport)

OTHER ACHIEVEMENTS                 Underwriter License (Sun Life Insurance Company)                                                                    Apprentice Mechanic (Gerrard Motors/Sunoco)                                                                              Taxi License                                                                                                                                            Apprentice Carpenter (Germany)

HOBBIES AND INTERESTS             Billiards, Chess, Backgammon, Cards-Sixty-Six, Reading-                                                              Military History

During childhood my babysitter doubled as language teacher and was mother’s inseparable Slovenian friend. Mia and I had a chance crossing, at a cultural event common to our heritage, a subsequent 25 years after her moving from Toronto to Vancouver and a job related to a fine arts program. On leaving church, we decided to reminisce this spring evening, strolling from the streets at Bloor and Manning, to Bloor and Ossington, where she was visiting her ill ageing mother. On passing through our old neighbourhood, Christie Pit’s park was burgeoning with activity and as we conversed about our reflections and perceptions, I rediscovered the enormous impact she had with my life. It felt as if she had planted the spirit of herself in me. Minus my ruthless streaks. I was taken aback by her projections, of the anticipated direction my career choices should have led to, as a social worker or teacher because I personally regretted for years, having rejected those professions as a means of livelihood. I guess her observation of personality and passions allowed for an unbiased identification of my motivations. As a waiter, it generally served me well to enlighten families and member’s, of unique perspective’s or abilities they may have, as people are often unaware of having special skills, more prone to believing they have special needs. So grateful to have had that walk with Mia and all the selfless care she sent my way. She was childless. I believe I was the fortunate benefactor of her compassionate nature.

When I began contemplating and visualizing the content of my biography I found myself interjecting segment’s with, oh yeah, it was around that time, that guy killed himself and how do I explain the emotional impact as an aside, from my intended theme, even if I could speculate to begin knowing. On noticing the numerous multiplying incident’s to be significant, there was wonderment if everyone is inundated with so many periphery experience’s, of the awful choice of someone’s self-inflicted death. I decided to withdraw these violent vignettes from my other subject matter and catalogue all the not so nice incident’s, into a few blood soaked chapter’s.

The three sister’s without brother’s, had a deep winter freeze, toga party and I as any sensible, hormonally charged teenager, needed to be there, but because of some responsibility, was to exasperation, likely to have to omit. At some point that evening I blew off the shackles of my restriction and with haste headed to the modern day, of my imagination, good natured orgy, that wasn’t. That I wasn’t inclined to make it, was reason I showed up mimicking a bundled rock star musician ‘Bryan Adams’, in jeans, cowboy boots and lumber jacket. The sheets they were a missing and ‘The Times They Are A Changin’.  I was preparing a polite gradual increase of forceful pounding on the front door to compete against the piercing volume of Cinderella Man permeating the shores of ice cold silence outside. Carol togaaaad the door open, drawing to halt, my breath, before I had attempted the pounding. Girl always had an uncanny sense of space, time and guys. I had a brief motivational peek of Rome’s conquering and enslavement of British subject. She looked like a happy victim but apparently the troops were already out of lager. She pulled out some young man like magic trick and if I minded driving to the beer store immediately, should disaster strike and leave us without libation. I didn’t know the kid, who would never make it to man, as I hurriedly drove to his apartment complex to pick up gold coins for the additional ounces, a semi-successful conquering army would require. It was frigid. I pulled up to the dimly lit, covered from the element’s, concrete roof entrance and he darted, disappearing into the building. Some moment’s drew a senior female driver also with passenger, forcing me to continue forward around the island so that she now occupied where I had been and I placed opposite direction, parallel. What appeared to be her off-spring, followed the same approach of hurried exit and entry. I sat there for a few minutes, marvelling the Leaning Tower of Pisa grey hair and how so many layers escaped touching the ceiling of her car, somewhat explained by, her eyes peering beneath the lip of the large old-fashioned, late model steering wheel. She never glanced over, to acknowledge my waiting and observing. She may have been frightened. On his return that boy dashed through two glass doors, ever so fleetingly greeted the forbidding air, in one motion opened the car door and plopped himself in the vacant seat. He looks over at me and says, “Let’s go”. Unfortunately, me wasn’t me. Me was now a screaming with terror old lady, with poofy hair, removed of intuition and the harmless nature of this kid. Poor guy was thoroughly embarrassed as he humbly pardoned himself from her car and repeatedly, kindly apologized, even as he rounded the front of her car, bowing with sorriness, heading to where I was. That red faced boy, man, boy, man, well he was of age to be drafted. I didn’t know him and if we had created dialogue amongst ourselves, it was absent significance, as our focus was the at hand business of beverage procurement. There were some sixty to eighty teenagers at the hearty party and I recall never seeing him again that evening. The next afternoon I inadvertently showed up for the after event gossip and our habitual post party, party. We had a firm understanding of priorities. The sisters and some others of our inner circle were sitting around cozy, on the parent’s plush couches but on this day seemed fully at odds with comfort, griped by abnormal visual signs of distress. Carol acknowledged my silent expression of query, saying, “You know that guy you drove to the beer store?”. “Yeah”. “He jumped from his apartment”. I was speechless.

Jane and I had similar urges for fine food, as we did a skip and a jump to Sherbourne subway station and headed to a favoured kitchen, crossing the Broadview bridge to Greektown. We whipped through the sliding door of the front car, slipping into the available seats on the right, behind the compartmentalized driver. Our internal sensors pressed the alarm button instantly. Sitting directly across was a caucasian, approximately thirty-five years of age, dirty curly dark brown hair, jeans, running shoes, white top, obviously in some kind of internal emotional distress, female. We were alerted into hush, fearful to where this might be heading, seemingly barreling towards destruction. The cabin to our left was sparse with commuters and our quadrant had just the three of us. She seemed absorbed by trauma and there was good reason to believe she was unaware of our obvious presence. We were pulling into the next stop when she stood up, but had no intention of getting off and providing us with relief. Instead she went with daze to the front cabin door and placed her hands on the glass as a child with some height might. We couldn’t see her face. Pulling out of Castle Frank station the tunnel approached the speeding stark reality of outside and the previously unnoticed, hopeless grey day, begging to feel like the foreshadowing of doom. We re-entered the darkness before Broadview station, except for the slowing artificial light and a premonition, implicating hell. Jane and I never referenced each other, we were simultaneously, fully attentive to her impending actions. The train started out towards Chester, a stop before ours and we’d be able to leave this scene, with the grateful, pathetic excuse of our hunger, when I saw the poor soul lower her right hand to the door latch, lurching to open and make a calculation I’d never have contemplated. She was preparing to jump on to the tracks, through the front exit door, of the moving train! Who knew. I was on her like a leopard on prey, grabbed her garment by the scruff of the neck and flung her the four or five yards slamming her body into the original seat she occupied. I yelled at her, “You’re not ucking killing yourself in front of me”! She brought home the meaning of the word sulking, as it was profuse. On re-establishing this memory, why didn’t I throw her into a closer available seat? Why speculate the unanswerable. We got off where we were supposed to, the next stop, at Pape and had lunch. We left her in that seat. I hope it got better.

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A grotesque story needing to convey, describing the insanity some jobs can require a human to endure. A Toronto Transit Commission manager acquaintance, relayed a horrific suicide situation. A person threw himself off the station platform, literally into (as opposed to in front of) the oncoming train with ill timing to the extent, at point of contact, his body became twisted and lodged, between the seemingly impossible small space of platform and train. I believe they are referred to as ‘gophers’, are employees who must deal with cleaning up the messy aftermath of mauled bodies. On this occasion they arrived under the train to find a body sliced in half at the waist but the upper half protruding above, still alive and probably, unfortunately, fully aware.  The self inflicted victim was engaged in conversation with security and later Emergency Medical Services as his innards were pincered together maintaining his life. The train wasn’t going to stand in the station forever. Ask yourself, who is required to make a procedural decision and the protocol, whereby this persons body organs, drop out, to the ground, when the train is ordered to move? Here buddy want a cigarette. Rush hour traffic you know. Who wants that job? Where do you apply?

Good friend, had a most prevalent half Canadian Indian girlfriend, the tribe escapes me and we often engaged in engrossing conversation. At one time  during the eighties when liquor licensing laws required early closure, she ran or similarly, was the proprietor of, an illegal after hours, more affectionately referred to as a booze can. These places quite usually by there nature, included an incessant drug using clientele, often of influential artistic types, than the mainstream watering holes of the time and were an advanced indicator to the direction and good measure of a societies immediate evolving future. Her chosen location was unique in that she had a bar area, that included an ice producing mechanism, glasses, wine, bottles of beer, hard alcohol, condiments and shank, placed entirely inside an elevator, of a basement floor. Should the authorities need to arrive, the touch of a button would become the stuff of Houdini. I never had the occasion to be there, as it was before my time. Confirmed true, possibly embellished but with her, I wouldn’t doubt the raw nerve of her character, to have connections and concoctions of the kind necessary, to run this kind of business successfully.

She was recalling a history of herself and a rock plateau placed partially internally and externally to a waterfall, by which no human having walked the river’s edge, along a deep, long path to stand on this spot, they were, as the fact of legend knows, destined to never return. The most likely circumstance of witnesses and conditions, wouldn’t be as strong as her faith.  It may have been a challenge, which in my opinion would be equally insane or it may have been a change in plans, to leave this life. She never said. However, she was proud to have endured and I having bestowed upon me, the pleasure of her presence. Angelo always kept the company of interesting people.

Bobbie Gentry………..Ode to Billie Joe            Elvis Presley……..Heartbreak Hotel

Rush……………….Cinderella Man                      Bob Dylan….The Times They Are A Changin’

Utada Hikaru……….Boukyaku                         Elton John..Someone Saved My Life Tonight

Pink………….Who Knew              Mylene Farmer… C’est Une Belle Journee.. Timeless 2013

Amy Winehouse……..Back To Black               Bryan Adams……….Cuts like a Knife

My first official entrance into the boxing ring called Canadian Politics, began with an invitation from my sister, to help with the Provincial Leadership run of Conservative Frank Miller. She worked for a mining firm that had skin in the game and I contributed as warm body, in the required effort of promotion and ‘we can’t live without this guy adulation’. For a few days, I rummaged the in’s and out’s of convention mania and why wouldn’t I enjoy a bit of of hysteria and pandemonium, to break up the monotony of my simpleton life. My effect on the outcome was negligible, as I never had conversation with the man who briefly became Conservative Premier of Ontario. His campaign however, cut my teeth, for an eventual journey into the Liberal Party of Canada.

The final grade’s of elementary school as designed by curriculum, cover an introduction of the major policy themes, of the day. Our teacher’s encouraged us with headings and we were responsible for individual or group perspective, used in competitive debate to support our position’s and attack each others counter-argument’s. Population explosion was already a concern in the sixties and early seventies as a precursor to the environmental issues we face today. Seems as if all that foreshadowing, researching and debating, culminated in a waste of time. Reproductive rights, the way we are lurching, will soon infringe the territory of legalizing fratricide, as the potential profit from harvesting organs and other prolific selfish purposes, are destined to eventually breach a recent allowable termination at nine months, to mother’s aborting their children up to and including the child’s first birthday. Blood money. This sums up humanity and our benevolence. Imagine the situation for the rest of our poor, dumb, animal kingdom and an inability to create a verbal argument to defend their interests in a court of law or public opinion and vote against their own extinction. If only these creatures would somehow learn to speak. Man shouldn’t be counted on. Capital punishment at the time I advocated against the death penalty simply as recourse against multiple murder. A killer believing an eventual way out of prison, may deflect his damage and the secondary pervasive reason, potential abuse by authorities or the legal system and preventing an innocent, from persecution. Otherwise, with definitive proof, omitting the need for safeguard’s, I’d hang’em high, with impunity. Anyway, as my uncle (Bless his soul) Tonce once told me, a witness to many atrocities, there’s a noteworthy amount of money in the business of death. I concur.

War and peace, inclusive of foreign policy and economic prosperity were my subjects of engrossment. This was an extension, to my hobby of historical and contemporary military tactics. My position, should have I become a member of the political establishment or the Canadian Defence Department, which I consider overlapping and operate as one and the same, as all government ministries are required, to be effective, would be a representation of my personal philosophies. Ultimately, I can’t do anything for my soldiers once they’re laying dead in the field, therefore, my responsibility is to ensure the survival of my troops and the society they serve, in any rank or ministry deemed to require my expertise. This could mean anywhere from regular forces and hand to hand combat, to Field-Marshall co-ordinating my troops movements on the battlefield, to Minister of Defence and the procurement of arms, to Leader of a Nation and the inherent function of diplomacy. The role of my auto-biography, aligns and contributes, for the likeminded, comprehending these parameters.

It was a fine early afternoon weekend day and our front door was an invite open to the warmth of our neighbourhood. My good friend, on seeing the moving bodies through the screen door opened it and called my name in earnest and I popped my head around the kitchen wall, happily greeting him. Instantly, we were a rush and as often in mission mode, bid the family a quick goodbye and bequeathed we’d both show for early dinner. We were on our way to a recently built community centre for some kind of political action and I was dragged along as last minute support because his dad (unbeknownst kingpin) was unable to attend. Although my friend had grade average always touching the skies, the procedural steps we were rolling into were as foreign to him, as myself. I was probably solicited because of our past penetrating conversations of situational geo-politics the likes of, Panama Canal, The Golan Heights, Vietnam War, Suez Canal, Idi Amin, South African Apartheid, The Khmer Rouge, Mao Tse-Tung, Fascism, Stalinism, Nicaraguan Sandinistas and Contras and so on, all speculative, removed of practical experience, just self thought theory. This was about to become our first youthful venture into political reality.

We were seated high up in the convention hall admiring the eclectic architecture, exploiting fresh space, filled by glistening sun. Intentionally alone and happily isolated far and away, in the stands, we believed ourselves immune of any kind of potential fermenting embarrassment, of our situational awareness, we were surely clueless. From our distance it wasn’t disturbing, that the faces of individuals were indistinguishably mulling around makeshift greeting and receiving tables. There were some small groups clustered together in the seating more directly in front of the action we eagerly intended to bypass. My friend of long standing and I, by our calculated location, seemed more destined to Apollo into orbit as astronauts then partake in anything that was going on down there, somewhere. This as you gather was all fine with me, as I had already settled as observer and my sidekick, limited in the scope of information he’d received, was uncomfortable to press forward as anything, but same. None of this would have retraced my memory if the following events had not continued to unfold. Suddenly, as if leaving a mothership, some individual male, broke away from the main body we were hell bent to avoid and climbed the universe towards us. We were dismayed at someone’s approach because this probably meant motives of a kind we would be unable to ascertain. We speculated quickly about nothing, for what seemed like eternity, even as the lanky man bounded the stairs by two’s, approaching. Fear of the unexpected was consuming us.

He shook my friends hand up and down with the efficacy of a car salesman’s exuberance and was simultaneously satisfied with his identity, as someone who’s name he had obviously anticipated. I unfortunately, as it turned out, wasn’t the father who couldn’t come. Time was of the essence, as is so often the case, in the needs speed, of big city life. As he extended his velocity to me, the gears in his manipulative little brain had already bypassed courtesy and moral standard. From everything he’d immediately concluded I was a useless unknown entity and to be purposeful in his world, would have to alter my name, if to become substance as a historical figure. I was taken aback. To represent myself as another human being, in my life was an occurrence I couldn’t begin to contemplate. Isn’t that illegal? The gall. Wasn’t I just at home with my family. What’s next the trunk of someone’s car. Dead. I mean if someone can flippantly eradicate a person’s name, is anything else a stretch. He doesn’t know me from Adam but is quick to assume that I’m willing to be, Satan’s little brother.

I was confused as he began ushering, towards who I now considered the core of other kool-aid drinking devil worshippers and I felt as if on a long downward trajectory to the gallows of an anticipated hanging, or better yet, a gruesome beheading. My being was screaming discontent. “What should I do”? I kept asking myself, “how do I get out of this”? Surely, I’m not to pretend to be someone else, going low, how far can I go. Documentation and identification would seem to be a precursor to legitimacy yet my pallbearer seemed adamantly convinced of unnecessity. The gates of hell forgo the rules required by mere mortals. Welcome to politics.

My friend and I helplessly glanced at each other, in fashion similar to villains on docket, left holding the bag and we stood mingled with others, moping with predicament. ‘Please make this stop’ and around the same time, as if heaven had received the echo of my hopes, it did. Relief. Indecision worked. Things were postponed or something something something, I could care less for how the dagger of corruption, was removed from my throat. We evacuated as if soldier’s, on first recognition, that valour and courage were no longer a useful commodity against imminent slaughter. Years later, to disgruntlement, I observed this same horrible individual become an elected Member of Federal Parliament.

Around this time and in between, I fell into conversation with a blast from the forgotten past, with Larry Grossman’s father, who’s son, also became temporary Ontario Conservative Party Leader and confessed to him my propensity to liberalism, having moved away from my initial socialist New Democrat Party leanings. He laughed politely in my face and said, “well you’re heading in the right direction. One day you’ll be a conservative”. At that time I wouldn’t have thought that plausible because I couldn’t associate the anti-war movement as compatible with Republicanism. Harken to today, the adage, “politics makes for strange bedfellows”, rings as always true, in more beds than one. “If a man will begin with certainties, he shall end in doubts; but if he will be content to begin with doubts, he shall end in certainties.” Frank Miller’s political victory was my first.

CANADA – JUNE 17: Party programs: Premier Frank Miller and Deputy Premier Bette Stephenson don’t let looming defeat in the Ontario Legislature dampen their enthusiasm for new government programs; announced by the Conservatives yesterday. The new measures range from tornado relief to extra hospital funding. (Photo by Mike Slaughter/Toronto Star via Getty Images)

I have to confess that I’m not an avid football fan but I do have an interest in all things military and this game is closest to simulating war, disguised as sport. So when everyone is showing up, I find the spectacle enthralling.

Growing up I had disdain for Bobby Orr. He was the nemesis and super villain that every frustrated Leaf fan understood him to be, of epitome. If I could have reached through the T.V screen and pummelled him, well maybe not that. Broken glass probably does some self inflicting damage. He was sleek, too sleek, he was fast, too fast, he was smart, too smart, and he was great, too great. So with him around, we never even had a sniff at winning the whole enchilada. He came to represent the antithesis, of every type of hate I had, for preventing us from our success’s and discarding us to year’s of failure. It all sounds way beyond serious. Ergo memorable impact.

Many of these childhood anxieties thankfully suppressed, I happened to find myself at a charity event, that most of my recollection is missing. I’m certain it was at the old Garden’s arena, involving college students and flying something priests or maybe nun’s, engaging in humorous hockey action. Happenstance, Bobby Orr in proper referee uniform (looking sharp) drifted tenderly around pretending to officiate. I glanced towards him often, never having had the opportunity to witness him so close, as my face was partitioned by ice level glass. Most of my attention was directed at the pre-conceived good natured shenanigans on display, all in the name of a worthy cause. Towards the end of our entertainment, an aberration took place. One of the college players, not having yet been of this world when Orr was a household name, became sentimental of the coming conclusion to his presence with greatness. Kid offers Bobby his stick. As if on a frozen pond. From my distance you could discern his surprise and humility from the gesture. Certainly, with his body motion, if I may have actually seen him mouth the words, “I can’t”, it seemed to be the first time he had to utter those words, since the doctor’s (specialists) performed multiple surgeries some fifteen years earlier and warned him, he could never play again. The kid persisted, probably unaware, surely not fully aware, as most of us, of the looming danger should Orr attempt to gain high speed and incidentally find impact. The other college student’s by this time had perceived the teammate effort to persuade and also now, the four or five thousand naive to the danger fans, were vocally contributing to cajole. He plucked that offered stick out of the kids hand, like gun and a man, who knew the time was now, to go defend his country. The spur of the moment, contrived yet hockey accurate, for the player who did it better than all, the puck lay resting behind the net. From the blue line, he headed to retrieve. He got on that horse of his, in that deliberate skating style, with you know what’s going to happen, when I really start moving attitude. No one can stop me. Not man, nor immortal. I had seen this hundred’s of times, live and through a box, rounding the net, before ejecting into flight not with the same former flashing speed but I wasn’t prepared for what I saw next, as he passed centre ice along the boards, some four yards away against an imaginary team of leafs. His left leg wobbled furiously at the knee, inexplicably it held together as if limb on bone held in place with scotch tape and the frailty of our hero to potentially disintegrate, was wiped away by the joyous determined look on his face, to again have moving remembrance of something he so loved.  I cry then and now.

Life’s odd that way. Not always, but when misjudgement rears it’s ugly head. Without reason for disliking someone or even venomously despising them and you come to understand they’re great people and love them. Happened to me many times. The opposite occurrence is also true.

I have participated and observed practically any kind of sporting event for over fifty years and reverting to my opening statement unbiased of football, however, Tom Brady, in my humble opinion, of the recent modern era, is undoubtedly the Greatest Athlete Of All Time. The prerequisite for this title can be debated by other’s, across all the variables and disciplines of sport, as I ponder a media determined, post Super Bowl game narrative, demeaning, this nerve-wracking fantastic defensive struggle, to having been one long-drawn-out bore. It’s amusing to see we’ve become bored of greatness, as we must be moving in the right direction away from hate, if to nonchalant genius. Hope to be bored again next year with the Rams notching an added year of experience, or the Saints gaining revenge, or maybe the Kansas City QuarterBack begins to become the next superstar Brady. Challenges. Can’t live without them. Long road to being the best.

She was, as if, forcing the earth down repeatedly with the palms of her hands,”This is hell and when we leave here we go to Heaven”, and she flicked her wrists upward. Obviously a church goer and when your girlfriend makes a serious statement you should probably listen. When you both leave the Louvre and barely acknowledge the existence of, the most diagnosed painting in human history, the Mona Lisa, your probably in love. Those moment’s of happiness I wish too longevity are lost, never to be replaced in intensity and my memories are shadows I attempt to resurrect, through words. Mankind (excuse my Christianity) by way of painting, music and dance, statues and structures, according to the second woman I loved, has been trying to produce great works here in hell for a long time. Therefore the study of history and therefore something to keep ourselves busy with, while were hanging around waiting to go, to God knows where, next. Damn it, it’s just one never ending roller coaster ride. Blessed are they (could have been us) who can feel so much and peacefully surrender to eternity. More sensible than doing a “Romeo and Juliet”. So I ask myself, how could I be so stupid? Stupidity and ignorance is probably how I got there. Probably how anyone ever gets anywhere.

Problem with love is you’re having such a good time, you forget to know you’re in it. Better that. That’s perfect love. The savouring ends, the pain begins. Your with the illusion, this is a normal state of being, that you’ve only finally just come to discover and later it will be like candy, whereby, you can just pick it up, any old time. Boy is it fleeting. It’s not as if you’re in that long drawn out process of sitting there debating is she good for me, or am I good for her, or this and that and all those other things that mean, your not. That’s why I’m fond of the word ‘oblivious’. It’s always been my rarely attainable, favourite state and I’m not talking with support of drug inducement. The natural unaware kind. Maintaining oblivion here in hell is impossible but it allows for us to suspect heaven is a possibility. If we have momentary senses of euphoria (before our, recent clinical understanding of why) would there be place for it’s constant? Well we have hope, that other fantastic human emotion that in earthly form transforms into ambition. The groundwork for all of man’s endeavour to secure fulfillment and forever, but all we have here is common trivial tangible raunchy pleasure. Our physical form that cultivates sustenance for our brain, from where all of our speculation finds construction, research and information by way of observation, conversation and community.

Deborah was part of a group of four girls who were classmates and close friends, of which, one of them, I was head over heels for, from the age of fifteen. They grew in influence by osmosis, during my deserving and unrelenting adoration for my first female, have to have, which I shan’t mention in name, at this time. These things still bite. Only as recollection. As gratefully they should. Contact exponentially grew upon legal eligibility to chauffeur, as I immediately made myself valid. So coincidentally activity accelerated, with before or after school pick-ups, lunch venues and as we moved into our late teens, there were parties, movies and events.  I was participant to many, a small talk and question’s, inside the front door foyers with the parent’s, as they investigated if I was a trustworthy accompaniment to their daughters adventures. “What’s your father do”? “Mechanic”. “Your mother”? “Housewife”. “What school do you go to”? “O’Conner”. “You”re Christian”? “Catholic”. “We’re expecting you won’t be later than midnight”. “Definitely”. Everything was generally smooth and uneventful because they were all aware it wasn’t their daughter’s I was chasing but were nevertheless curious, to see the potential smitten interest, of one of their children’s friend’s. As always, I did better with father’s and brother’s, in particular if they were straight up guy, type of guys.

Deborah began dating, I suspect her high school sweetheart, earlier than the rest of us. Her best friend, “Janis”, was next. He was noticeably older and already a successful architect. Their relationship was traditional, whereby,  marriage, plus four children, including a permanent move to California as a corporate partner, was an outcome. Victoria, herself became an architect and met her future husband inside her university program. By casual semi-interested interaction my impression was they were all decent men. My focus, my thought’s, my beliefs and intentions always included the feelings of the one, I believed would become my significant other. The peripheral relationships by extension I protected, as a course to this happy to be, anticipated inevitability. “The best laid plans of mice and men”. For the outspoken, opinionated person I tend to be, I reflected much of my time with the girls as listener. I felt fortunate to have perspective included in my repertoire that wasn’t so Julius Caeser and Alexander the Great oriented, which made up most of my neighbourhood friends. I loved the disco era as I loved dancing but when I was out with the girls the reprieve from machoism was a welcome change. They were primarily Anglo and I loved all things that touched on Western Europe.  The girls were bright, smart and fun to be with. I was one lucky guy, to be keeping their company.

So it was, the girls at varying times, accepted part time jobs at a local upscale restaurant, amongst a collage of other jobs and locations they collectively spun as opportunities for each other. I happened in on one of these cycles as a busboy and when after a few weeks was asked to become a waiter I turned it into full time employment. Janis one evening while hostess, referenced that Deborah and she were planning to work in Europe for a year and I had been having thoughts of similar purpose, whereupon on our return, we intended to pursue our studies. So a few weeks later when they asked if I’d like to D-Day with them the first week in London, I happily latched on to this launch point for the European Continent. We departed sometime close to the beginning of the school year as is still habit today for these types of potential transitioning students.

Together we allowed for a minimum of a full week at a charming hotel and room, that captured the essences of London’s character. The girls to my advantage, by way of their admirable ability to organize had us well placed, safe and comfortable, to explore a thoroughly interesting and entertaining city. I loved London. What you see is what you got. My anticipations were accentuated as evidenced by my relentless desire to forgo any kind of sleep. During the day the three of us were prototypical tourists and my love for history and all English was absorbing. Come nightfall the girls were always in readiness, to turn in. The first evening, as I departed for music, dance and exploration,  I left thinking they were tired and rejuvenating. By the third night I assessed this was becoming a pattern of security, likely initiated by the parent’s. Ultra attractive women they are, but 1980 London for me was well demarcated in it’s potential dangers. I never had a situation or witnessed a confrontation. Today, I don’t know.  Paris on the other hand necessitates extra care because the corruption is hidden with sophisticated manners and the dangerous are disguised with fine clothing. Figures the French are notorious for perfume. By the fifth or sixth night I was freaking, “Are you kidding? You’re not going to party while we’re here! “Couldn’t get them out, couldn’t believe it.  I’d roll in at 5 or 6 every morning for a power nap and there they’d be, anticipating my arrival, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. “I’ll catch you up, for breakfast”, I said. My friend’s and I had a wonderful time.

We said our goodbye’s as I boarded a train for Dover and on reaching the port I casually asked a women seated across, why everyone simultaneously, seemed to be preparing to disembark. “Where are you going”? “Through Italy to Yugoslavia”. “Well you have to take the ferry”. “Ferry”? “You must be an American”. I didn’t say it, well I did say, “Canadian”, but to myself, ‘I need a vacation from this vacation’. But of course I like taller than me, German Blond’s, so I chatted her up, until we separated east and south, some twelve hours later and exchanged possibilities.

I remember thinking that I should prepare to stay awake as the train was soon to pass through the city of Milan and surrounding area. Of course, I slept during my given name and hours passed, when daylight at the border, startled to the sight of communist soldier’s, machine-guns and a tall watch-tower. Upon entering my province/state of Slovenia, I immediately began having problems with authorities, related to insignificant issues, as an obvious opportunity for bribery. To be short, my third luggage check was apparently needed because I was on a fast train with slow ticket. Questionable tactics. The normal civilized procedure of upgrading wasn’t available, as the hand-gun carrying ticket attendant rifled through my stuff, he slowed to a stop on Miss September. Smut, the harder the better, in Christian territory, is a cheap and effective way to deflect yourself through some marginal situations, if your basically innocent. I said to him, “Vzami vse te knjige, ze sem jih precital”. “Take all these books I’ve already read them”. He left me with the Economist and Time magazine but he also left me with a teaching moment. Cash bribes can turn hostile in a hurry.  I always made a point to carry the American glossy stuff if I could get my hands on it. They’re good for bartering, especially if your product is scarce. Almost instant gratification is a money saver, or maker.

After a few weeks of this kind of Marxist mentality and cultural extortion, had me seeking alternatives. The pace of mountain and farm life was snail like, so when a cousins friend offered shared transport to Germany, I headed north in search of tall, surrendering to a promised return at Christmas. Bettina was a student at the University of Tubingen, a place I frequently visited, as I unexpectedly showed at her residence, to be reacquainted. Things with her went splendidly and I decided that the Stuttgart, Reutlingen corridor would serve nicely as a temporary base. A few days later I scored employment by way of black market, as a carpenter in a cement factory. There I plied my new trade and lived the life of an undocumented immigrant. My smart, with height, bonus rich, blonde, was of course sceptical of some guy parachuting into her life but none the less, simultaneously fascinated with my enamour. The months I lived there we never consummated, however she was a superlative host as she opened up the flavours of her nation to a suspicious guest. As an aside, shockingly, she wrote me in Canada four years later, lamenting our lost opportunity. “C’est la vie”. Is any full life without the experience of regret? Get over it.

A year of travel is an arbitrary number, an approximate timetable, of anticipated event’s, wherein the wherewithal to survive an unknown distant land, adjustment to the beliefs of foreign opinions, an investigation of yourself through a mirror of uncommon perspectives and an eyeopening, raw examination of evil and how it functions politically without the self preserving protection of your family. After six months I was fortunate to be alive and situations were still in the process of playing out and would need to, as conclusions are a dynamic of my personality. However, the end game began from beyond, with first contact, after these significant months, from my friends in Paris and an arrangement to get together. I rented a car and leaving work early on a Friday, made the long drive from Metzingen to the “City of Lights”, the birthplace of The Age Of Enlightenment. In the evening, along the way, a suspect array of isolated fires and from the periphery of the city Nancy a cathedral burned like inferno, as flames touched and lapped at the black night sky. Omens?

I had suggested a three in the morning rendezvous, at, of course, the Eiffel Tower. To my chagrin, upon arrival, I couldn’t find hide nor hair nor security personnel. Who knew. A landmark of iconic proportions, in my imagination, would have to be a none stop circus of activity. My disappointment was only deterred by my worry, for corralling the girls to meet me in a secluded spot. No people, no washrooms, claim to fame, use one of the Eiffel legs as a fire hydrant. We all want to leave a mark before we leave the world stage. We greeted without incident, enjoyed our weekend in each others company and caught up on our, on goings. When I departed, I was without harbinger of returning to Paris, as I had projected our next hook up, back at home in Toronto and although we were together on our trip for brief period’s, an underlying sense of our common mission, was bonding.

Upon receiving an unanticipated message a couple of weeks yonder, stating one had suddenly lost her employment causing the other to also terminate and together they had decided to move on from France. I casually suggested they come and stay with me in Germany for the few weeks prior to spring as I knew they expected to visit relatives in Spain and England in the warming months. Voila, I once again rented a slightly larger automobile, as I promised to retrieve the girls with luggage but last minute my co-worker and friend changed his plans to fly home for the weekend and asked to join in my return, on the road to Paris again. This factored.

It had never crossed my mind, in any form, or in any part of my active imagination that I would have the strongest affection and desire of my life, in the coming hours, for Deborah. Again with gusto, not an inclination or anticipation or intuition. Overwhelming was my passion and adoration for her and of course these feelings can only be enhanced if they feel reciprocal. I still believe that an occurrence of this nature can only manifest if it isn’t contrived. It’s as if miracle. Do I believe that our love was, more or less, than the love’s of others? Of course not. It just feels that way. When logic doesn’t ask for satisfaction.

In the ensuing forty-eight hours, Deborah and I were already hot and heavy, checking out Paris with a final look and were now standing, the girls and all their belongings, strewn around the car, preparing to leave. You know that visual. Dilemma. Nick my buddy barely knows the girls, Janis was already on the road to matrimony, the luggage is of course shockingly, I say shockingly substantial than contemplated, for the car I’ve rented. Deborah and I had been without remorse, shamelessly, pawing each other as if on an island in the Pacific, somewhere before the current advent of evolution, never to need see the face of humanity and civilization. The garden of Eden was close to finding itself appleless. But God prodded us forward, as if rushing us with his approval. Anyway to remove the intrusiveness of calculations, I allow you to draw your own conclusions. Nick drove, Janis sat in the passenger seat behind the driver with some number of suitcases and other bags squeezing her firm, to the corner. The trunk of course was so full it had displaced all the oxygen. Naturally, Deborah had to sit the journey to Germany in my lap. Needless to say, by the time we voyaged the hours to my place, we were both toast. The jaws of life would be unable to separate us.

On looking back at the entire volume of my life, and the privilege of insight, with an extraordinary level of personal interaction, amongst a significant variety of people, I’m sure that I could have fallen for any number of great women. Some I did and they never knew. Minus the nitty-gritty and responsibility. The degree of contrast in respect to character amongst my female friends, was relatively speaking, insignificant, as their mutual similarities were more importantly pronounced. The aside, of unique individual historical circumstance and the severity of some of their singular realities, would be prominent influential variable’s when applied to alternative viewpoints amongst themselves. If Deborah was a compassionate, understanding, sensitive, loyal, loving, considerate, motherly, sensual, natural person, with a ruthless will to survive, how truly unalike could friend’s in each other’s orbit possibly be and in turn, a large portion of the female population that I personally tend to find attractive and gravitate. That we surrendered our inner emotional selves to each other and shared intimacy was the factor of cardinal significance. That I later betrayed these feelings and the events of which my resulting culminating actions produced, can still bring to me, a cringe. And the details of which are stored away in the filing cabinet of my mind under the heading “Shame”, never to see the light of day. I wish to apologize for harming the fraternity of womanhood, whereupon they bestowed to me a gem and I failed to appreciate there blessing. Well thankfully I can blame my immaturity, it’s the one useless crutch I can hang on to, while I lament and be despondent. In the end it’s all good. Stage right, enter, ‘cliche’, “Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all”.

So it wouldn’t be a stretch for my dreams to be soothed by romance films, of which I have several favourites. None can match, or emotionally correspond as succinctly, with the exacting psychological detail and of riveting character’s, for me, as ‘Casablanca”. In my imagination, which of course omits my weaknesses and I’m not as handsome and debonair, never the less I am much like Humphrey Bogart, and Deborah is as valiant and as stunning as Ingrid Bergman. In the climactic conclusion, the summation is an apropos of my love life. She plane’s away with another man to save the world, while I get stuck with the French Resistance Captain and a life of booze, gambling and women of the night. Life is fraught with missteps and unanticipated happenings but in the end, “We’ll always have Paris”. Plus a few extra picturesque weeks of European locations.

I had already put too torch our relationship, prior to Deborah’s return to Toronto. I made overtures and attempts at reconciliation after my far late realizations, even as she mercilessly rejected me and frustratingly, with elegant kindness, as was expected, of one I should love, so. I simply failed to recognize how rare these feelings were and that I needed to thoughtfully protect them, for both our sake’s. Of course I’ve had many substantial failure’s but this was far and away, my best work at destruction. We all eventually moved on from each other and as is common, snippets of information of each others lives somehow intermittently through the years, finds you. Nothing unusual to detail. The last time I looked into the beautiful face of Deborah is probably about thirty-seven years asunder. She is always my inspiration.

Irony, came out to play, as always unexpectedly, early in the year 2015. as a concept I conceived for reviving the life of a historical building, had in it’s infancy, received considerable support amongst a small group of building and financial professionals. I had hunted down Victoria’s phone # in New York by way of my father’s consistent friendship with her father. I had known that as a final arbitrator on the feasibility of a major structural project of this nature, it was easily within her purview of architectural experience to make a judgement. If information needed to be extracted for definition she and her surrounding group of peers had the means to make a final determination. On my initial call she had marvelled at the grandiose of potential, and ended our call, likening me to Santa Claus as in bringing her a gift. Nothing surprises me anymore.

I waited some weeks, as I had a preplanned stratagem in place that was going to suffer pace and had hoped for an unsolicited return call, supporting my internal conclusions. It never came, so I forced myself against my nature, to interrupt Victoria’s life a second time in an attempt to retrieve a bonafide answer, based on her initial positive response. Lo and behold, she answer’s and identifies her location as street level close to her abode, just around the corner from the 9/11 buildings and for me, as if knowingly, to guess who was with her, visiting. “No, who”? I asked. “Deborah”! Even to my heart-pounding surprise, with light-speed, it left from me, “Tell her I still love her”, and I immediately returned to the subject of my call. I found it strange that I couldn’t extract an answer from Victoria that would satisfy me one way or another. Can this building physically withstand the pressure necessary to become a viable, functioning again, structure? And Deborah, is a woman I should have married, of course if she had wanted to say yes. But that would have needed a mountain of forgiving. If you come to bliss, treasure it, once finding heaven here on earth, if rejected, it will be lost until you leave the human form.

Scorpions———-Holiday                                The Hollies—All I Need Is The Air That I Breath

Puccini: “O mio babbino caro”/Fleming . Marin . Berliner Philharmoniker

Buzzcocks—Ever Fallen in Love                   Sade———No Ordinary Love

Diana Ross——-Love Hangover                    Ruth Etting—–Love Me Or Leave Me

Serenade Enrico Toselli. Violin and Piano Natalia Walewska and Tomaz Zajac

Rolling Stones—–Angie                                  David Bowie——Hero’s

On my thirteenth birthday or there about, I came home from school to have my mother lead me downstairs into our recently almost completed recreation room, to present me with a top of the line, brand spanking new, 4 by 8 pool table. How she ever came to this idea, I will forever be grateful and sacrifice every gift I’ve ever received, to what became my lifelong hobby. I suspect her capacity for craft and thrift, induced an effort to kill two birds with one stone. She was an avid dressmaker, sower and knitter so the pool table served the dual purpose of workstation, by simply covering the top with a firm plywood board. She loved shopping for fabric and patterns to maintain an active use of her collection of industry quality machinery. My sisters served as models to dresses and I tended to be the recipient of winter wool sweaters. The pocket billiard table was to become an adventure into the unknown and if my initial enthusiasm was lacking, that changed as I began assessing the games charm and complexities.

On occasion, relatives of the rural kind, would test my mantle by pushing a pistol or rifle into my hands and suggest I take the life of rodent or varmint. I couldn’t do it. City born living had quashed my desire to eliminate a cat or wolf or Richardson’s ground squirrel, primarily for the sake of protecting crops or livestock, but included sport. I received the shrugging of my cousin’s disapproving shoulder’s with embarrassment, as I manipulated the situation into wasting ammo on inanimate stationary target’s. Here in Toronto my Godfather was an avid hunter with the Slovenian Hunters lodge and served for many years, first as director, then as chairman. I had ample opportunity to hunt in Ontario for dear, moose, or rabbit but never had stomach, for joining my dad and others of our clan, on these northern expeditions. Without the inherent violence of hunting, billiards served as substitute for my desire of shooting, with the practicality of living in a city. I had other strong interests and always work, but because I loved pool so much, I began excelling with the intricacies of the game where the real joy lies, as with all things, great.

Billiard’s or pool, at the highest level’s is a sophisticated, intelligent, physical and psychological battle against the widest spectrum of, to be adversaries. To become a world class shooter you need to acquire ability, through volumes of practice and experience, by seeking out players of better quality and varying approaches. The price demanded by the hierarchy for pilfering of said craftsmanship, is cold hard currency. The larger your arsenal of skills, or as I refer to them, weapons, evolved your strategies, nimble the awareness and creative your game, the more difficult it becomes to defeat you.  It comes that time, where you are aware, of only a hand full of players that can still challenge your game. In Toronto for me that time came to realization between 1987 to about 1997.

To be an achieved player, initially the springboard to success favours the loner. Being similar, to perfecting a musical instrument, whereby endless hours of trial and error beckons an endless allocation of time to self absorbing practice. You become hermit.  To have chance at the long road to master, you love it and all consequence is surrendered. Intermittently you will marvel at air and breathing, or sun and tanning. Then as if butterfly escaping cocoon, you set forth, in quest for refinement and the required teaching, repetitive failure, biting lip advice and the criticism that only harsh defeat can bring, to open yourself to interpretation, in hopes of gaining insight, perspective and intuition. To be a high quality player asks for the examination of all things, in particular those elements that are outside of the game itself. You can not plan to draw a line at some arbitrary point and decide I’ve completed learning, for it would deter you as an absorbing student. To fail, implies any amount of weaknesses that can’t be overcome or aren’t understood. A missing mathematical equation against a well tutored and practiced opponent is easily exploited. The very good seem lucky, because they eliminate the chance of failure and maximize on the potential for success. They exert by ambition, drive, and tenacity a tremendous amount of pressure, on an opponent, effortlessly.

I was recognized as a quick, smooth skating, with excellent foot and stick work, hockey player. Leading scorer or vying. In Canada we have many of these. Father had me playing at Saint Michael’s Arena by age five with the downtown elite Toronto Olympic Hockey Club. Many pro-players, some great, came through this organization. Summer’s I spent in power skating school, at a place if anyone is alive to recall, named Tam O’Shanter, (burned down) the grateful recipient of NHL tutelage. The truth be told I was partial to the grace of figure-skating and dance-skating (also as an aside fencing) observing with keen admiration, the skills training that ran concurrently in the adjoining rinks. Unfortunately, developmentally to be proficient in these disciplines, would require more than passing fancy. My growth spurt came late and I was beginning to suffer serious injury, that logically accompanies six foot tall 180 pound, fourteen year old defencemen with sadist streak. I recall one in particular, whose parent’s appropriately named, Houston. I’d come out of the corner boards as if mauled by African wildlife, by these type’s of ucker’s. I was sadly suspecting that it wasn’t going to happen, this dream I shared with my father of becoming pro. In hind sight, there may have been a chance, be it miniscule and would have required regimented devotion to weight-lifting. Some of my friends were training on a regular basis and I could only gag-on, the concept of.  I preferred hours on the billiard table as opposed to the gym. So by my nineteenth I was a sniper shot, unaware of my quality and not caring, because for me billiard’s was an escape from people and school and the overall rat-race of ambition. My hockey career had produced a broken wrist, cracked ankle, intense facial damage, and all around bruising of the torso and legs. The positive that I garnered from these injuries is genetically I heal rapidly, as athlete’s are likely to do, because of increased strength and speed in metabolism.

It was quickly approaching and I was deferring, actually kicking and screaming from the required decision making, the course my higher studies should aspire to, at the conclusion of high school. I was the consummate procrastinator. The recurring theme was social worker, teacher and my secondary choices of journalism or politics as this was consistent with my second obsession, with foreign affairs and history. My high school friends and classmates, to avoid words used on the street, with diminishing (geeks) derogatory fashion, these types, were the intellectuals. I wasn’t hanging with the athletes, the should be natural alliance, or the artists or the pot heads, well any of the factions every school has. The kids I spent time with at lunch, met before school should I choose to go, talked with on school trips or related personal trips, with rare exception, became executives, presidents and vice, lead arbitrage, law firm partners, and as example, to corporation such as IBM, Bombardier, now merged Wood Gundy, other U.S. brokerage houses and Canadian banks. I was Black Sheep. They were securing their future and destiny, I was nomadic, directionless and lost. When I became waiter, I wilfully surrendered to the arbitrary totem-pole of professions and in North America wouldn’t even be considered worthy of any such standing or profile. Personally I never felt shamed despite the stigma, however, the pressure of miscalculating my future weighed heavy. It was as if I prematurely completed school with the worst possible grades but graduated and sent myself to placement.

Pool cue in one hand, serving tray in the other, became my sword and shield on the front lines of mankind’s self-created, by willful ignorance, battlefield, disguised by the presumption of peace. My perspective concludes that the world is constantly at war. Across all income levels mankind at his core is a ruthless animal with periodic stumbles into sympathy or compassion and these too are often used as tools for deceit and survival. Everyone, given enough time to interact, will eventually be recognized as friend or foe. The middle, grey area is only a stage or orbit of interaction, waiting for assessment. My philosophical position’s and statement’s have been visited and revisited by historical scholastic thinker’s from time infinitum. My aim here isn’t to challenge or dissect their position’s and should you have sincere curiosity, university, or a journey of personal research awaits, the study of my regurgitated beliefs.

My new found job and now always hobby, contributed to changing the dynamics of my life. Instead of isolation or feeling always as outsider, hardly a unique phenomena for large portions of the population, I was required to interact with people and fight through insecurities to maintain employment.  “You have to take the good with the bad”, well the surprise for me, the bad after considerable effort, turned good. If I was a self described social outcast, the business of restaurant’s opened new and interesting observations about the world and myself in it. Similarly pocket billiards unexpectedly opened avenue’s to new sometimes extreme situation’s and curious dialogue. One of the first, turning to many social situation’s, was during my away from home, in Germany and an invitation by one of three Marines for the weekend to an American Military Base. Soldier’s of any country and all rank tend to socialize around games that include darts, chess, ping pong and of course billiards. My practical experience’s were finding expression in strange fashion. Minus the normal approach to academia these multiplying events, would feed into the schooling I needed to examine, but postponed and would eventually return to by way of alternate route, as a mature student.

Waiter and shooter turned me into a social animal. If I was reserved and shy and under-confident, the continuos enjoyable foray into the observation and conduct of humans, reversed those natural tendencies of my character. I was never without invitation. The party seemed, as if never ending. If one thing wasn’t going, then another was surely happening. I was in the court, of every form of thinking and conceptualizing. Be they soldier’s, sailor’s, spies, be they dentist’s, doctor’s, nurse’s, be they, professor’s, guru’s, teacher’s, be they carpenter’s, plumber’s, bricklayer’s, be they psychiatrist’s, emergency services, or social worker’s, be they, drug dealer’s, bank robber’s or prostitutes, be they banker’s, builder’s or politician’s, be they media giants, weathermen, or journalist’s, all form would come available to my lair, for frank, enthralling and open conversation, when they were so willing. I was sponge.

Rod Stewart———————-Maggie May                   Eagles————Take It To The Limit

The Pursuit of Happiness–“I’m An Adult Now”     Bob Seger——-Night Moves

Dire Straits————————Sultans of Swing          Juice Newton—-Angel Of The Morning

Pink Floyd——-Another Brick In The Wall              Eagles————-Hotel California

I was meandering home from school, probably daydreaming, as my best friend’s older brother pulled up alongside me. I thought it coincidental, for we’d never had reason to share space, although opportunities had been abound. Later as an afterthought to these unfolding events, I noticed he never kept company with any of his peers, before or after. Greg my classmate would on occasion invite me to their backyard to play in the homemade fort-clubhouse, ingeniously picturesquely placed, prototypically designed into the heart of a marvellous gigantic oak tree. If Greg was tall, lanky, say scrawny, developmentally challenged and somewhat effeminate well Gerrard in grade six and three years older was his opposite. Why on this day he chose to interact I couldn’t begin to conjecture but if writing fiction, we could branch into many directions. Maybe he didn’t like me playing in the clubhouse, that he maybe helped build. Could have been maybe anything. Some people just don’t like me. With sidewalk, we were approaching the southeast knee high brick wall protecting the grass and foliage of the Ukrainian church property when he began with inflammatory comment’s, directed at my mother. Boys do that, “them’s be fightin’ words”. Father we could care less, mother, well any self respecting boy knows we go to war for mom. I was afraid, for it felt as if I was going to suffer a consequential pummelling if I didn’t demure.

When in a fight you can never anticipate an opponents preferred approach to homicide, should they relish in your permanent departure. For Gerrard, I was to discover the thrill was suffocation and I’m guessing the entailing, bulging eyes, squirming, shaking, deafening silence, and at conclusion, a breathless body. He could have chosen any number of methods to victimize but this seemed to be a true and tried form of assault. Or maybe he was a natural.

I made my one obligatory derogatory rebuttal as we passed in front of the religious icons that graced the temple of goodness, as if a movie about mob and then ran like hell. Most of my calculations were correct except for the split-second I failed from fear in opening the wooden side door that would lead between two walls to my backyard and safety. The pursuit, as you knew there had to be, was about fifty yards, or we’d be without story. The lower hinges mounting the door and the brick that secured it’s workings came to serve as headboard as I lay there on concrete tile with his hands grasping my delicate neck. Breathless from dashing I resisted furiously, and let’s face it, all living cells that manufacture your body are alerted to the highest level of defensive.  The use of leverage, some prying and praying, eventually something inside an unknown length of time, interrupted his progress, fortuitously.

When I got in the house to my waiting mother and our boarder’s who were visiting, my symptom’s were, grateful to be alive, still gasping for air, finger marks and a broken voice. It wasn’t much, before my mother was on her way, the ten house’s up the street to confront my perpetrator’s birth giver. There she received an assorted continuation of we are stupid immigrant’s, my kids are decent and I’ll report your family to the school. In turn my mother told them not to touch her child again. In recalling this fifty year old incident, I took this statement to mean, “or else”.

The time frame and some of the conditions aren’t certain but other aspects are etched forever in my memory. It was some several weeks after schools end, without a follow up incident and of course I was providing a wide berth to all member’s of the hostile family. It was the middle of summer break and a nice day for our regular daily activity of visiting Christie Pits with my mom. We were using the well worn path that passed the entrance of our Olympic size community pool and then proceeded along it’s outer perimeter with expectations of a happy visit to the children’s playground at the far end. We were moving along the north wall, turned right along the east wall and there inside the asphalted nook we find the two brother’s playing with an Indian rubber ball. The surprise in accidentally coming upon them and with my mother beside, wasn’t deterent to Gerrard directing a snarl and growl toward’s us. To avoid walking through them I ushered my resistant mother out and away from where they were playing and down a small ridge around them to the grassy area that made up most of our grand park.

Overtaken by the spirit of the moment, Gerrard couldn’t resist whipping the Indian rubber ball with vigour against the Christie Pits pool building. Feigning play as disguise, on two bounces his trajectory was likely intended to scare but if it happened to strike so much the better. I was avoiding looking at them, ignoring any potential taunting and sure enough fate would have it, that ball catches from the side, my right eye. From that distance I considered it a terrible miracle. For him. Instantly a welt and one seriously pissed off mother. If I wasn’t concerned about her charging over to destroy this punk, I may have felt some discernible pain but I grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the playground, repeatedly telling her to forget it. Of course Gerrard was enjoying the trauma and Greg my friend was between a rock and hard place.

Despite everything all was forgotten, with the passing of some hours, as we had fun and began heading home. We re-remembered the negative on passing  the area of incident. Seemingly, gratefully, the boys were long gone. Instead of retracing our approach we switched our direction and proceeded around the northwest baseball diamond, as it wasn’t being used. Coincidentally at some point I took a peek back and low and behold they were behind us unaware that we were out front. What possessed me to begin scheming the destruction of my nemesis?

After effusive debate I sent my mother ahead, so that during my planned point of contact with the enemy, she would be arriving at the peak of the steep hill that is the north side of Christie Pits. Convincing her was a tedious chore but thankfully she submitted and probably began internalizing a plan of her own. I certainly wasn’t going to use her in an ambush but I’m sure she thought herself close enough to double back and club him, if needed. I was giving up speed, to reflect their pace and they were still unaware of my now, hovering. I was banking a considerable amount of capital on the one clear advantage of him needing to attack upward and I defend downward. They reached the foot of the hill and had begun pushing themselves forward for the climb. All the while, I noticed, amused with the horde of dandelions under their feet. I had begun slowly striding horizontally across the hill and my mother was mimicking my movements some 30 meters away. I had him lined-up for one good hook. I was craving it.

I’ve visited my old neighbourhood many times over the ensuing decades, more often to reminisce, having moved in 69 to the suburbs. It transforms in intervals with the arrival of a never-ending stream of immigrants from alternating hemisphere’s and the clash of a population with lower than average income. During one stretch I found shocking to find the Pits was dangerously inundated with used syringes, but they cleaned it up and it’s currently in a decent cycle. So it was unusual that as I hovered the side of the hill, that I would unexpectedly come upon two empty, flattened, crushed, pop cans. The Gods. Mere seconds after picking up and placing one in each hand and behind my back, Gerrard as anticipated, finally became joyously dementedly aware and charged. As he grunted forward up the hill like a Viking, all I could see was the top of his noggin and when he was one additional than my arm length away,  I released the can from my right hand to his left, ascending head of hair. Blood gushed out, grabbing both sides of his head he began feeling the flood of warmth spreading into his left hand and began squealing. That empty can did some serious damage. In my defence, who knew. I was out of there like a jack-rabbit. My mother at that distance surely witnessed the howling and on his knees clutching. However, the Shakespearean scene was more personal for me and having nearly instantly reached her, I behaved as if I was merely hiding a messy room. “Lets go”. I don’t believe my mother would have left a child to die even if it was the devil himself. I wouldn’t ask Bonnie this question in this stage in her life. Unnecessary.

Some hours later I was relieved that Gerrard’s mother was at our door screaming obscenities, half of which my mother likely didn’t understand. Thankfully I didn’t perform manslaughter, as it would obviously have  altered my life incomprehensibly. The beginning of school year I joined a gang, primarily for protection, although some were involved in petty crimes, I abstained. Also early mornings Saturday during the warm months at the Pits hundreds of boys would gather at the entrance of the pool before opening and box with gloves at the makeshift club. I had two fights and got clocked in both. I never used a weapon against anyone after the incidents with Gerrard. Only my hands and always to defend, except once. Greg and I never renewed our friendship. He was a defenceless victim.

Chicago———Saturday in the Park                   Alice Cooper———Schools Out for Summer

Mary Hopkins-Those were the Days                 Ohio Express——–Yummy Yummy Yummy

The Rolling Stones- Jumpin Jack Flash             Otis Redding–(Sittin’) On the Dock of the Bay

Simon and Garfunkel–Mrs. Robinson               Steppenwolf—-Born to be Wild

Chicago—25 or 6 to 4                                             The Black Keys—-Tighten Up

I wasn’t planning to have Farrah as the first of The Stars segment of my auto-biography. Appropriately, this came about because it was my sister’s birthday and her good friend’s as they always do came to visit. I find these events difficult as they lead to reflecting and in turn to being emotional. For myself, avoiding sentimental issues is survivalist, for it leaves me in a debilitated state. Thankfully this condition is exhausting and we move on. Icons never move on, they become frozen in history. Trouble is they can never be more than what they were, so they live today but are always remembered as yesterday. Few are strong enough to live in this condition, for after all, we are not Gods. They become the walking living past.

I don’t want anyone to think I assume to know what people think and this includes women, but I do have a mother, two sisters and a daughter and an admirable array of broken relationships, so you’ve got to know, I’ve got to be right sometimes. I’m not going to get bogged down here with the gender issue because personally I think it’s a lemming. Our spirit is significant regardless of which body it happens to find itself in.

So returning to this reflecting thing and my perspectives, the influence of Farrah on my teenage years needs to be described as profound. Would have I, considered this assessment and made it during the heat of the moment. Hardly, after all I was a Sabrina guy, but remember, I probably couldn’t be a Sabrina guy without Farrah. Most of our living, breathing population has no idea what I’m talking about. They will create there own unique experiences, as each generation expresses itself individually then by extension collectively to shape there own hero’s and symbols.

 We decide what’s in, who’s in and who’s out and what’s out. By the way what’s with all the tattoo’s. Oh, Oh, exposed myself. Old-fashioned. I was just never into maiming or inflicting violence. Seems so environmentally unfriendly. Maybe, that’s it, lost hope. Gotta use pain to get that back. Most likely I just miss the point.

I didn’t have pin-up girls posted in my bedroom, many other things going on, yes. See how I handle touchy subjects? But I did get around. Few got around as much. I manufactured a lifestyle to push the threshold of getting around. Be it relative’s or friend’s, across a range of age’s, up and down the States or coast to coast in Canada, England, Paris, Rome, Slovenia, Croatia, Latin America I don’t know and the Orient at that time, I don’t think so, but I walked into many guys rooms to find Farrah on the wall. Many men wanted to reproduce her. Fertility deities will survive all the movement’s that maliciously attempt to destroy them as long as man has breath. Bitterness shall also pass and die. Be it Venus, or Aphrodite, or Guinevere, or Joan of Arc a huge, huge list of successful women happen to be attractive. I don’t believe any of these historical figure’s who’s names whisper through the lips of man and time, weren’t in some way special people. But because they’re special people it doesn’t mean they get to bypass suffering.

So my sister’s and their friend’s and my girlfriend’s wouldn’t have been shy of emulating at least in part if not in totality the fashion, the hair, the make-up, the lingo, the dancing, the partying, the schooling, the dreaming, the communicating, the bonding, the pain, the caring, the living, I mean this was us, or at least a representation of a significant fraction of us, in the 70’s. Do you wan’t to take it back, even if you could? I liked my generation, we were alive, we liked nature, we were on the move, we loved music, we were ambitious, we wanted to know and were free or at least as free as anyone needed to be. We were still responsible, (because we had to be) maintained commitments (took much of our free time) and still believed in family (that’s all we really are). Every generation pays a price for the direction it embarks and every society has to contend with mischief and greed and other ugliness but I believe the essence of our time was sweet. If I wasn’t delusional how could I go on.

We were firing on all cylinders this fine day with a full compliment of staff and the public attention we deserved.. All our doors and windows were invitingly open and my section was small, meaning less stressful, enjoyable and I was grateful. I had five tables of two, fondly referred to in restaurant parley as deuces, my preferred choice of modus operandi. We had two greeting stations at two entrances, womenned by two hostesses at each and I was at one chatting and sizing up the battle field which for me, is an on going, served me well, process. I still had one available table, as the other four were already gamely eating and I began doubling back in the normal frame required to be punctual and attentive. I was a considerable distance for my poor sight, observing Farrah scoping her menu and she looked up at my coming direction, I had instant recognition. Without suave, I suspect emitting such excitement with my demeanour that she reciprocated this same exuberance towards me. From then until her departure we were like five year olds in a sand box. I have on occasion overreacted but I’m hardly a ga ga guy. I felt very protective of her.

Farrah was reaching the later stage of her life. Avoiding being ferocious in my description of her physical decay would be proper if it didn’t serve as foil, to her sweet as pie, down to earth, wholesome innocence and internal beauty. She looked as if she’d been holed up for a decade in the basement of any big city projects. Yet her unique blue eyes were caring and compassionate. She was rolling her shoulders back and forth grateful for my undying attention. Farrah wasn’t flirtatious she was just content that somewhere, someone still remembered and I received the affection of that representation. She was embarrassed to be seen in public but had courage and here she was in the current cat’s ass, centre of hollywood north, feeling like a fish out of water, with all the beautiful people. The irony wasn’t lost. My staff too young and the customers to absorbed in themselves to take a second look, all was unaware. If a famous person is identified in Yorkville, Toronto it’s similar to throwing a match onto a combustable. Maybe two or three of our staff of fifty, if keen, would understand what Farrah meant to my boys, in our prime. I said nothing. Farrah and I had lunch as I worked, which soon after, was the only time, the last time.

Don Henley————Boys of Summer

America——————Sister Golden Hair

Hall and Oates———She’s Gone

Dorothy Moore——–Misty Blue

Gary Wright————Dream Weaver

For anyone whose paying attention, demographics show a hefty percentage of our population becoming seniorized and the aches in my body combined with the observation of my parents mental decline, bring these statistics into starkness. My father who is 87 years old is the new 54, my mother being 82 well she’s the new 6 and myself, sixty, have some friend’s in their twenties and feel grateful. I read, (which makes me think I should stop reading) somewhere in Europe some guy wants to change his legal documented age from 70 to 50 years old because he looks and feels younger and when I mentioned this to one of my twenty something year old friends he said that’s not unusual and that some guy in the states wants to change his documented sex gender to a ‘muffler’.  Yes, that’s right, that thing underneath the back of a car. Is he joking? Well  I’m grateful for having a cross-section of today’s youth as friends. They keep me on my toes and grounded! If your meandering around the city as I’m want to do, you would come across incident’s where should I be sensitive, would think I’ve been discriminated because of my age. Truth is many people of all ages have lost touch and are resentful. Best is walk and find the happy and search the enthralling.

So recently, I spent a couple of weeks in the psychiatry ward of one of our excellent Toronto hospitals. This happens when a family member calls the police on themselves, believing that someone else is guilty of their own blatancy. The closer truth is we’re all just human. Well I witnessed the calm, cool phone call as Bonnie gave away our location. I being instantly Clyde was surprised to find what seemed to be a SWAT team at our front door. Embedded within was a medical team and having had privilege of acquaintance’s who are military, police, firefighters, EMS and CSIS I didn’t say much as they did their questioning and assessment. After observing the ensuing struggle with this 80 something year old, they carted her away on a gurney. I did do, was warn them she wouldn’t leave her abode without fight and as I suspected police services wasn’t going to listen as they hadn’t figured me out. Not to be flippant, although I love it so, when removing the seriousness, I found it all, as you can see, amusing. They asked if I wanted to join the procession and could ride the ambulance to relieve my concern. I said “no thanks”. “Give me a call when she’s settled in”. If your parent’s are ‘getting up there’, take a break when the opportunity present’s itself.

With relief, a couple of weeks later, we got out of Sing Sing and were then required to do follow up visits with the Memory Clinic. Well Bonnie, sometimes still thinks she’s Bonnie and who knows maybe one day soon I will be Clyde. Come to think of it being gunned down in a hail of bullets could bring us instant relief. Lucky are we, to be devote Christian and against the concept of assisted suicide. We are truly blessed! Those little happy computer faces do they have little angel ones? Anyway these occurrences manifest as we approach the anniversary of a loved persons death. We’re on the road to recovery and doctor give me some pills. Depression, anger and anxiety are emotions that the brain needs to avoid. If the grief is severe combined with immobility and isolation the mind for the sake of preservation begins to shut-down. Neurologist I’m not, however, I’ve made some observations, for what they may be worth. The Memory Clinic unwittingly was quite helpful and I believe the general problem becomes that each case has specific individual needs, whereby their mission is to brush a broad stroke in an attempt to help everyone. Returning to demographics the system is unable to financially and with the amount of humanitarian power needed, cope with the influx of patients. More sad, those with the motor skills and reflexive actions to go through the motions of surviving, but are so alone in their dwellings.

“You think I want to see misery”? As an undocumented caregiver you take statements as these to heart from those you care about. I’ve had to curtail our shared t.v viewing experience because my interests are having a negative impact. The daily news is out, western’s out, military epics down the toilet and upchuck Chucky and anything the like. Could you imagine attempting to watch Alfred Hitchcock’s ‘The Birds’ with my mother. This would be horror superior. These maneuver’s upon recognition, I can control but television itself presents problems with variable programming and other consumer inducing tactics that negatively impact an aged persons mood. The box is still vital because it allows them to feel like they’re still in touch with the world outside themselves. However, the parent’s and I are watching a comedy, commercial break, dog in cage malnourished on verge of death. Great, send money and save them or feel guilt and despair. It’s cruel to expose our seniors to this type of harassment but I understand that profit making is paying for the programming. I can’t sit there for significant periods of time playing “big brother” with my trigger finger on the clicker monitoring potential negatives. Simply not practical although I try, and they won’t do it for themselves because we are not that calculating anymore. Is it my imagination or does the volume heighten and decrease on it’s own. When you observe television through the eyes of a senior your perspective can feel like shock therapy. Comedy today is not the Partridge Family fluff. Although I notice that my parent’s can seem clueless but when “Fraiser” comes on they seem to understand and laugh at the appropriate places.  Even your children are exposed to a level of rottenness and extremism and hyperactivity that I just can’t accept as being necessary to educate. Anyway I could write a book on my observations but I’m busy working on something else.

Solutions. To anybody with gumption and ambition, I see a market, today and tomorrow. Navigating through computers and identifying individual interests for seniors tends to be too complex. Psychiatrists through mental health institutions, to universities and to our cable provider. I’m willing to pay additional for programming that suites the needs of my seniors well being. As a simple observation and without complex logic, differing human types and brain patterns may require more than one channel. Three, four channels could do the trick. Exercise and stimulate their minds in a helpful and healthy way.  I probably couldn’t predict the shape of this kind of concept. Seniors homes could be put to use experimentally in diagnosing collectively a better approach to good living, than random channel searching. We need something between the easy listening music channel and reported shootings at Morningside and Sheppard.  I’m being nice and biting my lip. I’m living the dream. Sayonara.

Boys in my family have to face many “rites of passage”, an imaginary litmus test of our manhood and also a measure necessary for securing the role of family head. Reprehensible as this is for new wave thought, this time tested self inflicted exam incorporated by my hierarchy and under attack for destruction by, non like-minded organizations and individuals has been a basis, for centuries, of our survival. Arguably it’s effectiveness if calculated, could be considered wanting, depending which criteria is used to decipher it’s net worth. In my family it tends to be equated on a scale consisting of Body Count to somewhere north of 500 Canadian dollar’s. (currency values 2018)

We having come to Canada in the late 50’s and being of European stock inclusive of Celtic origin, with many modifications, transitioned quite nicely into the English rules of engagement understood openly as the Marquess of Queensberry Rules. This standard as a part of our school life and community life was followed quite stringently by all levels of our society.  Experience’s as witnessed by me, trended toward’s a test of bravery and courage not annihilation. In the same situation another could find distinctly different impression but I tend to find many of those I associate with to this day, respect those same parameter’s of cultural life and reality as I do. Why? Because no one should lead lamb to slaughter while still in fullness of innocence. I support this rational across all aspects of life, although we can admit to the brutality of man’s environment. We should expect our children to grow into civility with a fighting chance to fend for themselves. The in’s and out’s of history bring us again to an extreme period, where marauding thugs and groomer’s disguised as decent people are attempting to separate the innocent from the pack.

In the animal kingdom sparing amongst kid’s is a part of the arsenal required for understanding and surviving the wholeness of life. Today our institutions are trying to change the rules of engagement but unfortunately the big ticket items, that could produce the expected utopia as advanced by our leadership has no evidence of sincere evolution. Actually their own headlines are screaming on a regular conveyer belt “We Live in Dangerous Times”. Well if that”s true, policy and prophecy has evidentially been an abject failure. I’ve been warning our children not to skirmish with the unknown because today’s competitor is not aware of your sense of community. During our decades of upbringing and uniformity of culture one could expect, if in hand to hand combat, a child or teenager might suffer a bloody nose or a black eye or at something similar to the worst and more by accident, a broken jaw. However, today’s adversary is quite capable without regret to move in for a kill and step over your dead body without remorse, adding to the abhorrence. The up-tic of people that could go ‘off on you’ is on the rise. Standing up for yourself is no longer a part of growing-up. It can be a death sentence or a life of debilitation. Everyone is not playing by the same rules. I attribute all this to traffic and everything it takes to make too much traffic. Blessed are they, who live without traffic in their heart.

Camera’s give us a false sense of security, the knowing Chaperone of compassion and experience is more likely to identify the enemy and deserve’s to make a comeback. Many of the worst atrocities are committed in the sublime of human contact that includes conversation with the intent of manipulation and doesn’t immediately visually express itself but rather manifests when all is unaware. People of responsibility are valued members of our society and the most benevolent gang is still the family unit. Life will never be perfect and lets not prematurely discard  method’s of survival that have worked. Demeaning or laughing at or criticizing these method’s of protection and security find’s it’s roots often in the larger scheme of things.

Sri Parvati devi