--The Precariously Balanced Life of a Garbage Man-- Kat Heyde

People watching never ceases to amaze me. From your neighbors across the way to the daycare kids picking their street crossing buddy, the small glimpses of other peoples lives continuously fascinates me. I am lucky enough to have an excellent perch above a busy street corner making it an ideal place for people spotting. Walking to the metro the other day, I watched a garbage truck for quite some time. With their frequent stops, they were moving about the same pace as me, so I got to follow their progress for several blocks. The two men hanging off the back of the truck were polar opposites. One older man, who was rocking a drooping handlebar mustache, carried the slightly jaded air of someone who had been on the job for too many years. The other, a tall handsome man in his early twenties exuded energy and constantly teased his co-worker. Stopped at a light, the older man listened with a patient grin as the other told an extravagant story about last night’s shenanigans. Tossing his arms in the air and gesturing wildly, he failed to notice the light go green. The driver, apparently bored with their slow process, shot into the intersection with impressive speed and the young man bailed off the back of the truck. Picking his self up as gracefully as possible in the given situation, he chased the garbage truck. His co-worker, bent double with laughter, pounded on the back of the truck, trying unsuccessfully to gain the attention of the driver. A two block chase ensued. When the young man finally reached the truck, it was just preparing to turn down decarie. The older man, still laughing hysterically, reached out his hand and pulled him up onto his own tiny perch, where the two nestled close together and rode off into the sunset.

-----The Day Jesus Came Back to Life---- Jason Connell

When I was 19 I went to Hong Kong on my own. The potent mix of teenage over confidence and fresh testosterone led me to believe I needed to visit a small Chinese industrial town alone to celebrate Chinese New Years amongst the people. So I got on a bus that drove through the day and into the night and at 4:00am it dropped me off just past nowhere. Eventually a man picked me up in his car. I didn’t want to go, but I could not imagine any other thing to do - I don’t speak Chinese, I have no cell phone, and I don’t even know where I am. So the car drives me around and the guy doesn’t speak English. A big hotel appears on the horizon like a gleaming mirage answering all of my western, white boy prayers. I thought “awesome, I can’t believe this guy is taking me to a hotel!” We drove up and I started to feel relaxed already. He slowed down at the entrance and I began to unbuckle. Before I could open the door though, he sped back up and drove down a long dark alley. The car stopped and he dragged me out. I was thinking I’m going to die. Thoughts like “I wish I had some more Yuan in my fucking wallet to give this guy – I hope he’ll take what I have and leave me alone” criss crossed my mind. I’d heard of this shit happening to tourists before, and I knew he had a gun. I weighed the situation and figured that if he beat me up I’d consider myself lucky. It seemed to make more sense for him to kill me and strip me of my ID then it did for him to beat me up and let me run to the police. I’m fucking dead. 19 and dead.

Well look, I’m not here to tell that story, and it’s a weird one, but I’ll leave it at this: I got away with my life and ended up getting a decent nights rest, though not at the hotel. The important part, is that you understand, I am acquainted with the edge.

So today is Easter. About 1,000,000 years ago, the only son of God died and came back to life. I’m not religious, but this is undeniably an impressive trick. My family lives in a different country, so I was going to spend the holiday alone. The plan was this: gorge myself on Easter candy and try not to feel too alone. My plans were foiled when my friend invited me to his folk’s house for Easter dinner. Nothing fancy, but a way better option than spending the day alone, trying not to feel alone.

We had all been chatting for a few hours before the roast was put out on the table. It was delicious. I don’t eat much meat, so I’m not an expert on this one, but as far as I know, that was a great hunk of meat. Anyways this is what its like to live on the edge: I’m a guest at friend’s parents house on the holiest day of the year. I’d had a bit to drink, but in no way was I drunk. Then, there it was: the set up for the most perfect penis joke. If I were with my boys on a night out I wouldn’t hesitate for a second; but this was not a night out, it’s was holiday dinner with a friend and his parents. But this was too good a chance to let slide by. Without much hesitation, I slowly delivered the penis joke. It’s not that I was confident that this was the right thing to do. In fact, I knew it was the wrong thing to do. But this isn’t about etiquette at tea parties, this is about finding the edge in a boring life, a life riddled by inane paradoxes like, “how can I watch House and the Office if they are both showing at 8:00pm.” That’s what this is about, looking at that edge, and saying “fuck you” as you slowly cross it.

The joke went over well. It was one of those times when the half seconds felt like weeks. I didn’t think that they were going to laugh. They didn’t laugh for about two long seconds, but then it clicked. They got it. That moment when you smoothly get away with something that everyone knows you shouldn’t be doing and everyone is slightly better off for it; that’s life on the edge.

--Narc in the Water--Connor Timmons

I was drawn back into stories of Peter Cotton tail on our way to the show, “through the yard, across the muddy parking lot, along the chain link fence to where the hole is.” Rather specific and shockingly accurate directions got us to the industrial space turned squat where Jesse made his home. Clusters of pin cushioned metal enthusiasts lined the stretch of fence leading to the entrance, providing a preview of the scrutiny we were to encounter for the rest of the night. “I should have worn more black...and leather” whispered my date, nailing my sentiments squarely on the head, “and tattoos” I added. We joked about how we could find a pair of scissors somewhere and lop off a couple of tufts of hair from our heads if we felt the need to fit in. Indeed we began to focus our anthropological lenses around the comically cramped space, noting, cataloguing and sharing the more insightful of our observations during lulls in the music/feedback.

It was only when Prevenge, the third group on the bill, began setting up that we were able to hopscotch our way into the back of the space and establish a good view. I began to notice the crowd reacting to me in a uncomfortable and unfamiliar manner. Ordinarily I have a knack for blending into the background, not reclusively, but the term “confidently unremarkable” does seem to sum up large swathes of my party going experiences. This was different, there was some attention being sent my way. I couldn't quite put my finger on it but there it was-like an unclaimed bag on an airport carousel; skirting from pair of eyes to pair of eyes, a look of uncertainty and distrust.

The lead singer began singing and I was lost in his voice, which sounded something like a cross between an industrial drill and a blow dryer. I spent the better part of the first song attempting to decipher the words of Prevenge's lyrics. I ultimately decided that they were either about hating ones lot in life or were a recipe for chocolate raspberry cake. Given that 99.9% of the were white males, I couldn't bring myself to believe that they would have much to complain about so passionately; so I asked the next logical question of myself, jam or fresh raspberries?

Mid way through the third song/recipe at the lyric (“you can never escape me/chill and serve with tea”) I noticed more looks and recognized them. I tugged on my date's sleeve, “Holy fuck! They think I'm a narc!” She turned, looked me top to bottom, giggled and replied “they totally do!” Here's what she saw: an unpierced short guy in his late twenties wearing a relatively new pair of New Balance 578s, brown work pants, a soft hemp hoodie and what looked to be a tuque from the Gap (it was). Then there's the mustache, at the time of this event I was sporting what I affectionately referred to as “a rather tremendous mustache”. The fact that the stache was an attempt to raise money for charity would be lost on this crowd, I might as well have entered the place, badge in hand and pepper spray at the ready. There are few things that drive home the fact that you are getting older than being identified as a narc at a party. In fact I'm not sure there are any other social phenomena which can parallel the avalanche of self doubt and insecurity that it triggered. I can confidently state that in spite of those feelings, a level of calm washed over me just in time to save the night. I took stock of myself and quickly realized there was absolutely nothing I could do to prove I was in fact, not a narc and settled back into the driving rhythms and screeching serenity of what seemed to be the most enthusiastic recipe for Key Lime Pie in modern history.

---Spellers do it on stage (excerpt)---Connor Timmons

“I look forward to seeing you naked” she smiled sweetly at me as she handed me the program for the evening's activities. I racked my brain for some clever yet erotic witticism that might somehow coax the lovely young hostess into more discussions of nudity. Of course there was nothing there worth repeating. I ravenously digested the contents of the page, half hiding my blushing cheeks, half hoping there would be some admission that this event was something other than what I knew it to be. After scouring the pamphlet for about ten minutes I realized this was exactly what it claimed to be, a strip spelling bee.

I first heard about the Honeysuckle Strip Spelling Bee from a friend living in another city. He had seen something about it on a friend's Facebook account and so he sent me the link. He knew me pretty well because my first instinct was “fuck yeah, I am so there”. As the date approached however, I began to second guess my initial reaction. I went through phases of doubt: first I would exercise furiously for a week or two trying to tighten my stomach, create some semblance of shoulders on my sickly frame. After bringing myself back to reality (rather, back to the reason I have a Woody Allen physique and its called laziness), I tried to focus on more practical preparations. I started to spell things. I did several whirlwind tours of the OED with the help of my roommates and felt moderately more comfortable with the impending challenges to my grey matter. This faded when I caught of glimpse of the movie Spellbound one evening. Its a movie I'd already seen, but the collected stories of young spelling dorks reminded me that signing up for the bee might place me more than just a little out of my league. Then there were those dark times when I doubted the less tangible but critical elements of a strip spellers character...moxie, balls, chutzpah, joie de vivre. Every culture seems to have an appropriate term for personal fundamentals to be admired and all are equally effective at reminding people, such as myself, that they are lacking this element.

Some days I woke knowing I needed to end up naked on stage and that it would present an opportunity to wash away any sexual demons I had recently encountered; a chance to kick my baggage to the curb and get back to the sex positive person I knew I was/am. Those days were counterbalanced by nightmarish scenarios of the theatre filling with disapproving ex girlfriends or family members all of whom would heckle me into the floor. The battle for control of my dignity was waged for weeks until out of nowhere the day came for the bee.

I did my best to sabotage my own plans by drinking myself into a stupor the night before, and for the better part of the day the hangover was enough to convince me to attend, but remain fully clothed. I met my friends on the way in the door and felt a nervous excitement creep along my skin. Had the exhibitionist in me done such a good job convincing my inner wallflower to partake that my body had been caught up in the fervor? Sitting there listening to the two of them bicker over questions of decency, youth and the like, my body had apparently decided that it was tickled pink over the notion of being ogled by a room of under-sexed bookworms. So my name found itself on the “spellers” list and the free drink that went along with that honor found itself in the bottom of my belly within seconds.

I was at the bar when the lovely lady handed me the brochure, effectively sealing my fate.

“what name did you put down?” my friend asked with wicked anticipation in his eyes.

“what do you mean?”

“well, I just assumed you'd use a fake name...tell me you used a fake name”

I blinked at him as if to say, 'you might have mentioned that when I wrote my legit name down RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU ten minutes ago!' A young woman squeezed past us toward the hostess to ask a question.

“excuse me...there's something in here about a striptease...I hope that's not what it sounds like,"

Perfect, another doubter, I could piggy back on her uneasiness. We would form a bond based on our mutual reservations and sashay our way out of there, possibly with a date...

"...because I haven't brought my music”

“oh not to worry we've taken care of the musical arrangements” answered the hostess reassuringly.

“Great, I would hate to have to deal with that” she said, genuinely relieved.

The room started to spin.