The June Post (It's long - bring a bagged lunch)

Consider the opening of this post as a long, audible inhale that would typically precede a thought-out, calculated rant... the type of inhale that's usually followed by a pause, a look of uncertainty over how to proceed, and then, finally, the rant itself.

ME: (a look of uncertainty over how to proceed)
YOU: (the realization that the "rant" is to follow)

From the top: I've booked the auditioning space for my short film by the day I had vowed to do so (thereby retaining what little honour I have left), scheduled advertising space twice over the past and next few weeks to promote this fact to the otherwise oblivious public, spoke with several people about other advertising venues [i.e. schools, workplace], gaining some headway there, & finally, I've officially graduated university.

Two of these have interesting stories, and so two stories you shall get. After all, noone comes here for my day to day life - Hell, noone comes here at all - but I'd imagine if you or someone like you did come here it would be for the clever retellings of some of the more significant day to day happenings in my life. I'd imagine. If you wanted to see what I was eating, you'd come to the grocery store with me... or my mother.

But, with work discussion now out of the way, pleasurable discussion can ensue. Gather children, this won't take long [ed. note: man, was I wrong]. Without further adieu... story #1; the lesser of two upheavals.

As mentioned last month I had this crazy, sort-of eerie premonition that once I booked my auditioning space I would scramble into advertising action. Well, here I am mid-scramble; almost in wind-down mode.

Amidst the chaos I had the brilliant idea that, since my short film stars children, I might go to the schools in hopes of unearthing burgeoning actors, actresses, and paste-eaters.

This was a bright idea.

After going to one school (which we'll call Former Public School), Former Public School's Principal advised me that, although she clearly had a nice, big, leather chair on top of the obedience and allegiance of every child in the building, she still answers to a higher power. I scanned her office for the red phone that would connect me directly to Batman but, after she sensed my bewilderment, was informed I'd need to speak to the Superintendent.

Clearly, when someone says "Superintendent" to or around me, I think of only one thing: Chalmers. God help you if you're already lost [ed. note: luckily God has decided he'd help you today as in all of His divine wisdom He did not neglect to insert a google search bar into your browser window whilst he was blessing the rest of us... good luck].

So, I call Superintendent Chalmers, discuss my plans briefly, and scamper off to work like a good little beaver, but he wants to know more - I am to call him within the week to discuss my plans more thoroughly, and help him come to terms with my concept, my vision, and the fact that despite my current need for children, I'm not one to molest on a whim. Once again, like a good little beaver I call him back another day, but with no response.

Let it be stated once and once only: I despise answering machines. They're confusing; they catch me off guard. Answering machines do precisely what most people can't do on their own: they tell you what the fuck is going on, and then they get an answer to what seems, at first, to be an oversimplefied question: Why the Hell are you calling?

Generally, conversations with the various answering machines I've encountered over the years have gone something like this:

ANSWERING MACHINE: What the Hell do you want?
ME: Jesus, honestly, is that any way to answer a phone? Shit.
ANSWERING MACHINE: 60 seconds. Don't fuck yourself by saying something embarassing.
ME: Okay uhh... shit... John... this is......... Reece... I'm going to need to... uhh....... uhhhhh...
ANSWERING MACHINE: *BEEP* motherfucker!

So, mostly, I get apprehensive with the electronic bastard. This might, however, stem from the fact that I feel myself responsible for and capable of relaying every single pertinent piece of information that I need to discuss with the person, all in that tiny electronic time-slot. Calling Superintendent Chalmers I knew that this type of message had to be avoided at all costs, and I was also going to the beach that day so had I got his machine, the plan was, simply, to leave the number at which I could be reached (my cell phone) and have him call back sometime throughout the day.

Now, I'll give you a minute.

Have you figured out why, oh why, that might not be the best idea? Because, I tell you, it took me a lot more than a sentence/drink or two to figure it out, and by the time I did, the shit was swinging precariously close to the fan.

9 p.m. comes around and my cell phone rings: it's Superintendent Chalmers, who is now, amongst my innebriated friends and self being affectionately referred to as "Super-Nintendo Chalmers."

The conversation, in retrospect, was mostly a blur; however, I remember several things. First, I was to email my script to him the next day to an email address that he'd given me over the phone (and which I'd, in decidedly clever fashion, written down on a cardboard beer coaster).

Second, I was convinced in my drunken state that the man was far more relaxed than he had been in previous conversations; that is, he no longer sounded entirely sober himself. This, however, was probably a product of my intoxicated, over-active imagination, and should be taken with a very large and robust grain of salt - and perhaps another beverage.

Regardless, the conversation, given my audience and circumstance, was nothing short of spectacular; the week or two following, however, was a perfect yin to this week's yang: nothing happened. I emailed him with no response - not even the mailsystem telling me I'd copied the address down wrong (because trust me I'd thought of that). And so, with no help from our schools, I plowed on amidst uncertainty. Well, I shouldn't say no help from the schools...

And with that helpful segue, story numero deus.

Thursday, June 15th I became (at least in the public eye) an educated man. It was the day of Convocation for the University of Waterloo - the establishment that I called home for the last few years - and I didn't even really want to go. In situations like this, however, choice is not a luxury, and I was wise to recognize this early on rather than risk familial banishment for depriving my parents of this proud day.

And so, begrudgingly, I wore the gown. I felt like the Messias, had some trouble walking, and despite its loose and flowing appearance, was hot as hell, but I wore it like a champ.

A few moments pass, and a woman stands on a chair in the area in front of the graduating class who have now formed lines reflecting the order in which we will be ushered onto the stage. She informs us, in a relatively polite fashion, to shut the Hell up and get ready to enter the gym. She also tells us that we'll be sitting in rows of fifteen, and that we will be crossing the stage in groups of three and kneeling infront of one of three men. Rows of fifteen. Groups of three. Three goes into fifteen.

So we're entering the gym now, in order, and a woman is counting us as she directs us into the row. One, two... fifteen.

Now, I'm not a math major. Hell, I'm not even a math minor, nor do I even risk the occassional foray into the considerably strong mathematical fortress for fear of serious numerical reprisal. That established, however, I will dare to venture that I can count to fifteen without using hands, feet or bead racks alike.

I suppose that you now see where this is going.

We're standing as our "group of fifteen" in front of the chairs we will eventually occupy, shoulder to shoulder, and all thinking the same thought:

FIFTEEN GRADUATES: Something is definitely not right here.

The whispering started almost immediately, all of us wondering whose ass was unlucky enough to be chairless when we were asked to be seated - a moment which was now edging closer, signalled by the entrace of a procession of old men accompanied by what I think was the theme music played at the the end of Star Wars: A New Hope.

So I'm standing there, watching these old men in their funny hats and horrendously coloured robes walking into the room, and forgetting for a moment about where I'm going to stick my ass for the next two hours, and I spot him. Clad in a worn, bluish robe with white decorative embrodery and graduate cap in the same scheme, the president of the University of Waterloo casually walked down the red carpet with the air of the Pope himself, and a look of fatherly pride spread over his face. We stared in awe, and I found myself asking out loud if it was infact the Pope. He was definitely old - that much I could tell - and commanded some kind of respect and dignity as he had been lead down the path to the stage by a man with a large chrome sceptor akin to something I'd been beaten with as a child.

Holy shit, I'm kidding - don't make any phonecalls.

The Old Men eventually made their way to the stage where most of them sat in the back on plain looking, plastic chairs. Three, however, took their seats on what looked to be thrones made from skulls and human bones (or wood, it was hard to see from where I was standing), and asked us all to sit down.

While considering my chances of getting a chair, I failed to move immediately towards one and was stuck in a half-squatting position, hovering over part of a chair and some homely looking woman's lap. After a moment or two I opted, as most educated men would, for the half chair that was awaiting my (luckily) slender ass, and filled it with relative ease.

I won't lie to you, the next hour was fairly boring. Flanked on either side by a Chinese man in an odd, exaggerated, beret-style pink hat, and a man dressed in red that looked like the young Emperor/Senator Palpatine, the Pope sat, 'knighting' graduates with his companions as they approached the thrones and knelt on crushed velvet foot stools three-by-three.

I have half a chair stuck to my ass, I thought - and so does this person beside me. There are sixteen people in this row.

Three doesn't go into sixteen.

This thought crosses my mind as I sat, rather uncomfortably, on my half a chair waiting for it to all be over with. Then, covertly from the outside end of our row, we were asked to stand so that we could approach and get ready for entrance onto the stage. At this point I'm thinking that the fact that sixteen is not divisible by three is no longer a tangible issue, however if it was going to be, I was glad I wasn't the small Chinese kid on the back end of the row.

We followed the rest of the lines, circling out widely to pick up our "graduate hood," which actually more resembles a piece of cloth that in any other setting would be entirely useless, then, circling back, handed our name card to a woman with a headset seated at a desk so that when the names were announced as we got onto the stage, they'd have them in the correct order.

Now I'm waiting - the moment is upon me; I'm about to become Sir Reece of Waterloo, Champion of Rhetoric and the Professional Word.

But curiosity strikes: which of these old men will be knighting me this afternoon? Senator Palpatine? That goof in the huge pink beret? Hell, maybe it would be the Pope himself; so what do I do? I counted backwards from the front of the line to find out what I was up against. The grads, after kneeling, remained that way for a good ten to twelve seconds, so I was well aware that some kind of intelligent conversation was now required of me. I couldn't just be a face with half an ass on a chair anymore, and I definitely couldn't go into it without knowing the man I'd be up against. There was far too much variance amongst them.

One, two, three, one, two, three... and I was a one. Chancellor Pink-Hat would be the man propelling me to publically accepted glory. This, I thought, I could handle.

I might even ask him about the hat.

Then, out of nowhere, instead of a group of three going onto the stage, a group of one (and one rather accomplished individual, I must say) went forward, thereby disrupting my count.

Again, I assert that I am no mathematical genius but, doing some quick arithmetic, I suddenly realized that it would not be the Chancellor who would confer my degree, but somebody else entirely.

ME: Holy shit, the Pope.

It would be the president of the University of Waterloo, the Pope himself, that would confer my degree, and I had about forty-five seconds to think of something to say. Astonishingly, I realized exactly what the man would ask me when I approached the throne, so that gave me a head start as to formulating a response.

Forty-five seconds came and went, and all of a sudden they were reading my name (correctly, even) to the audience who simultaneously didn't give a fuck as they had been doing for the last hour or so. I marched onto the stage, confident that I had things under control, that I knew what was going to happen, that I would ruin this old man's shit right in front of him. He shook my hand, and then opened his mouth.

THE POPE: Congratulations, son.
ME: Thank you, sir. I'm honoured.
THE POPE: And what will you do now??

Things were going to plan.

You're kicking yourself - I can feel the thudding through the floor. I had anticipated the question and developed a simple, overused, but nonetheless classic answer. You've just won the Stanley Cup, the World Cup, the NFL Championship, American Idol... WHAT could you possibly do NOW?!

ME: I'm going to Disneyland.

And then he didn't get it.

The most popular answer to the question he posed, and he couldn't fathom its significance or even sense a slight familiarity within the response. The conversation continued like this:

THE POPE: Oh? (fatherly smile) Are you working there?
ME: (after considering telling him I'd be the next Pluto) Uhhh... no, it's a vacation.

So instead of getting a hearty chuckle, maybe even one that would throw him right off the throne, I lied to the man in the face of unfamiliarity and received nothing but a placating smile. Disney sounds alright, he thought, if you consider cartoons a viable career; and Christ knows that 80 year olds don't consider cartoons a practical means of income. Shit, they're barely entertainment for a man in diapers: laugh too hard and you need to get changed. Instantly, I'm sure I was the one flaw to this man in the 2006 graduating class. I was going to be working with Mickey.

Do I care? Not particularly - the man didn't get a widely used, tongue-in-cheek, witty (though planned out) remark.

Nevertheless, I was knighted that day. I'm one step up from where I was and maybe a few paces infront of you; it's a good feeling but, you know, it's the damndest thing.

Even as an "educated man" I still don't have a good response to "Why the Hell are you calling?"

But, maybe even if I did, the "machine" wouldn't get it.