Scene 9: The Blame Game

Now more than ever, I needed to know who was responsible for this.

It doesn't make any sense. Think about it! Why was she in there in the first place? It was because she’d become a danger to herself, and she needed help so bad, she couldn't do it by herself. She couldn't be trusted by herself. So, as logic would have it, she shouldn't have ever been alone.

It shouldn't have been possible.

So where was the staff? Huh? I’d like to know that. I mean, they have to have 24 hour staff, watching the patients at all times, right? So what was going on? At the very least, there’s security, right? They would have seen her get up, leave her room, and go into the staircase.

She shouldn't have been able to hurt herself.

She took her own life on their watch. They need to be exposed. They need to be shown for how incredibly incompetent they are. I’ll make a film. I’ll make a documentary.

I’ll put them on the spot. I’ll pretend it’s just a project I’m doing for a class or something and it’ll be just informational, and I’ll get one of them on camera.

What was Sheila Pallier specifically diagnosed with? Did you have more than one diagnosis? Where is her file? What does it say? What medications was she on when she was here? Which, if any, were working at all? Didn't you notice any behaviours of hers that could have prevented this? How many times has she been in here? How many times has she been in places like this?

Did the shock treatment work?

What medications had she tried to overdose on before this? What kind of ways did she try to take her life before? Have you ever even tried anything besides medications and shock treatment? Do you even know what her triggers were?

And then I stood before them. They invited us to the hospital. All the staff that worked with her, and we sat around a big table. And what did I say to them?

Nothing.

I could see it on their faces, and I truly decided, even if I didn't understand, that they weren't to blame.

So who was?

She removed herself from us a lot. I would go up to her when she was in bed, and I’d try and talk to her. She would just be laying there sometimes, maybe asleep, but other times, she’d get upset and defensive, essentially telling me to go away.

It must be nice. I really mean that, it must be nice sometimes to be able to withdraw, and be responsible for absolutely nothing. I mean, she wouldn't even get up sometimes to take a bath, or get ready, or anything really. And then, if she did, we all had to walk around on eggshells, waiting for the next outburst or accusation.

I guess this would be the best way to remove herself from us completely.

I’ll never get the chance, but what would I say to her if I did?

Nothing.

I know the truth. I know who’s really to blame. It’s me.

What did I do when she needed me the most? Nothing. I’d see her laying there, and I’d just get frustrated, and I rarely offered any words of encouragement, or any help at all. If she’d yell, I just wanted her to stop, and I felt like we were all victims of this lady who wouldn't give us a minute of peace. That’s how I felt about my mom.

How would have that made her feel? I didn't need to say it. She'd know.

And then, I abandoned her. I abandoned her so many times. The minute I was out of High School, it was off to some different city, far away. As soon as she was in hospital, it was maybe a couple of visits, and then never again. With a “see you real soon” no less.

There was so much I could have said to her, and I didn't. Now, there was only one way to let anyone know how I truly felt.

Scene 8: Downstairs

I went downstairs in what was now just my Dad's house a few days later. Nobody was home that day.

Not that long ago, it was all of our house. My Dad, my Mom, my sister, but now, just Dad... I used to spend a lot of time in the basement, it was kind of a place that only I went to most of the time.

There was still nothing so far. The only reaction I really had was right when I found out. I had let my close friends know what had happened, but there wasn't a lot of emotion... I just told them about it, and said if they wanted to come to the funeral when it was, but no pressure, I didn't want them to go out of their way or anything.

But I didn't really feel anything, and  I hated myself for that.

So, I forced myself.

I pushed myself to be normal, to be human and respond.

I went into the bathroom, and into the shower. All alone downstairs. I didn't take my clothes off or anything, but I did turn off the lights. Downstairs, I could make it completely dark if I wanted to. I didn't have to have anything distract me or make me think of something else.

I could just lay down inside the shower and try to be normal, and try to be human.

And I called to her.

"Mom?... Mom?"

And I got louder and louder. I got so loud I thought she would respond for sure. When I'm in the dark, I sometimes try to time travel, like it's possible this is all a dream, and I'm just waking up, and she'll be not in the hospital, not being taken away in an ambulance, not sad, not anything, just there.

I shouted louder and louder. "MOM?... MOM??" but she didn't answer. And that made me angry.

You ever heard about John Lennon, talking about Primal Therapy? Primal scream? All I could remember about it was that it might be a way, maybe a way to get whatever I was repressing out, get me out of my head and maybe find it in my body somewhere. I felt fucking ridiculous, but I gave it a try.

"WHY DID YOU DO THAT? CAN'T YOU SEE? I WAS JUST ABOUT TO MAKE IT! YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN HERE AND YOU WOULD HAVE SEEN IT. SO WHY?... WHY?... NOW YOU'LL NEVER SEE WHAT I'M GOING TO DO, AND WHAT I'M GOING TO BE! YOU'LL NEVER KNOW AND BE PROUD! WHY DIDN'T YOU WANT TO SEE THAT? WHY??"

And I felt a little better.

And it might have been the shouting, and it might have been the rage, but it was almost like I was feeling something. Maybe I'm human after all.

Scene 7: Laughing at Death

I don't know what to do with death.

Back when I was a kid, I can only actually recall couple of funerals - Grandma Liddle and Grandma Pallier. I can't remember anything specific... Except for one thing.

Just before I went up to see my Grandma Liddle's body for the first time, I was observing the ritual that others were involved in - Basically, it was this: See the body, look solemn, tear up, cry into the shoulder or chest or whatever of the person beside you, move on.

I felt fairly certain I could swing that.

So, I went up to the body, looked solemn, tried to tear up, and then I laughed.

I thought I did cover it up pretty good. I made sure to bury my face in the arm of my Dad, hoping the suit would muffle any audible laughter and maybe it would look like sobbing if I jerked my shoulders just right.

Nailed it. I was pretty sure nobody noticed.

Then came the conversation.

My sister said something like this to me, "So, was it hard for you to see Grandma? Did you cry?"

I tried not to hesitate.

"Uh huh. I cried pretty hard."

"No you didn't. I was right there. You were laughing."

There I was, laughing. With Mom and Dad and Michelle and God and Baby Jesus and Grandma's ghost all staring at me, appalled. But that's what happened. And I can't change it.

In fact, I can't say with any degree of confidence that I've ever cried when I'm supposed to. It's always something stupid, like during "Homeward Bound" when Shadow comes limping from the horizon even though you were sure he was dead, or when during some rock documentary when the underdog finally gets a moment to shine. That's when I cry.

But I don't know what to do with death.

We were standing in the back doorway at the house, myself and Dad. There was a police officer in the house. My Dad had picked me up to take me over to the house when they had my sister try and call me over so that they could tell me, but I was not going to come at first, saying something like, "Come on, what could be so serious that I have to go over there? Did somebody die?"

So Dad picked me up, and there we were. I don't think the officer even finished telling me that she was gone, when suddenly my improv skills kicked in. I thought to myself, "I don't know if I'll cry, I don't know what I'll do, I don't even know how I'm supposed to react... Well don't just stand there man, go limp!"

And I did, and slowly hit the floor.

I was lucky, and I had been given permission to let my emotion come out any old way when I was joined on the floor by Dad and Michelle, the three of us embracing in a sort of huddle, looking at each other, realizing it had finally happened.

I think my tears came more from relief, and I was disgusted by myself for that.

I lived for a long time not knowing what was going to happen with Mom. I knew I wanted her happy, so I tried everything I could. Sometimes I could bring a smile to her face, but sometimes I couldn't, and I knew if she wasn't showing a sort of ferocity or emotion that those were the times I should worry the most... Sometimes, I wish she'd just die so at least there'd be and end to all this, is what I'd probably thought more than once.

Now I wanted that thought back. I wanted it back so bad... because, I know how ridiculous it sounds, but I sometimes think of my life as some sort of Truman Show, where everybody's watching me - kind of like this - and can hear my thoughts and maybe, just maybe, I caused this. If I hadn't of thought that, maybe the producers wouldn't have written it into the script.

But there we were, in our huddle, and I was crying just like I was supposed to. Maybe the reason I was crying was deplorable, but it's hard to say for sure. They could have been tears of happiness because she was finally free, and that would certainly be acceptable, but I can't really say that for sure.

April 6, 2000, she took her own life in the Alberta Hospital, and I was going to have to learn what to do with death.

Scene 6: I Could Disappear

Setting: A classroom.
Scene 6
The whiteboard/chalkboard/white sheet/ is still there, and it gets flipped to a fresh page. Shawn thinks about writing on the new page, pauses, and then takes the whole thing offstage.

Shawn:
I'm the distracter.

I think that word was invented just for me. I'm sure Oxford will add it some day.

The best thing I can do is take myself out of the equation. I think she would be able to think clear if I wasn't around. I mean, how is she supposed to really deal with things if there's someone around always trying to make her laugh, tell her stories, and trying to manipulate her into thinking about just about anything else?

However...

Without me, what if she gets lost in her thoughts? I mean, being depressed can be a slippery slope, right? And if nobody's trying to throw you a rope, you just slide further and further down. And who could blame her for that? I mean, this isn't the greatest time in her life... Her kids are growing up and leaving. That's a big change, and maybe she isn't ready for it yet.

She definitely isn't ready for it yet. So here we are.

The lights snap to a disconcerting bright green shade.

You'd think it would be the most important detail in a hospital where people are supposed to be getting well that it would be in a comforting environment. You know, something that almost looks like home... But this place doesn't look like home. It looks like a place where Billy, Charlie, Martini, Dale, Max, Jim, the Chief and Mac might listen to "Charmaine" all day.

Do they really have to surround her with sick people constantly?

I know she really needs me right now. It's just a really hard place to visit. I'm probably wrong about what it's like here anyway... It's the green though. The green walls, "hospital green" I think they call it. And it's also the conversations with strangers. You'd think that since I can talk to a bunch of strangers at once I'd have no trouble speaking with just one. But, you know, these folks can be a little unpredictable.

You never really know what they'll say to you or try to do.

The truth is, I don't think I'll be able to visit that often. But she won't be here forever.

"I'll see you real soon" was the last thing I ever said to her.

Scene 5

Setting: A classroom.
Scene 5
A whiteboard/chalkboard/white sheet/paper is available to write on.

Shawn:
It is my responsibility to understand her.
What could I have been watching for so it didn't get like this?
What can I do to make sure this doesn't happen again?
What do I do if this happens again?

What is it like to be suffering like she is?

I could make notes.
I could find out more about what medication she's on.
I could find out if she's taking the right medication.
I could never get in trouble again.
I could never raise my voice again.
I could never get angry again.

I could disappear.

There must have been something going on that I should have recognized.

I should have noticed when she was working too hard.
I should have noticed when she wouldn't get out of bed.
I should have realized it wasn't funny when she gazed off into space.
I should have been more sensitive to her feelings.
I should have talked to her at breakfast.
I should have taken her emotions more seriously.
I should have taken her reactions more seriously.

I should tell her I'm sorry.

What is it that she's really diagnosed with? How old was she when this started, and how long did it take for her to get help? I'm sure they've changed medication over time, so was there a time when some of it was better and is it an option for us to go back to that? How did people decide she was showing enough... symptoms to get help, and did she get help on her own at first, or did somebody else take her to get help? How many times has she been in hospital, and was it always because she tried to take her own life? How many different ways has she tried? Is it always an overdose?

And why do we always go back to the beginning and start all over again?

It is my responsibility to find out. It's my responsibility to help her.

A Nagging Little Voice

Kelly could see the rubber uselessly dragging over the windshield, smearing the ice, making matters only worse. He'd buy new wipers, he told himself again.

The blue, blinding light was bearing down on him, blinding him through his frost-streaked mirrors.

Again.

Every morning, a new asshole.

He'd told himself not to get angry. It doesn't help the situation, and it only served to ruin his morning. He glanced down at the speedometer, jaw tightening when he noticed again, this morning like every morning, that he was going well over the speed limit, but it didn't stop the relentless truck from bearing down on him, as one always did.

He'd come up with a story for this kind of person. They fit the stereotype he'd carefully crafted. The exterior was easy; He'd be wearing a pair of white Oakley sunglasses, and his shirt, or maybe his jacket, would inevitably say something about the MMA, Racing, or motorbikes. This was easy to prove with a quick glance.

It was the personality that would involve a little more conjecture.

Kelly figured the driver must be as racist as modern society now allows, that would be a given. And, of course, despite living in the near arctic tundra, he'd talk about American sports all day, and he'd likely try to name-drop athletes only by their nicknames.

The driver of the truck would blame all his irrational rage on others and mutter "I need a fuckin' cigarette" at least 3 times a day. He'd gather together in groups of clones of himself every weekend and talk about or watch things involving off-roading, MMA, racing, motorbikes, American sports, white Oakley sunglasses, and how much they hate that brown guy down the street. Or, better yet, that brown guy in the bar right beside them.

That was the kind of asshole Kelly invented behind the wheel every day.

He knew how to deal with this kind of asshole: Stare at him when he passed him by. That would teach him.

The problem was, they didn't always pass him by. He figured they got so close to his bumper to taunt him. That must be why. They could sense, nay, SMELL how weak he was. Kelly unconsciously gripped the wheel, twisting it, the grinding sound of his hands matching that of his teeth.

My god, He thought. I can see the whites of his eyes.

I could slam on my brakes, he thought. A small, awkward smile formed on his chapped lips. He'd buy new lip balm, he told himself again.

But then, a nagging little voice took over his thoughts.

Maybe the man in the truck has had earth-shattering news about someone he loves. He just took off, just a few minutes ago, after having a life-altering experience. He just found out his wife is leaving him, his daughter is moving away, his son is going to jail, or his mother has died.

Great Caesar's ghost, the man's mother has just died.

Maybe the man in the truck has just found out something about himself that is going to change him forever. He was at the doctor, and found out he's going to lose a foot because of his diabetes, or he has an unspeakable disease from a one-night-stand, or he just found out he's got cancer.

Holy Hell, he's going to die.

Maybe the man in the truck just got great news, and he's rushing to the airport to pick up his son who got back from a tour of duty, or his daughter just told him over the phone that she's going to get married, or maybe she's already married, and she's been pregnant and ready to burst and now she's going to have the baby and he's got her in the passenger seat but she's laying down and he's got to get her to the HOSPITAL RIGHT NOW!!

LEAPING LIZARDS!! HE'S GOT A WOMAN IN LABOUR RIGHT THERE IN THE TRUCK, AND YOUR SELFISH TERCEL IS BLOCKING THE ENTIRE ROAD, KELLY!!

Given all these possibilities, Kelly knew what to do in these situations.

He flipped the man off and gave him a very icy stare as he sped by.

That will teach him.

Tomorrow, Dear

Wallace touched the prongs of his fork. He imagined if he played them, he could make beautiful music. But alas, plucking at them had only resulted in broken nails in the past. If he was going to make a sound at breakfast, he was going to need a second spoon... but he had no rhythm.

"Wallace!" Janine bellowed, attempting to snap him from his dreams of becoming a utensil virtuoso.

"Wallace, can you hear that?"

He pictured himself at Carnegie Hall.

"Wallace, that's rain. It's raining, Wallace. You know what that means?"

He closed his eyes. The rain used to mean something to him; it meant a fresh renewal, and he'd see the grass would suddenly look greener, and the streets would be stunningly cleaner. Now, it only meant one thing.

"I've seen them, and they're not getting smaller, Wallace. The yellow stains in the ceiling. In the bedroom, Wallace. THE BEDROOM. What do you think we're breathing in? Do you think that's healthy? You've said you'd do something about that. Remember?"

Wallace opened his eyes, and looked helplessly at the dining room ceiling.

"We could always move the bed in here. It looks fine to me right here."

Janine was in no mood.

"When, Wallace?"

"Tomorrow, Dear."

Ah, tomorrow. They both knew what tomorrow was going to bring. The room suddenly got colder.

"I see." Janine said, quietly. "It's March 3rd tomorrow, isn't it?"

"Yes, my dear."

"Are you still going through with it?" Janine said, never believing it for one moment.

"Yes. But I could do it late at night, so I can get whatever you need me to do done during the daytime. Yes, I'll figure out just where that leak is and I'll have it taken care of tomorrow, dear."

Janine turned her back to him, and busied herself with the one cup that was in the sink. 35 years she had been with him. 35 years, and she never believed she'd actually know the day her husband would die. Well, the day her husband WANTED to die. She felt he was truly a silly man. She always felt that way.

"We make promises to ourselves, Wallace, and we don't have to go through with all of them."

"I know, dear. But it's my time."

March 3rd marked the day his hero, Ivor Cutler, died.

Ivor was fascinating to Wallace; He had a life like no other. He wrote books and poetry, he wrote music and recorded albums, and he even rubbed shoulders with The Beatles. THE Beatles. Can you imagine?

But was almost... no... likely the real reason why he was so obsessed with the man was the way he lived. Against the grain, without any concern about how other people acted, dressed, spoke, thought, or moved. No, Ivor was a man who was completely unique. And Wallace never met him, and never would meet him.

Ivor Cutler would die on March 3rd, 2006. He was 83 years old.

Now, Wallace was 83 years old. And now, it was March 2nd.

Wallace was not a religious man. Of course, his parents were devout Calvinists, and that might have played into his dwindling interest in religion as a whole. Despite his lack of faith, he did believe in... something.

He couldn't define it, and couldn't explain it to his lovely wife. Not even one bit.

Janine washed the cup. It was Vitrelle. Butterfly gold. She ran her fingers over the big butterfly, then the little butterfly. She didn't care much for the flowers, but she loved the little plants on it the most. They looked like little frogs, smiling at her. They made her feel at home. And they NEVER broke. Well, they RARELY break, and when they do, it's, well, horrifying. They don't make them any more, and they sure let you know when they break. They leave a ringing in your ears, and dangerous shards unlike anything else you've ever seen.

She liked the fact that she had the cups with the normal lip. She didn't ever want to have one of those turned-up lips. They only made the ones with the turned up lips after a certain time, and then they didn't make them at all.

"I've been thinking, dear... Is there anything else you need me to do tomorrow? I'd like to, well..."

Janine didn't turn around.

"Oh, there's a lot I'd like you to do, Wallace."

Ivor Cutler never belonged. He couldn't be categorized. Was his art celebrated? Wallace wasn't sure -- All Wallace knew is that when he was younger, Ivor was always on the radio. He was mysterious yet simple. Blunt yet surreal. His performances were thoroughly engaging no matter what they were.

Wallace, on the other hand? He was... predictable. Monday to Friday. Saturday and Sunday.

No, Wallace was not a religious man. Did I mention that?

 He was ordinary in every way. The talent he wanted? It wasn't there. When he tried to write music, it all came out like "Canon in D", which is fine if he was Pachelbel, but of course he was not. Every poem he ever wrote deteriorated over the lines into a dirty limerick. Every book he wrote was unfinished.

He never said it out loud, but it was his belief that there was some sort of magic in his plan. After all, if they were the same age, and it happened on the same day, well, then... Well, maybe, right?

He pondered if Ivor would be proud of him.

 "Yes, there's a lot I'd like you to do." Janine sighed.

"And I'll do them all. Starting first thing tomorrow."

Scene 4

Setting: Bedside, mimed.

Scene 4 (Distortion)

Empty stage

Shawn: She didn’t get out of bed that morning. When it was quiet in the house, and Mom was in it, it wasn’t a good thing. I thought to myself, “Leave her alone, she’ll get up when she’s ready, she doesn’t need you in there bothering her.” So I waited.

I remember coming to the doorway of Mom and Dad’s room. She looked like she was sleeping. I thought I’d go up and just put my hand on her shoulder, like I sometimes did, and give her a little pat, maybe a little shake, and see if she wanted to come downstairs. So, I walked up to the bed, and sat down on the corner, I put my hand down to lean in closer so I could gently wake her, but I noticed where I had put my hand down, the bed was wet.

I was immediately certain of what was happening. She was doing it again.

Mom, I’m scared. What did you do?

She moaned a little.

Mom, did you take something?

She faintly nodded her head.

Mom. Was it pills?

She nodded again.

Mom, I’m scared. Is it okay if I call an ambulance?

She nodded.

I asked her permission. I asked her if I could call an ambulance. To this day, I don’t know what I would have done if she had shook her head “no”. I ask myself, would I have said “Well, I’m calling one anyway.”

Or, would I have let it happen, right then and there. And what sort of son am I then? I’ve never had someone’s life in my hands until that day. This was absolute – black and white. And I was finally the witness to it. But it wasn’t the first time.

Maybe we were all overwhelmed by a constant feeling of failure in that house.  Even if something good happened in my life, I was only happy because I wasn’t adding to the chaos, not for what I was accomplishing. All I was thinking about was the next time, and how I could make her happy so it wouldn’t happen again.

Or… sometimes…  I wasn’t thinking about her at all.

Maybe I spent a lot of time being as selfish as humanly possible. I wanted to be away from there, so I spent my time on the extra-curricular…optional things… and not being there. I should have been there for her when she needed me the most. Instead, I was out there, messing around with my friends, fooling around with girls, ignoring what was going on, like an idiot.

I hold myself responsible. I should have kept myself to a higher standard. That’s how I felt.

Scene 3

Setting: Empty stage, desk.

Scene 3

A desk and chair, possibly elevated, at the back(or on one side) of the stage. A commentator (possibly based on Rod Phillips, but likely will be a more generic characterization) sits behind the desk, calling a particularly lackluster Oilers game.

Commentator: … We’re not seeing a strong performance by the Edmonton Oilers. Down 4 – 2, and the crowd has been silenced. I have to say, it looks like they’re skating uphill out there. Here’s McAmmond working his way into the zone, rips a drive, and it’s high and deflects out of play… They’ll line up for the faceoff, and I have to tell you… There’s one woman here that has not given up on the Oil, she’s been chanting all by herself “Go Oilers Go, Go Oilers GO!!” since that puck went out of play, and it’s really echoing through the Coliseum … you have to love that kind of… uh… dedication, for lack of a better term… I’ve got to say, it’s very determined to say the least, and might be getting this crowd back into it.

Here’s Weight to take the faceoff, he wins it clean and jams it over to Guerin, Guerin whips it over to Smyth on the far side, Smyth slides it back to Mironov at the point, he fakes a shot, back to Smyth, shoots and SCOOORES!! Ryan Smyth from the side of the net, and the Oilers are only down by 1 now; 4 – 3 is the score. This building has come alive – They’re chanting strong in the Coliseum, and the Oilers are going to leave their top line out there. Weight wins the faceoff, he charges into the zone, drops it back to Guerin and he BOOMS a shot and SCOOOOORES!! Bill Guerin, on a seeing- eye pass from Doug Weight, and it’s a 4-4 hockey game! The Oilers might be able to hold on, and keep their playoff dreams alive for one more night, and I’d say it has a little something to do with one die-hard Oiler fan who didn’t know when to quit.

Shawn: I can’t find that game. No matter how many box scores I go through, I can’t find it. I can’t tell you who it was against, or who was really on the ice. I wish I could remember those details. Sometimes, I have a hard time remembering a lot about her. I just have these moments in time that I found really amazing, and then a lot of… blur or haze around all of it. Sometimes, I feel like I’m letting her down, and that she deserves better than that… But I was there. I know it happened. Seeing Mom watching that game: She was quiet, but I could see how she felt about the fans around her.  There was a look in her eyes. A sort of “How dare you give up. We have time!”

And then, she suddenly stood up. Without hesitation, she started all by herself. “Go Oilers go!” towards the ice, over and over again. At first, I sunk down into my seat. “Mom, for the love of god, you’re EMBARASSING me”, was all I could think. If I could have disappeared inside my coat, I think I would have.  But then, she was shouting it to the other fans, turning left and right, leaning and shouting into the crowd “GO OILERS GO! GO OILERS GO!”.  I think people around her started joining in because, well, maybe they were getting into the spirit, or maybe they were a little bit scared that if they didn’t join in, she would NEVER stop.

Either way, it was working. It was a great rallying cry… She was always supporting the underdogs, always helping them win. One time we drove by some striking workers, and she and my Dad were really getting into it over something, but she said to him. “Honk for them!”, and without hesitation, leaned over and started honking the horn while he was driving. Maybe a little too robotically and rhythmically, but they got the point. And that was Mom when she was healthy. You always knew what her opinion was, because she never held back.

The only time I would worry about her was when the self-expression stopped.

Scene 2 (And it only took me half a year to get back at it).

Setting: Empty Stage

SCENE 2

Shawn: Everywhere she went, it was with conviction. I remember in the rare occurrence I saw her at work, where I had to visit for some reason, she was always practically running…. But in a way that was entirely Sheilaesque. She didn’t run like an athlete, or someone just in a hurry, she had a low-to-the-ground, intense, tunnel-vision way of moving. It might take several times to get her attention – “Mom… Mom… MOM… SHEILA!!” – And then she might stop and see you, half embarrassed and half annoyed that you were there. It had nothing to do with you; it’s just that she had a job to do, and nothing was supposed to get in the way. She had to take care of that entire nursing home, at least in her mind, and you were not to interfere.

So you can imagine how deeply convicted she became to stopping that strike. She had gone back to work after raising 2 exhaustingly energetic children, and she was going to use that money from that job to show us the world. We had travelled, sure, but really only to see those breathtaking roadside attractions in the Okanagan… The giant slide at Adventureland, the realistic stills of Bedrock at Flintstone Park, and the awe-inspiring Ogopogo, who I swear I’ve actually seen in the lake at least a dozen times.  Sure, that stuff was great, but she had been to Europe with Dad when they were young, and she wanted to share the amazing stuff we might not be able to afford if it wasn’t for that job. 

So it was up to her. She fought, and she picketed, and she held meetings at the house. She was a fierce competitor, not backing down from anyone… And she didn’t really see those who didn’t see eye-to-eye with her as worthy adversaries. She relentlessly mocked them to their faces and behind their backs, accidentally entertaining the family with her imitations of their voices, walks, and mannerisms, which mostly consisted of stereotypical flouncing, faces, and of course, talking with their tongues sticking out. So no matter whom they were, it was “JANICE DUUUHHFFERSUN” and they all walked the saaaaame… I suppose we should respect each other, but this was the people versus the man, so this was war.

I don’t think it mattered to her who won. What was important is that she and her fellow nurses were heard, their grievances known to the very last detail. That’s what kept her fearless.  That’s what kept her strong.

With You: Scene 1

Setting:

A Board Room at the Alberta Hospital.

SCENE 1

Board Room. Slides of Sheila are projected on the sheet of paper on the wall, one after the other. The Doctor walks up to the sheet with a marker and circles Sheila.

The Doctor: This is the subject: Mrs. Pallier. She has been on Unit 9 since October 22, 1999. We have noticed several behaviour problems, and they can change depending on the environment she is in, and the people that surround her. Mrs. Pallier will speak of depression, anxiety, and suicide primarily when she is given attention by her family members. We are about to embark on a program which will change these  inappropriate behaviours and thoughts for the better, with the cooperation of her family, and all the staff on the unit.

We need to focus on safe, productive topics. These are to be the only thing we are to discuss with Mrs. Pallier. Topics surrounding feeling ill in any way are to be completely ignored. The conversations and visits with the subject are to be re-directed if they steer towards depression and anxiety, and if it is necessary, conversations should be terminated immediately. This strategy must be adhered to.

Any statements about suicide should be treated with the same strategy. In the true case of an attempt, there will be no discussion of the event. She will be treated with appropriate medical care and all parties will not discuss it with the subject.

Mrs. Pallier should, and will through adherence to this program, get as much attention as possible when she displays behaviours that are acceptable. When she speaks of positive, productive subjects, she should be reinforced with much consideration and interest. The optimal way to change her thoughts is to in a very clear way, through staff and family member's actions, communicate that she will be ignored when she is negative, and rewarded when she is positive. She will begin to learn that her behaviour will directly influence whether she is noticed or disregarded.

If you have any questions about the program with the subject, please call and leave a message if necessary.

Bill Gates Does Not Approve of Your Harry Potter Obsession

Note to 21st century geeks: You're doing it wrong. Just conforming to all the nerdy trends doesn't make you a geek. It makes you a follower with no mind or opinion of your own. Find something you like, and don't worry if other people think it's cool. Only then can you truly be a social reject that will create a fantastic thing to make everyone pay for calling you a dork. I'm just trying to help you make your first million.

Nate Ruess Will Not Take Away the Last Shreds of Masculinity you Desperately Cling To.

"He didn't give you gay, did he?" - Homer Simpson, Episode #168 "Homer's Phobia" (1997).

It seems as if some Sonic 102.9 listeners hate fun (and the band called "fun."). Well, at least a small pocket of Tapout-wearing, white-sunglass-faced lovers of all things douche, probably. The thing is, it seems as soon as a band becomes famous, they are bound to experience backlash (I won't even get into why people like this would listen to a station like Sonic).

So, as per usual, we all profess to hate all things popular with no explanation given (or necessary, I suppose). However, I think the reason most people give them a tough time is this: They look/sound/seem "gay".

Yep, it turns out in our ass-backwards, chicken-shit society, we can hide behind fake names on Facebook and pretty much say any ignorant thing we want these days. Heaven forbid a band or a group of people (for the sake of the UFC crowd, I will refer to these people as "hipsters") doesn't fit into your ultra-masculine stereotypes.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out overcompensation to battle the "gay". It can be done in 10 easy steps:

1. Buy a truck, and remove the muffler, and jack the tires up.
2. Buy a pair of white Oakley sunglasses.
3. Wear only brands that refer to MMA, Racing, Chop Shops, or Tattoos.
4. Be as racist as modern society now allows (this is limitless somehow as of 2001).
5. Talk about American sports all day. Try and name-drop athletes only by their nicknames.
6. Be as aggressive to strangers as possible. Typically, do this behind the wheel of step 1.
7. Blame all your irrational rage on others and mutter "I need a fuckin' cigarette" at least 3 times a day.
8. Tell everyone via social media how much you hate things that don't involve steps 1-7.
9. Gather together in groups of clones of yourself every weekend and talk about or watch things involving steps 1, 3, 4, and 5, and at 2 AM walk down the street drunkenly re-enacting step 6 (a little more punchy now), and then mutter step 7.
10. The most important step: Hate everything "gay" and remind your "not gay" friends that you still hate "gay" things by obsessively talking about "gay" things and how much you hate them.

There. Now you'll fit in. You're welcome.

In Regards to the Ego Yet Again.

Ah, the wondrous return of the blog to what it's supposed to be - a diary that other people can read, but most likely will not.

At one time, I had a well-read blog. It attracted a lot of attention and views. In fact, it was this one. And then came Facebook and Twitter. Also known as the death of the personal blog.

Blogs still have a place in the world - If someone has a business or hobby that they want to share pointers on, or try to get a few more clients, it's perfect for them... As far as a sad little corner for people to whine about their personal lives go, alas, this is more of a Facebook thing now, and can be limited to much shorter entries.

But sometimes, personal life-whining needs more space to stretch it's legs.

I've been doing Improv on stage since 1994. I've pretty much been doing it every year since then, and I still do it almost once a week. Hell, a few years ago, I did it 3 times a week. Seriously.

So it it really my ego that gets in the way of criticism? Can you still tell me that now? I suppose you can, but you'd be wrong.

I've taken criticism from everyone - From teachers, mentors, theatre gurus, theatre rookies, random adults, college and university kids, teens, and children. I've got everything from where I need to improve to more or less "I hate what you do". And I take it with a smile on my face and I listen.

But would it kill some people to give me a little respect now and then?

I'm really happy that the group I'm with now, Tales From the Improv Zone, is totally supportive. They continue to give me pointers, but also let me put in my two cents. Some even are very flattering in their comments (cough... Chad), and that gives them permission, in my opinion, to be blunt with me when there's something I need to work on.

Most other people out there have one or two nice things to say, but rather infrequently about my abilities. It's more about my great attitude and sticktoitiveness. Hell, I'd argue the whole thing about me having a good attitude or not with anyone, so I take that with a grain of salt.

Still, despite all the efforts I've put in over the years, there are folks out there that just don't have it in them to give me an ounce of credit. And that stings.

I really enjoy helping to develop new talent, young and old. That's my passion. And it's my fate to frequently see them pass me by and become more successful than me. In all my time, I have never had anyone who really went on to good success in the improv world say thank you to me. In fact, they seem to largely ignore me only a mere few months after moving on to greener pastures. And that's a fact. Not that I'm keeping score or anything. Okay. I'm keeping score.

I've watched them do very well for themselves in art, theatre, and music. Some of them (who should be thankful I'm not naming them) asked me personally for my advice. They came to me for pointers specifically and now have a hard time returning a "Hi" when I pass them on the street.

That stinks.

Sour grapes, I'm just jealous, bitter, blah blah. Nope. I'm just feeling sad.

I hope some day the talented people who know how dedicated I was to them (and still would be if they were still pushing to climb the ladder) realize that I very much so care about Edmonton's theatre community. I love seeing them succeed. I'd enjoy still being a friend to those who have done well, and I'd like it if they saw value in me still.

To be honest, I will remain in this community as long as it will have me, and I will continue to support and mentor new talents. If they don't want to hear what I have to say, that's okay, I will leave them alone. But as many people have said to me "Don't ask me for my opinion if you don't want it."

I feel better now.

Lava Lamp: Wheat, Barley, or Wax Ale?

I was fixing up my "office" in the house today... And the black cap from my lava lamp fell off the top.

I discovered underneath a bottle cap holds the liquid in, and it got me to thinking: Am I supposed to drink the 14-year-old liquid inside?

Should I heat it up first? I mean, the wax does need to be melty in order for me to guzzle, right?

And then it said it, right on the lid "Do Not Ingest".

Oh. Mystery solved.

Manifesting my What?

It might surprise some of you to know I actually went to school to become an actor. Maybe I got a little eccentric and full of myself sometimes. Here's my Bio from the program for 1998's "Viewer Discretion", done at Keyano Recital Theatre:

"Manifesting his exigency, Shawn E. Pallier cogitates his existence as an edictor after realizing he has performed as an immoral transvestite twice now at separate Keyano functions. Grasping at dignity, Shawn envisions a hell where maggots eternally digest his rotten body while a dove of death pecks at his heart. I love widdle fuzzy bunnies."

Clever, wasn't I? Clever at opening a thesaurus, no doubt.

On Childish Name-calling... and Billy Bob Dorkton.

Yeah, that's right Billy Bob. If I called you "Billy Bob Dorkton" or "Booby Blob Simpleton", I'd expect you to be pissed right off.

But Oscar-winning screenwriter, actor and director?

I know, I know, what a terrible thing to be called. And maybe Jian did say you'd been "sidetracked" by your Hollywood career, but always intended on music. WAY out of line, Jian... if you could hear my voice, you'd hear the sarcasm.

I've been called plenty of things throughout my endeavors in acting. I've been told I'm not a real actor, I'm not a real director, hell, I've been told I'm not a real writer. I've been told I can't dance, can't sing, and shouldn't "try so hard" and "be so desperate". I've had roommates tell me i "stole their dreams" from them when I was successful. I've been called an egomaniac, selfish, and lazy.

And I've never believed a word of it.

Oh sure, I was hurt. And maybe for a little while, I took a little look at myself. But I always liked what I saw, and tried to improve on the little things and not let anyone stand in my way.

But Billy Bob Thornton. I hope that we are all misunderstanding you, and that something really serious happened in your life that you're not willing to share. And you were waiting for the chance to let all your anger out on someone. Someone who said something, anything, that might be considered offensive to you.

In fact, I forgive you. I was going to rant about what a detached and socially inept void you were. How anyone like you could not realize how incredibly lucky someone like me might think you are, doing everything that you love, making a comfortable financial living, and understanding that the consequence is ironic... You don't deserve to be judged by people like me, but for some reason, the public lives vicariously through the famous, and this kind of thing, the way you treated Jian, is just not acceptable in the public's eye.

You know what? It's not because you're famous that I'm so sickened by the way you feel entitled to treat someone like that. It's that I don't like seeing human beings treat each other that way. I'm sorry that you have to be my example.

As you can tell, I'm having a hard time deciding how you make me feel. I really do hope that you aren't so deluded that you think anyone "deserves" to be treated any particular way because they inadvertently hurt your feelings.

A "magician" once pulled me aside and berated me for spoiling one of his "magical illusions". You want to know how I knew about it? I saw it on Camp Caribou, the public access children's show. CHILDREN'S SHOW. Billy Bob Thornton? To me, you are the "magician" who made his hand turn a 360, and then got mad at someone who knew how it was done... by the way Magic dude, I'm glad we don't bump into each other any more.

Oscar-winning screenwriter, actor and director? I've heard worse.

He could have called you the star of the re-make of "Bad News Bears", the voice of "Hounddog McDog", or he could have said you were on the Marquee of "Manure".

Now that's what I call name-calling.

Creativity and Dreams. Married at last.

Sometimes, you just have to create a fake album cover.

Very cathartic.

I'll just get up here on this Soapbox...

Sonic recently had a Survey, and they asked if I had anything to tell them.

I did.

Consider the level of total music obsession some of your listeners have. I've called in a couple of times to complete disdain from DJs my music requests when it's quite obvious Sonic is considering playing most of those artists (Flaming Lips (other than She Don't Use Jelly), Ben Folds, Matthew Sweet, etc) but aren't too sure how their primarily(? not sure if the following statement is true) 14-22 year old audience would react.

If you play Big Audio Dynamite and Jim Carroll, you must know we're out there. And I think you've lost contact with a lot of us.

Truth moment? I've heard several of my friends don't listen any more. They're tired of some of the over-played stuff that the Bear is playing already (Linkin Park, Three Days Grace, Disturbed, Papa Roach... already heard them before Sonic, would tune into 100.3 if I wanted to hear them). I do understand the quandary though; there is definitely a fan base that would be just as pissed if those bands airtimes were diminished, so I know you can't please everyone. I just had to get that off my chest.

My thought? I know people like me already have Farm Fresh, but I think we deserve another hour. A program that dedicated itself to the geekier side of Modern Rock. For people like me (I know I'm not alone) who own Mates of State albums, who think Vampire Weekend are the greatest thing since sliced bread, who lament the sudden absence or lack of Spoon, Flobots, The Weakerthans and The Dears, and who KNOW Modern Rock pioneers like Morrissey still make new albums, and are totally aware of the Adulty-Modern rock movements including artists like Sharon Jones, Beirut... blah blah blah.

That's what I had to tell you at Sonic. You can all roll your eyes collectively at this one. I know it was a little self-righteous and ranty, but I thought I'd throw it out there.

Your New Year's Resolution? See at Least one of these Every Month: (Yeah, Yeah. This is only part of January. Smartass.):

"The Play About The Baby" (Image Theatre)
Roxy Theatre (10708 124 Street)
Previews January 6 & 7, January 8-18, 2009
Tickets: 780-453-2440 or www.tixonthesquare.com
www.attheroxy.com

"10 Days of Madness Playwriting Festival" (University of Alberta)
TransAlta Arts Barns (24-hour contest: Dinwoodie on the U of A campus)
January 8-17, 2009
Information: Melissa at 780-718-6583
www.bookstore.ualberta.ca

"Monthly STORY CAFE: Laugh Like the Devil" (T.A.L.E.S. Edmonton)
Rosie's Bar and Grill (10475- 80 Ave)
January 8, 2009 @ 7 pm
Tickets: At the Door; Pay What You Will ($6 minimum)
www.ecn.ab.ca/~tales/

"Monthly TELLAROUND" (T.A.L.E.S. Edmonton)
The City Arts Centre (10943 84 Ave)
January 9, 2009 @ 8 pm
Tickets: At the Door; First time free. Subsequent admission $3.
www.ecn.ab.ca/~tales/

"Scorched"(Citadel Theatre)
Rice Theatre (Inside the Citadel: 9828 101A Avenue)
January 10 – February 1, 2009
Tickets: 780-425-1820 or:
www.citadeltheatre.com

"Die-Nasty! Season 18: The French Renovation" (Die-Nasty Improv)
Varscona Theatre (10329 83 Ave)
Every Monday at 8 PM
Tickets: 780-433-3399 (Mailbox #1) or 780-707-7964
www.die-nastyimprov.com

"Theatresports" (Rapid Fire Theatre)
Varscona Theatre (10329 83 Ave)
Every Friday at 11pm (RFT Primetime 8 pm on January 9)
Tickets: At the door or reserve ahead at 780-448-0695
www.rapidfiretheatre.com

"CHiMPROV" (Rapid Fire Theatre)
Varscona Theatre (10329 83 Ave)
Every Saturday except the last of the month at 11pm
Tickets: At the door or reserve ahead at 780-448-0695
www.rapidfiretheatre.com

"Oh Susanna!"
Varscona Theatre (10329 83 Ave)
The last Saturday of the month at 11 pm
Tickets: 780-433-3399
www.varsconatheatre.org

"Peace, Love & Rock N' Roll: And The Beat Goes On!" (Mayfield Dinner Theatre)
Mayfield Inn and Suites (16615 109 Avenue)
November 7, 2008 to February 15, 2009
Tickets: 780-483-4051 or Toll Free 1-877-529-7829, or at: www.mayfieldtheatre.ca

"Pirates of the North Saskatchewan II" (Jubilations Dinner Theatre)
West Edmonton Mall (#2690, 8882 170 Street)
November 6, 2008 to January 24, 2009
Tickets: 780-484-2424 or Toll Free 1-877-214-2424
www.jubilations.ca