Everybody loves a mystery. I am not referring to the mysteries of life, and we all know there are many of those. The mystery I am talking about are more in the vein of who-killed-Professor-Plum-in-the-library-with-a-wrench, type of mystery. The sheer popularity of this genre over the years as demonstrated by the number of novels, movies, television shows and newspapers articles that outlined the unknown, the unanswered and the unexplained can attest to that. Kingston has had its own share of mysteries over the years. We can look back to the earliest days of the city or examine the most recent of crimes in the pages of our newspaper to try and understand the unknown. I know I have played amateur detective when looking at some of Kingston’s most famous or infamous mysteries. The popularity of the Ghost Walk of Kingston, which takes people on a walking tour of some of the more famous ghostly stories of our past shows the fascination most people have about things they do not know the answer to.
The reason I brought this up is that I was faced with a mystery of my own just a few months ago and spent many hours analyzing the events to try and get some sort of understanding of what occurred. As I mentioned, everyone loves a mystery and I am no exception.
I awoke one morning after an especially unrested, fitful sleep, even before my alarm sounded at my usual time. I skipped my morning exercise, grabbed a quick breakfast and made my way into work. Like most people, first thing in the morning is not the time of day to be at the top of my game. It usually takes a little while before my consciousness catches up with me. I got into the office, mostly by rote, just following the car ahead of me. Once there, I had turned my computer on and starting going through my morning rituals, which mostly entailed of me shaking my head a few times to clear the cobwebs. I checked my email to see if there were any pressing matters to be attended to. I took a look at the time located on the taskbar of my computer and then glanced at the watch on my wrist, a gleaming new one I bought just a few short weeks before and saw that my computer time was off. That in itself is not surprising, most people have encountered a dying battery in their computer before or a situation where the system has re-booted itself to a different day and sometime year. I simply reset the time to match my watch. I continued on like any other day until someone asked me what time it was. I told them and was quickly corrected by virtually everyone in earshot. It turned out my computer had the right time and my gleaming new watch did not. After years of always having the latest advances in many things, I have settled back into old and familiar and this is true with my watch. No longer did I want or need a watch that could tell me where I was on the earth (and believe me, there were times that I needed that information), what time it was in any of twenty four time zones or even have the ability to change a television station. All I wanted was a watch that would tell me the time of day and maybe what day of the month it was. I had opted for an old style analogue watch by a well known manufacturer. It cost me about a week’s wages, which shows one of two things, either I paid a lot for it or it is a very cheap watch. But given the circumstances that the watch had not stopped before and I didn’t do anything to make it start going again, the only certainty was that I was out twenty minutes. Twenty minutes out of my life that were for all intense and purposes, unexplained. At my age, losing any time out of my life is a matter of note. Using the astute logic and reasoning I am known for, my only conclusion was I had been abducted by aliens. That would explain the bad sleep, the bad dreams I was sure I was having and the strange markings on my body. Of course, when I expounded on my theory, I was met with blank stares (a blank look that seemed frighteningly similar to those eyes I saw in my dreams) and the usual amount of disbelief from non-believers. My wife who throughout most of my life has rallied to my side in times of confusion was for the most part.... disbelieving. I was so absolutely sure of my experience that I had now started to sleep with a half-cocked eye, so I would be fully aware of any nocturnal events. I was searching my body for those tiny pinpricks you always read about in the Enquirer. My television shows of choice no longer surrounded comedy and even “24" took a backseat to the Space Channel as I tried to compare my own meeting of the third kind to that of others. It was all encompassing at times. Was I yet another chapter in the abductions that are splashed across the pages of some of the more noteworthy publications that grace our grocery check out line? Would my experiences come out in the middle of some hypnotic trance that would be so terrifyingly real that my hair would turn white? These are the mysteries that keep me going from day-to-day.
In this particular case, the mystery was resolved in the most scientific of ways. When I was pulling a T-shirt over my head, a string of thread caught on the winding stem of my new watch and pulled it out to the first stage position, stopping the watch. By pushing it in, the watch started again. There was my missing twenty minutes. The whole basis of this abduction experience was now more of a case of tossing and turning in a fitful sleep. The strange markings on my body? On reflection they were most likely from the vinyl lawn chair in my yard. Bad dreams? Could be anything from a pizza too late at night to dredging up the memories of a horrible alien abduction movie like,”Night Skies” which I watched with my kids a while ago. So there went my personal mystery and my hopes for immortality in the legends of alien encounters. Now back to drudgery of everyday life. That is, until the next mystery grabs a hold of me.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Generation S
It seems that every generation has some symbol that represents their ideals and dreams something that crystallizes their moment in time. Be it flappers from the Roaring Twenties or the image of a daisy being placed in the barrel of a National Guards’ rifle. The whole attitude and flavour of those times can be expressed with these images. Being a child of the end of the Baby Boom, I was not really a part of the boom itself just the trickle at the end. I was not a true child of the sixties and wasn’t really a child of the seventies, I was kind of floating somewhere in between Woodstock and Disco, not quite beads and peace signs and certainly not Italian slip-ons and satin suits. All in all, a very disconcerting place to be. A sociologist has recently labeled us as the Generation Jones, which is slang word meaning an intense longing, some how that doesn’t quite ring true to me. The only intense longing I had when I was in my teens, certainly can’t be written about here.
As with most things, as you think of these generational reminders they become more and more apparent to you as you become more and more aware of them. It seemed every thing I saw connected me with a thought or twinged a memory about someone elses moment of time.
A number of years ago my wife and I were musing over this at our dinner table, just reminiscing with the kids about the events of our time. Things that I thought may even finally define our generation. We talked about the music that we listened to, the cultural impacts that occurred and the entertainment we watched as we grew older. I thought the kids would be full of questions. We told them of some of the movies that we wanted to rent for them, among them maybe 2001, A Space Odyssey, maybe a Clint Eastwood movie or two. We played some tunes for them, but yet they seemed pretty blase about the whole thing, so we asked them weren’t they interested in some of our generational icons? Our oldest child, John looked up and said, “It’s not like we don’t care, but it is a little old news, Dad.” Then as a concession to us, John said, “What do you think about this?” And as he creased his eyes into a scowl, he did a good visual impersonation of Clint and said “Go ahead, make my day.” Then he did an admirable job of singing the main musical sequence of the title song of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly with the Steph and Cat weighing in with the wa-wa’s. I looked at the girls and said, “You know about this stuff too?”, “Yeah.” They said together. “And I thought the big black thing in 2001 was way cool.” Said Stephanie. “Yeah.” Replied Catherine, “I liked the way it made people smarter”. I looked at my wife and shrugged my shoulders. “Do you know this song?” I went to the computer and clicked on Won’t Get Fooled Again by The Who. They started to sing along and even attempted the best known scream ever recorded on an album. Feeling a little frustrated, I said, “Ever hear of Grand Funk Railroad?” John looked at me and said “We're An American Band.” “Jefferson Airplane?” I asked. “White Rabbit.”
This started a flurry of questions and answers.
“Jefferson Starship?”, “We Built This City.”
“Wings?”, “Ah, they were nothing after McCartney left.”
“Planet of the Apes?”, “The Statue of Liberty.”
“Psycho?”, “The shower scene.”
Finally, I threw out, “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida!!” With an almost sinister smirk on his face John sat back and said, “In the Garden of Eden, baby.”
Defeated now, I asked, “Where did you guys learn this stuff from. It certainly wasn’t from your Mom or I.” John said, “I dunno. We just know about them”. “Where from?” I asked. In unison, they replied, “The Simpsons.” I managed to say, “The cartoon show?” “Yeah.” Catherine smiled. “It’s got all sorts of things in there about people your age. You know, Homer is about your age.” I didn’t like the direction this was taking me. “Homer is about my age.” I said with humiliation. “Yeah and he drinks beer as well, listens to the same music as you do and he has three kids, the oldest is a boy also.” Said Stephanie. “But.” I retorted, “His wife has a pile of blue hair on her head, even I know that. Look at your Mom, not a trace of blue hair, at least not for a few more years!”. My wife trained her flashing dark eyes on me, making me realize what I just said. “D’oh!” I blurted out, quite by accident. Stephanie piped up, “That may be true, Mom doesn’t have Margs’ hair, but Marg is patient, loving and understanding of her Homey as Mom is of you, even if Homer is the stupidest person on the planet”. “So what you guys are saying is that my life is that of Homer Simpson?” John smiled at me and said, “Well, if those are the cards that were dealt to you, you can either play ‘em or fold ‘em.” Giving the option, I knew I had to play them. Looking around the table I saw my cards alright. A full house, two of a kind and three wild eyed jokers. So, that is it. My life, my generation is encapsulated in not something smart and sassy, but more like dumb and brassy. Not even a cool nickname, not Generation X , not an Echo Boomer not even the Me Generation, I stand before you as a Simpson Generationer or maybe in short a Generation S.
And one last thing before I go. Boy, go get me a beer, so I can finish this article.
As with most things, as you think of these generational reminders they become more and more apparent to you as you become more and more aware of them. It seemed every thing I saw connected me with a thought or twinged a memory about someone elses moment of time.
A number of years ago my wife and I were musing over this at our dinner table, just reminiscing with the kids about the events of our time. Things that I thought may even finally define our generation. We talked about the music that we listened to, the cultural impacts that occurred and the entertainment we watched as we grew older. I thought the kids would be full of questions. We told them of some of the movies that we wanted to rent for them, among them maybe 2001, A Space Odyssey, maybe a Clint Eastwood movie or two. We played some tunes for them, but yet they seemed pretty blase about the whole thing, so we asked them weren’t they interested in some of our generational icons? Our oldest child, John looked up and said, “It’s not like we don’t care, but it is a little old news, Dad.” Then as a concession to us, John said, “What do you think about this?” And as he creased his eyes into a scowl, he did a good visual impersonation of Clint and said “Go ahead, make my day.” Then he did an admirable job of singing the main musical sequence of the title song of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly with the Steph and Cat weighing in with the wa-wa’s. I looked at the girls and said, “You know about this stuff too?”, “Yeah.” They said together. “And I thought the big black thing in 2001 was way cool.” Said Stephanie. “Yeah.” Replied Catherine, “I liked the way it made people smarter”. I looked at my wife and shrugged my shoulders. “Do you know this song?” I went to the computer and clicked on Won’t Get Fooled Again by The Who. They started to sing along and even attempted the best known scream ever recorded on an album. Feeling a little frustrated, I said, “Ever hear of Grand Funk Railroad?” John looked at me and said “We're An American Band.” “Jefferson Airplane?” I asked. “White Rabbit.”
This started a flurry of questions and answers.
“Jefferson Starship?”, “We Built This City.”
“Wings?”, “Ah, they were nothing after McCartney left.”
“Planet of the Apes?”, “The Statue of Liberty.”
“Psycho?”, “The shower scene.”
Finally, I threw out, “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida!!” With an almost sinister smirk on his face John sat back and said, “In the Garden of Eden, baby.”
Defeated now, I asked, “Where did you guys learn this stuff from. It certainly wasn’t from your Mom or I.” John said, “I dunno. We just know about them”. “Where from?” I asked. In unison, they replied, “The Simpsons.” I managed to say, “The cartoon show?” “Yeah.” Catherine smiled. “It’s got all sorts of things in there about people your age. You know, Homer is about your age.” I didn’t like the direction this was taking me. “Homer is about my age.” I said with humiliation. “Yeah and he drinks beer as well, listens to the same music as you do and he has three kids, the oldest is a boy also.” Said Stephanie. “But.” I retorted, “His wife has a pile of blue hair on her head, even I know that. Look at your Mom, not a trace of blue hair, at least not for a few more years!”. My wife trained her flashing dark eyes on me, making me realize what I just said. “D’oh!” I blurted out, quite by accident. Stephanie piped up, “That may be true, Mom doesn’t have Margs’ hair, but Marg is patient, loving and understanding of her Homey as Mom is of you, even if Homer is the stupidest person on the planet”. “So what you guys are saying is that my life is that of Homer Simpson?” John smiled at me and said, “Well, if those are the cards that were dealt to you, you can either play ‘em or fold ‘em.” Giving the option, I knew I had to play them. Looking around the table I saw my cards alright. A full house, two of a kind and three wild eyed jokers. So, that is it. My life, my generation is encapsulated in not something smart and sassy, but more like dumb and brassy. Not even a cool nickname, not Generation X , not an Echo Boomer not even the Me Generation, I stand before you as a Simpson Generationer or maybe in short a Generation S.
And one last thing before I go. Boy, go get me a beer, so I can finish this article.
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