Tales of A Maintenance Man #258

So I thought today was gonna be like any other day,

Fix some machines, eat some food, fix more machines, and go home.

Yes, today did start like any other, but wait, what’s this?

A call to the ace room?

Nay I say, the machines up there run like a doozy.

Aie, there was But one machine that did not.

Cryptic she be too the operators that swarmed like

Moths attracted to a flame.

What is this mysterious spell that has fallen upon #4?

We have not seen this before, maybe on goats but not this?

Have their eyes deceived them?

Was it Voodoo?

Alas! It was a box.

A mighty fine beast she was and mustered up a good fight,

But in the end it was just a box.

Nothing more.

Calgary Expo '13

    Being a closet geek most of my life, I find it wonderful that someone out there has come up with the idea of Comic Con. A convention where your true inner nerd comes to life and the people around you could care less if you’re into Dungeons&Dragons, Doctor Who, or that you know all the songs from Kirk and Spocks Spaced out album. Better yet they might even embrace this fact and sing a few bars with you and a new friendship bond develops and you laugh and talk about it over a game of Cattan.

    Visiting the Calgary Expo (Canada's version of Comic Con) this past weekend, First thing you notice is how you’re immediately thrown into this universe of geekdom that covers everything from board games, to anime, from comic books to cosplay. Like all shows they get you ready by standing in line so you can then stand in a bigger line for hours, and hours at a time. It's like prepping an athlete for a contest. Although if you look in this crowd you might not see the finest, most fit specimens on the planet waiting in line to spend $10 on a burrito with extra cheese. But you will see a fat batman and his 8 year old son joker standing there checking out the powerpuff girls in front of them giggling about what celebrity their going to get their photo with next.

    I myself, like any of the thousand pubescent virgin males around me gawk at the wonderful women portraying their beloved characters in the least amount of clothing possible. Never has any of these cartoon characters ever looked so so good in so so little. I applaud their commitment to character and wished there was more troopers out there like them. The 33 year old me stays cool and collected on the outside, but the 16 year old in me is running around like a crazy person high on testosterone, Vodka and Red Bull, wearing nothing but body paint and shooting roman candles off inside my head. If only I had a real camera instead of this Sony camera phone BS that looks like my 6 year old nephew was taking the pictures. Everyone is either too far away, terrible flash, and out of focus. Just great. Hey is that Wolverine? Wait, wait, nope it's just some hairy bastard with posters in his hands...

Anyways,

    Walking down the aisles of the Comic book artists I always feel guilty. It's as if it feels like walking by a pet shop with a giant window and all the artists are the puppies on display, with their big, sad, puppy dog eyes looking at you for approval. Browsing their work and to keep on walking is almost like telling them "Hmmm you’re not bad, but that other guy's talent is better. I think I'll take his work home instead. Sorry. Maybe next year." Although that still doesn't stop some people from taking them all home at once, they're the real humanitarians of the convention.

     The Expo has many booths for every type of fan out there. I still do not understand the whole furry movement and I don't think I ever want to. I love animals but not to that extent. Sorry. And as much as I love Anime, my parents probably will never understand what it's all about and why I'm so into it. Maybe it's the fact you have to read it as well as watch it...or maybe it’s the fact that a grown married man such as myself is watching cartoons more than his children. I dunno. I'm just a sucker for Caucasian girls in skimpy clothing, with huge eyes and breasts that speak Japanese. I admit it. I have no shame.

    I also happened to drop by the Steampunk booth to check out all of the neat brass weapons and gadgets they had on display. It's a pretty big movement that's been growing in the last few years, But don't dare ask them what their all about or anything they are selling if you are not one of them. I don't know what makes them so stuck up or think they are above everyone else. But I do know that they have developed a way to make fat people fashionable. Who knew...?

Determining Baby Names - First The Boy.

*Article was written before we gave birth to our son Axle Slade on Friday Oct.19/12 at 9:04pm.*

    Right now I'm on borrowed time. Since my informed me about getting induced this Saturday, my first worries of a father spring forth, and reality is closing the door, igniting my worst fears like a house fire...and me burning inside, armed with only a water pistol to put the flames out. This is how equipped I am with the ever present ticking time bomb in my wife's womb. No matter. I work better under pressure - or the last minute. I have many pressing matters ahead of me, all of which could be better described as me standing naked, on a Saturday morning at a farmers market with a tuna in one hand and a flashlight in the other, asking passersby if they have seen that cat - the one who answers to Clark. Now Clark may be a dumb name for a cat, but this is no cat I will have to name in a day or two. This child will have to live with a lifetime of embarrassment or pride, depending on the decision I we are about to make.

    One could take the easy route and name the boy after yourself. This just proves how egotistical you are and how unoriginal thought process is. What have I done so great? Other than clubbing the mother and dragging her back to my cave and having my way with her. With all the previous decisions I have made so far, I'm lucky I'm still alive to attract a mate to hang around long enough to procreate. Have I discovered the atom? Have I invented the first light bulb or produced the first automobile? Have I invented the time machine? No I have not. If I did I'd be the world's wealthiest man and the mother would probably most likely be Megan Fox or Marilyn Monroe. And for those of you who can't answer any of the above questions as well, I say pick something else.

    Next you can look up to your hero's for a chosen name. Naturally most (good) fathers end up being the hero in a boy’s life. One problem. Those who know my father well call him BOB, short for Robert, which is his middle name. The problem is I know more Roberts than any other name. I have heard that Muhammad is the most common name in the world but I beg to differ. I know so many Roberts that I have to call them by a sir name - cowboy Rob, work Rob, Rob the smart ass I went to school with ect. And why would you name your kid after a prophet anyways? Seems like you’re setting them up for failure from the beginning. Did he set your people free? Doubtful. Other than Ali is there any other famous Muhammad’s? And that's not even his real name! Fail. Try again next time.

    By now you’re probably spit balling some names. Guarantee that any name you and the misses throw out there, you have probably met in your life by now and reject the name outright based on the fact if the guy was a dickhead or a Nancy boy.  I for one try to think of the strongest, manliest, name I can think of. Something to the tune of if the cast from the Expendables were packed into a one testosterone filled anabolic sandwich, chewed up and spit out by Clint Eastwood himself. A name so manly that every other guy in the same room might as well be sporting vaginas. This ain't no sissy bar. The world can have their girlish names of Lance, Tracey or Clarence; Unisex names are for the weak who can't decide if their boy should have been a girl or vice versa. Some goes as far as giving their poor boy a girl’s name, such as Sarah. Well Sarah, we know who wears the pants in your family. It’s a shame really.

    As much as I like the idea, I think it would be hilarious as a Caucasian male to give your kid a name that is the complete opposite of your race. Like Japanese-Mongolian or Turkish-Zimbabwe. Here meet my son Yamaguchi Khan or my son Dundar Ncklkckxwjdkkikxacc. Or how about a whole string of vowels? EIEIEIO. As funny as that would be I'll stick to a manly name.

The Caterpillar.

So I found this caterpillar today and I couldn't help but notice if I was staring at him

Or him staring back at me then back at him?

Could he look into my soul and see what I cannot?

I may always be a man but he will always not be a caterpillar.

He will someday spread his wings and leave this place onto bigger and better things.

I too, am jealous of this transformation and reflect upon my own life on this matter.

Can he be better than me? Is he really happy?

Instead I squashed him.

There's always gonna be some jerk out there that’s gonna ruin your day.

Lesson Learned.

Warui Onna (The Bad Girl) - 1984 Mazda RX7.

    Growing up with my parents there was one thing you could always count on and that they would always be late. Very Late. So late you could call it by my new name - punctually retarded. To be waiting only a few minutes for one to show up would be a cataclysmic phenomenon of epic proportions that would have kittens and baby seals mating in harmonious fashion producing a world of cuteness that would be fueled by rainbows and summer daises. But alas this was not my world. My world then was spent with my eyes grazing over minute and hour hands wondering if my parents remembered if they even bared children.

    Determined to rid these chains of this oppression, and despite my best efforts at winning the lottery, I entered the workforce.  Working 2 jobs 7 days a week for minimum wage that summer I had just had enough to buy my first car, or a round trip plane ticket to Tijuana, just. One would think that such an individual who's worked so hard for so little cash,  would do some research about the car he wants to buy. Nay I say. Back then thinking was not my strong suit and my brain barley had 10% control of my thoughts which it needed to support basic motor function and any diseases I may encounter in my travels.

    So where does one even begin? Unlike today where a simple stroke of a keyboard you get over a thousand results of cars for sale or girls looking for a good time in your area, back then it was spread by word of mouth, the local buy and sell, or seeing a "for sale" sign on the windshield. Barely able to complete full sentences when talking to the opposite sex, I decided to ask for my parent’s advice on the topic. Naturally like all good parents they try to steer you towards the "safe" domestic cars such as a Dodge, Ford, or GM, you know, the girl next door - the one who may go to your local church, get straight A's in class, and who wears Sunday dresses. I do fancy Sunday dresses on women, but being 18 with hormones and booze making the majority of my decisions for me, I picked up the first pretty girl that caught my eye, and took her home that night. A 1984 Mazda RX7. In metallic brown.

    There is something mysterious about Japanese girls, an X-factor, something sexy, some might even say taboo. Being a small town Canadian teenager their Asian beauty is even more tempting. One might argue that it’s not hard for one to standout if they are the only koi fish in the pond. True, but like all men it’s in our genetics to be attracted to things that bounce, dangerous extracurricular activities, and flashy/foreign objects.  One cannot deny nor turn away from their petite size, smooth body lines and great rear end that calls out to you and says "com'on big boy, you know you wanna go for a ride!" She would be the girl you bring home to meet the parents wearing nothing but a low cut tank top, a plaid miniskirt, with knee-high stiletto boots sporting colored sex hair. The type of girl your parents would just love to hate and the one they would warn you about...trouble. And she was all kinds of it.

    Now a rookie to the game, and like all first relationships you tend to ignore the early warning signs, look past their imperfections and quirks, and for a short while enjoy pure, utter, blissful ignorance.

Sure she has a dent here and a little bit of rust there - nothing some surgery couldn't fix.

Low Ride height? I like crawling on my hands and knees to get out, plus the neighbors already think I'm an alcoholic.

Gas gauge doesn't work? No problem. There's always a gas station nearby and she'll let me know when she is upset with me by not moving.

Engine makes a little noise? Bah, it’s her just whispering sweet nothings in my ears.

Check oil light always on? She just needs more loving.

Hard to start? She’s just playing hard to get.

Blows a little bit a smoke? She’s just letting off some steam; I should take her out more often.

Or so I thought.

  

    After a couple of months the beer goggles were off and I soon realized that the Asian beauty I have fallen in love with was really Mothra out to destroy my heart, and my wallet. My wallet (Godzilla) wasn't big enough to take her on. Every time I decided to take her for a spin, they would have an epic battle of prehistoric proportions to see who would win. Caught in the middle, would be me, poor Tokyo, who, with every confrontation between the two, gets demolished. They started fighting once a month, then once every two weeks, then every week, soon sadly every time I went out. And just like the movies, in the end Mothra wins and Godzilla gets dragged out to the sea, and the hard earned money soon washes away.  Nobody tells you that you have a high maintenance girlfriend until you can no longer afford to keep her. Breakups are hard but the first one always hurts the most. With all trials and tribulations, I cannot say anything bad about her though. After all, she was my first manual gearbox experience, she drove me to my first year of college, picked up my first long term girlfriend and because she broke down so often I fell in love with working on cars. So it wasn't all bad. There's plenty of fish in the sea...