JPod (14 page)

Wage slavery > Temporary > Get to the point > Let X = X > Start

2005 All-Star Winner Mark Jackson

CODING LANGUAGES (C++, SOFTIMAGE) ABILITY TO BENCH PRESS 250, ENCYCLOPEDIC KNOWLEDGE OF NFL, CFL & NBA STATS, 4% BODY FAT, NATURALLY ENDOWED WITH EPIC GREEK MUSCLES (SIDES OF STOMACH). Currently KILLING TIME UNTIL MY SECRET HARDWARE IDEAS ARE PATENTED AND MADE GLOBAL. YOU LOOK AT RICH PEOPLE AND THEIR PICTURES AND WONDER, WHY IS THAT PERSON RICH AND NOT ME? THERE'S NO ANSWER TO THIS, EXCEPT TO SAY THAT I AM GOING TO BE RICH.

Other GOOD VALUES appear in abundance in this lot, and exceed the best 2005 tech employees now being offered on eBay Everything you see will be included w/ no surprises.

Quiet life > Unexamined > No frills > Normal > Undamaged

Sensible Value for Typical Fellow

Description

John Doe comes with no scary Web links or disturbing images stashed in the bowels of his computer. Not one. What few cuts and dings exist are exposed for all to see, as is his small bald spot. John Doe is clean and sensible, but can also be stylish if enough advance notice is given. To be this good a deal, John has had to be stored in a garage for an awfully long time.

John Doe is excellent for families and clean normal living. Yes, John Doe has all the features that are a must-have in today's hectic world.

Dude > XBox > Wolverine > Open source

Ethan Jarlewski

Ethan was developed in a cool, dry, non-smoking home and was released in 1976. His body movements are disarmingly realistic, and his voice feature often works when connected to a compatible play set.

Ethan is a hard-to-find item, especially in this condition, Good to Very Good or better. He has no tan and his acne ended four years ago. All wiring and plumbing is in good order. No manual is included, but his operation is highly intuitive. WARNING: Ethan does not respond well when people try to change him. Highest bidder takes him as is, NO REFUNDS.

Ethan remains highly annoyed by the Sprite™ ad campaign from the late 1990s and early 2000s, even though that campaign is over. "Obey Your Thirst"—what kind of idiotic slogan is that? "Gee, I'm thirsty, but I'd better not drink anything, because that would mean obeying my thirst." Ethan is also annoyed by the Audi campaign that says, "Never Follow." Frankly, Ethan is annoyed with all of these dumb campaigns that indoctrinate millions of people into thinking they're tough-guy free spirits when, in fact, there's probably much to be said for following and, in any event, the food chain isn't structured to encompass millions of non-followers. So you end up with a population of frustrated, brink-of-bitterness cranks.

Like anyone, Ethan Jarlewski enjoys a good game. Of the following true or false questions, only one is true. Choose which one and win an insider's discount and free shipping with real bubble-pack, not crumpled paper. Ethan is yours for the having—bid with confidence!

. . .

Dad phoned while I was trying to beat Super Metroid on a PC SNES emulator (in under an hour and ten, with no more than 50% items).

"Ethan, come out to the set and spend time with me."

"Dad, it's eleven p.m. I'm still at work. What's wrong?"

"Is it so much to ask that you come cheer up your old man?"

"Dad, hanging out on sets is boring. They're even more boring than ballrooms. Learn how to knit."

"The food here sucks."

"Dad, are you even listening to me?"

"And the actress in this dog of a movie is vegan, so everybody else has to be one, too."

"Unions allow that?"

"Ethan, I really need you here."

"Is it Ellen?"

"No."

"What is it, then?"

"I said it was nothing. I just want to see you."

"I'm going to hang up if you don't tell me what's going on."

"Oh, all right. It's Kam Fong."

"He's messing with your life?"

"Yeah."

"How? Why?"

"He got . . . a speaking part on this movie."

"What?"

"What a prick, huh?"

"He's not even an actor. How did he get a speaking part?"

"Well, you know, since that night at the club, we've become pretty good friends, so I invited him out here to visit the set. I was taking him from the crew parking lot to the cameras, when he stepped in a puddle and dirtied his precious booties. He went mental in Mandarin, and the director heard him.
How authentic! ht
shrieked, and
bingo.
Kam Fong is Mister moo-goo-gai-pan-Charlie-Chan-me-so-horny Asian actor guy, and I'm still a generic asshole who gets blown up at the start of act one."

"Being blown up is pretty good. At least for a few seconds the audience is focused entirely on you."

"This big woof-woof of a movie is a gorefest. Nobody's going to notice me."

"Hey wait—a vegan actress is doing a movie with so much violence?"

"I know—weird, huh?"

I couldn't keep Dad sidetracked for long.

"All those years in voice training and method and workshops, and this shit-for-brains steps in a puddle, and he's already drawing blueprints for his personal trailer."

"Dad, mellow out. It's a small speaking part. Big deal."

Sniffle.

"Dad, are you crying?"

"Am I a jerk-off of a father to call his son in a time of need?"

"Okay, okay, I'm coming. Where are you?"

As I was driving out to Dad's shoot, Mom called my cell. "Ethan?"

"Hi, Mom."

"Where are you?"

"In the car. I'm heading out to see Dad on the set."

"Why?"

"He called me up—he's bummed because Kam Fong got a speaking part in his movie."

"What's the deal with your father and this new best friend of his, Mr. Kung Fu? They're on the phone all day, talking about ballroom dancing."

"Mom, Kam Fong's head of a Chinese people-smuggling syndicate. He doesn't have time to be Dad's secret gay lover."

"He's your father's gay lover?"

"No. But he loves ballroom dancing, and you don't."

"Ethan, you know how boring that ballroom world is."

"Yeah, but Dad loves it."

"All those divorcees dressed like fourteen-year-old figure skaters."

"Well, now he finally has a friend to discuss it with."

Silence.

"Mom?"

Silence again.

"Mom—are you jealous?"

"Me? No. Why should I be jealous? My husband is merely spending all his waking moments with a man who probably has five bolero jackets at the dry cleaners, and a dozen fruit-flavoured lip smackers concealed in an ostrich-feather clutch purse."

"Mom, what are you doing up at"—I looked at the dash clock—"eleven-thirty?"

" "I can't sleep."

"How come?"

"Oh, nothing."

I let it go and said good night—it was too late in the day to investigate Mom's interior world, too.

At the set, I found Dad and Kam Fong practising ballroom dance steps with invisible partners.

So much for Dad being miserable.

"Hi, guys."

"We're rehearsing a variation on the East Coast Swing. Ready, Kam?"

"Ready."

As a duo, they began to move, and in my head I remembered all the colour-commentary dance notations I'd had to learn while growing up . . .

...
backaway

... she turns

... he turns

... tuck-in release

... basic step in open position

... underarm turn in open position

... change of places

... crossover turn in open position

... behind the back changes

...flirtation
.
close.

"I hear you got a speaking part, Kam Fong," I said when they stopped. "Congratulations."

"I never thought of being in films before."

"What's your character?"

"I play a Chinese gang kingpin. The guy who was supposed to be playing it had an allergic reaction to erythromycin. He's dead."

"It's your big break."

"You said it."

Dad didn't like this conversation. He cut it short. "Ethan, I have to go out to Port Coquitlam on an errand. Come with me."

"Errand?"

' Yeah. The guy who helps your mother and me get boodeg satellite TV signals has gone to the Yucatan. We need to get a software patch for the satellite card from his brother. He lives way out in the boonies."

"What's the hurry?"

"Your mother wants to catch a
Sex and the City
marathon tomorrow, and I like to watch
Band of Brothers
in the mornings. It gives me a lift for the rest of the day."

"Dad, just buy a satellite card. What's the big deal?"

"Pay full price, when I can get one for almost nothing? Talk about throwing money away."

"You North American young people spend money like crazy," added Kam.

"He practically
lives
in restaurants," Dad said, nodding in my direction, "and last year he bought a fridge and paid retail."

"Fool."

"You dragged me out here just so you could have some company in the car?"

"Yes."

What the hell. "Oh, all right."

Dad's car was being detailed by a gofer, while my car had been hemmed in by a trailer, so we borrowed Kam's two-ton smuggling-mobile. Our destination? A mildewed dump of a shack owned by some yokel named Clem. It bordered the slope of a Port Coquitlam forest recently scraped clean to make way for a subdivision. The trunks of the few trees that remained resembled telephone poles.

Clem opened the door like an ElfQuest troll about to hand us a curse and a talisman. He motioned us inside, where all of the walls were made of heavily varnished logs seasoned by decades of nicotine. I spotted a bookshelf filled with Mel Gibson tapes and DVDs, and three flatulent German shepherd/lab crosses that evidently enjoyed the house's sauna-like atmosphere. Clem noticed me looking and said, "Mel is God. I think I've got your satellite card in the dining room. Don't mind the clutter." I scrutinized the walls—pictures of Clem's days as a longshoreman mingled with framed inspirational Alcoholics Anonymous plaques. There was a newspaper clipping of Clem holding a sockeye in the 1963
Sun
Salmon Derby that had faded away almost to nothing. When Clem gave Dad the new card, we bolted for the truck. Once inside, we started laughing. Dad laid rubber, and I was glad the evening was coming to a close.

The dashboard beeped. Dad looked down. "We're low on gas."

"There's a Mohawk station down the hill."

While Dad was filling up the truck, I went to the station's mini-mart to stock up on Slim Jims. At the cash I glanced out at the pumps and saw Lyle from the biker house filling up his hog—
crap.

The clerk asked if everything was okay, and I said, 'Yeah, yeah."

A large delivery vehicle pulled in, giving me enough cover to scramble to our truck. Dad asked, "What's wrong with you?"

"That guy on the bike."

"What about him?"

"Mom and I went to collect a few days ago."

"And?"

"His pit bull chomped Mom's leg, and she fired a few shots, and it was kind of a, um, mess."

"Pit bull? Your mother told me it was a gardening wound—kneeling on a rake."

Dad kept his cool while paying the cashier just ahead of Lyle, but once back in the truck, he announced, "Nobody's dog attacks my wife. Let's nail the bastard."

I had no idea what Dad's plan was, but we pulled out from the pumps ahead of Lyle. "Dad, what are you—?"

I heard Lyle's hog approaching us from behind. Once we were around the corner and out of sight of the gas station, Lyle gunned his throtde to pass us. Dad veered sharply into the other lane, walloping the bike, sending Lyle flying out into the roadside weeds. The hog somehow managed to get snagged beneath the truck.

"Dad! Holy shit! The bike's stuck." The metallic scraping reminded me of trash cans being dragged down the driveway. "Are you going to stop or what?"

"In a second."

Sparks from the bike flared in the rear-view mirror. "Awesome light show," I said.

A quarter-mile down the road, Dad stopped the truck, then reversed it a bit to dislodge the hog. Then he said, "Get out, son, and open the back. We're putting it in."

"Why?"

"So our dog breeder pal can walk home."

As I got out, I heard Lyle screaming at us from back up the road. I looked his way, but he didn't seem to be running. I opened the back hatch.

Dad said, "Grab the front wheel. On the count of three we toss it into the back. One. Two.
Three
—" The bike was heavier than I thought it would be.

"Dad, this thing weighs a ton."

"Let's get some help then."

Dad shouted, "
!" and from the deepest recesses of the truck emerged a half-dozen Chinese people.

"Dad?"

Dad shouted, "
!" and the boat people hoisted the bike into the back. Dad closed the door. "Let's go."

"What does ,
mean?"