Action Jackson and Too Much Praise
I met Action Jackson on Thursday. It said Action Jackson on his floaty things swimmers use between their legs. I call them floaty things because buoys belong in the ocean and I don’t want to be taken seriously as a swimmer. And they’re pronounced boys not the ridiculous booey.
Let’s not be confusing, they’re floaty things.
“Nice pool, eh?” Action said.
I made him say it again.
Because I’m like that.
Also, he was talking to my left shoulder.
And there’s experience — as in real life I’m a see-through column. Generally, I want to make sure I’m the final address of a comment.
It was pretty obvious the question was meant for me. I was taking a photograph. He probably thought I was a tourist or new to town and possibly far more interesting than a see-through column that takes a picture from the same spot before every swim as I explained my “art” project. It was my 62nd swim (seriously I’m not a serious swimmer) since mid-May and little did I know, in about an hour, I would have a banana stolen while my back was turned in the changing room.
Bananas are important, critical actually. They allow me to bike home and on this day it would be a long time before I’d get there.
Still, I took to Action Jackson. His voice crackled with character and enthusiasm. I pegged him for late 50’s and a man with stories. Older people are good for that. He was off to Andina, a microbrew, and in the neighbourhood where I was going to make my karaoke debut. I didn’t invite him to the impending cataclysm.
About three hours later, I’m riding, nearing the Princeton, when I hear “DAVID!” It wasn’t Action Jackson but my friends who were heading in the opposite direction. “We’re going to… “
I couldn’t hear them, so I whipped out the mobile thinking my friend was responsible and organized and would have texted. Yup, they were heading to Andina.
Where is it?
The big yellow building a couple of blocks away.
The big yellow building I just ignored?
Action Jackson was there. He intro’d us to a couple of people, including a young chill Brit who suggested we head for some botanicals as if cannabis wasn’t legal in Canada. I chatted to Action for a bit. He told me I was right, it’s all about story. He’s a marketing prof.
I’d been getting a lot of praise over the last week to point I didn’t know how to handle it, even our new CEO earlier in the day had taken the piss out of me – yes it was praise.
Marketing had “hijacked” a quarterly social event by presenting five design options for a new booth. One stood out for everyone but nonetheless a debate ensued as all the flaws were discussed with two options left on the wall. What followed was the best bit of screenwriting I’ve done all year.
The conversation was going in circles. It was clear what needed to be done but wanted to pick a moment, and I was curious to see if anybody else had the same idea. So I waited. And waited. It was like that scene in Jaws where the community was squabbling about catching the shark and Quint takes over.
I got up, wish I could say, sashayed to the wall, but was only four feet away and pulled the favoured image off the wall, folded it in a perfect half, smiled, and placed it over half of the other image. The light bulbs went off.
It’s about time, I’ve been here six weeks waiting for you to do something! said CEO.
Genius needs a break six weeks at a time, I quipped.
I was late the next morning due to a comedic doctors appointment where I convinced the doc I was in great shape but not to take any readings because someone gave me a shot of Jaegermeister at the death the previous night, not to mention (I didn’t) the house made chips with nacho/cheddar cheese and jalapenos (all 90s pub deliciousness) and was feeling grim. Blood pressure of a 25 year old I said, but not today, probably atrial fibrillation as well, but let me worry about that, especially the spelling of it. As soon as I returned to my desk the CEO approached, concerned I understood he was joking the day before. I reassured.
Did you hear my retort?
Yes, they’ve been telling me in the office you’ve been calling yourself a genius.
You know the colour of beetroot.
There’s good reason for the genius joke. Nobody’s getting the other ones.
On Tuesday an email was forwarded where a line I wrote was singled out for “this is what we need, more of this” kind of thing. It wasn’t attributed to me (but everyone knew), so not missing a beat or an opportunity for the dramatic, I rose, took a bow and said, You can call me Peggy. It’s not something you put on a resume, but god knows, it would improve mine.
Only one person got the joke. I looked around and realized few had watched Mad Men. Later I was told it was too old for people to get it. Too old!
I put it down to being a see-through column. Still, praise continued.
On Wednesday I came off a phone call and a veteran of broadcast journalism turned to me and said, that’s one of the great phone voices. It can’t be taught. Cadence. Listening.
I was floored. I waved my hands, no more. Please. I didn’t know what to do. Earlier I had been told a client had nice things to say about me while in Chicago. It was only Wednesday and it was too much. I don’t know how other people handle compliments, but if I can’t take the piss the only other option is to become a dickhead muppet, and there’s only room in the world for one, and we now have two. A third? Crikey.
BTW. Please don’t call me.
Between the banana theft and karaoke, I headed back downtown to have a celebratory drink with a colleague who had just become a Canadian citizen and another who was moving to Toronto the next day. It was at one of those places I hate because they grab a prime location and it’s pretty much to hell with everything else.
It’s another piece but briefly, Tap & Barrel, The Donnelly Group, Food Trucks, Poke places (glorified salad bars where you pay a slave to pick items instead of doing it yourself) and now Beyond Meat have all contrived to lower culinary standards over several years.
But hey, nothing like a view (see video) with a live orchestra.
I was touched by how important becoming a Canadian citizen was to a Russian, it was freedom, and I wasn’t going to ruin it with my diatribe on mid-range Vancouver restaurants. Instead…
Curiosity took hold. How many languages did people around the table speak -- I barely get away with one. Four, three and a half, four, two and two x two quarters said the other Russian Canadian who was heading for Toronto and probably the most mature late twenty-something I’ve ever met (obviously not a man). She said she’d miss me, had let the returning manager from mat leave know how well I was doing and, in some detail.
Omg, more praise.
I returned some of the compliment because I’d learned from her too and she was the only one to get my Peggy joke. Although, a fair chance she may have been laughing at something else. When the bill came, someone else had paid for my food. Either sympathy over the banana or, they know how much I pay in rent.
Action wanted to know if I was into craft brewery. I hesitated. Mistake. Action was on the verge of offering me a card to his secret microbrewery club. My eyes followed his card as it made a dramatic looped return into his wallet. It’ll be well known soon, he said. His confidence was awesome. But for now… and he gave me his regular card.
It’s not that I’m not into craft brew, it’s all that I drink when it comes to beer, I just don’t drink a hell of a lot or can claim to be an OCD aficionado and, let’s face it, I hadn’t been to Andina despite people telling me to go. And then there’s the actual sampling. I got a flight. The thing that looked like pink guava, didn’t taste a lot like guava, tasted sour and the one labeled guava didn’t look like guava tasted like a sour, and the pale ale I was non-committal about actually tasted quite nice. What the fuck do I know about beer.
I’ve told this one before. Christmas 1996. The last regular beer. Some Aussie pub in Covent Garden, probably god-awful swill like Castlemaine XXXX. It was an informal work gathering of the lads. We entered the bar and two smoking hot women, a red head and a blond (this is 90s screenwriting), were sitting at a table next to each other almost waiting to see who would turn up and try their luck for their entertainment. You could see it in their eyes.
They were students, Scottish. Smart. And I found out because there was a pack of Du Maurier on the table. I asked them if they were Canadian. It was my smoothest move ever. Come to think of it, I should try the same line in a Vancouver bar. Hm.
In 2019?
That emoji response hasn’t been created.
Impressed, intrigued, or bored they let me play. It was a long time ago but think it was going quite well. I probably prattled on about immigrating to Canada one day, so probably, not so well. If you’re in your twenties and not trying to get the fuck out of somewhere, well… I’m going to have to make up some bs theory about how life will pan out for the worse.
The lads were leaving. But I was steadfast. Staying. And then in their last bid to get me to join them at some shit club, the ultimate shout rang across the bar, “Dave, They’re out of your league!”
Brilliant.
I looked at the women, was I?
Confidence failed and I became a see-through column.
Actually, I was probably invisible back then, the column is a nice addition.
Talking of life turning out for the worse, my name was called for karaoke and I really needed to pee. Like Defcon 1 pee. I made a made a mad dash to the bathroom – the women’s bathroom.
Yup.
The men’s was on the other side of the pub. And I’m thinking, what the hell. There’s no one in here, and it’s a stall, and I’m going to be singing in a high pitch. Lock the door.
Some develop allergies as they get older, can’t drink alcohol because their bodies are done. I’m sort of there when it comes to men’s bathrooms. I’ve reached my fill – disgusting pee all over toilet seats. Like how the fuck do they miss?
I was about to find out.
Actually, not. I still don’t know how it’s possible but like a wild hose the stuff started going everywhere. Like, whoa.
OMG
I panicked. It got worse. Karma Police was revving, I was going to miss out but my pee had gone nuclear. I got it under control but it was too late. I surveyed the scene mortified and began the clean up. The karaoke debut would be delayed.
Mt friend laughed about me going to the women’s. The dash was so fast no one could stop me. I didn’t tell her what happened. It was the end of praise. Almost.
You can’t sing but you’ve got moves. Really, you have.