wordblog

Here's to those who wish him well, all the rest.......

Wed, 07 Oct 2020 03:18:06 +0100

A couple of weeks ago the handsome, kind and gentle man on the left, suffered a catastrophic stroke. As he had wished, no heroic measures were taken, and this morning, my Dad, Horace Herbert Crowston slipped from the planets' grasp.
This photo was taken on my wedding day, some 15 years ago, to my loving and supportive partner,

Shelley McGaw

. Dad stands with his wife of almost 70 years, Beverly Rose Crowston and my lovely sister K.C. Lawrence, both of whom have passed.
My Dad was a 'depression baby', born August 4th, 1931 in northern Saskatchewan. Imagine! At 14 he was shipped west to Vancouver - a journey he made by rail and by himself to a home he did not know. He caddied at the UBC Golf Club to get by and spoke quietly about going for walks alone on Christmas Day to glimpse 'other families' happiness from the street. Somehow he managed and graduated from King George High. He met my Mom playing baseball - she was the score-keeper and cared for all the fellows wristwatches during the games. Dad was a natural at sports. He wasn't big, but he was fluid, fast and nimble on the ice. He often complained that he didn't have a strong slap-shot, but he could place his wrist-shot anywhere there was a hole. Off the ice, the links were his home. In fact, had he not been married, he could have seriously considered going pro. "Don't try and murder the ball son, just give it a reason to go where you want it to go". I believe his grandson

Alex Crowston

inherited that gene, while his artistic hand passed on to

Graham Crowston

.
He worked for a number of years with Swift Premium Meats as an 'Efficiency Expert' - a joke my Mom milked to death for their entire marriage. There followed a succession of sales jobs - he was a personable, friendly guy, sales came easy to him. In retirement he and Mom were dedicated and long-time volunteers at the Surrey Memorial Hospital. He once recieved in appreciation, a little pin commemorating his 2000 hours of community service. He also contributed both on-stage performance and stage-hand assistance for 'The Vaudevillians', a travelling road-show and fund raising group for seniors. His performance of McCrae's 'In Flanders Field' has never failed to bring a tear to my eye.
Mom and Dad moved to the Comox Valley a few years ago, and loved it here. "Should have done this years ago!" he often said.
After Mom's passing in 2019, my Dad and I grew much closer. Together we would chat, me, the recording engineer, speaking overly loudly and precisely in one word sentences while he read my lips. (The man couldn't hear a thing! And wouldn't Freud have fun with that bit!) But lucky, lucky me, because without all those encounters, I might never have learned that his sweet-tooth handily eclipsed my own, that he believed strongly in social responsibility and in extending good will towards others.
He was, I know, loved to bits by his grand daughters

Tricia Lawrence

and

Kristina Lawrence

as he loved them both back. To my brother, Chris Crowston, and me, Dad was a real-life, honest to goodness Hero.
I will miss terribly his wonderful sense of humour, his wit, his caring compassion, and his loving, considered council. Were that I might ever rise to be half the man he was to me I can only wish.
And so, as we always shared in toast; 'Here's to those who wish us well Dad, and all the rest... '

Yes, I'm Listening

Sun, 22 Sep 2019 18:14:53 +0100

Yes, I'm Listening

They weren’t trendy, although they had trendy things, and they weren’t artsy, although they had art. They both worked in creative industries, but they didn’t consider themselves particularly creative and they weren’t wealthy although they had most of the things they might need. One of those things was a little personal assistant - it was connected. Back then, everyone had one. They were everywhere, but mostly in people's kitchens. Our partners called their's Adam Always. Like so many others, Adam the assistant sat on the kitchen counter, played various tunes, kept track of the weather, shared podcasts and clarified understanding when one of them wanted to know an actors name in a film they'd seen, or who won the F.A. Cup in 1957.

As a couple, they worked well together. Whether it was food preparation or making the bed, they cohabited, for the most part, without strife. There was rarely a raised voice, a petulant pout or long sullen silence. Mostly; they laughed. At things, at events in their respective workdays, at what people did or said but mostly, mostly, at each other. Mostly they laughed at the things they said to each other… the cleaver, tasteless, outrageous, sometimes cruel, sometimes mean but generally hilarious things they said to each other about the life that floated around them.

One evening, while preparing dinner – a task they generally undertook together, one of them, it matters not which one now, said something that brought gales of laughter from the other. Out-loud, room-filling laughter and, since one was laughing the other laughed too, generating a round-robin of shared smiles and a deeper mining of the comic possibilities hidden within the brilliant bit of humour they both were so enjoying.

One night, during dinner, pork chops that evening; they wondered aloud if perhaps their shared and obviously golden material might be put to good use? Maybe it could become the groundwork for a stand-up comic routine, or as part of a comedy troupe’s skit they wondered. From that, the conversation moved onto the logistics; how might they go about saving or archiving all these funny things they said? How might they hoard the best bits of comic genius? Writing things down was the first and most obvious solution, but it was pretty quickly determined that writing down funny bits while one attended to poaching eggs, folding laundry, vacuuming crumbs and all that stuff, much less giggling like deranged misfits, wasn’t going to work.

And then it occurred to them; maybe Adam could record their best stuff. Maybe Adam could keep an on-going record of all the funniest material so that later when there was enough of it, and they had time, they could build something, maybe something income-generating!

So they asked: “Adam? Can you save things we ask you to save? Can you record us?”

…and Adam replied 'Yes'.

Life went on and many, many funny things were shared and, although forgotten, the best material was dutifully recorded by Adam. There was a very humorous exchange about cutting the lawn and one almost as delightful surrounding who would sit where and why at an upcoming family dinner. Over the years they laughed together about a million times. There was the one about the dog and the chipmunk, the silly back and forth about icing sugar, dozens and dozens of 'plays on words' and a rather one-sided rant, a hilariously funny tirade actually, about decision making, procrastinators and stopping for gas. That one, in particular, was absolutely worth keeping and as asked, although long since forgotten by the couple, found its way into the Adam archive.

Time passed and the pair managed to stay together. Sure there were awkward times and there was even a brief two-day separation but they fixed that and trudged on due mostly, they would later agree, by their sense of shared collective humour and their mutual respect for each other’s silly contributions.

Then one day, because of course after a few years Adam’s basic 'free' service had become monetized with advertising, the couple heard an ad running between songs on a ‘Dinner Jazz’ playlist they were enjoying about a new touring stage play –“A Whitty slip-slide through the kitchen of life” and "I Laughed, I cried…then laughed again!" suggested the critics. And there were clips of dialogue from the show too. Oddly recognizable clips, awkwardly familiar clips, in fact, their clips, their clever bits… their funny stories. They heard "...but never stop for gas" and the crowd exploded into laughter and applause. Near the end of the ad, as the couple stood open-mouthed and slack-jawed by what they were hearing and just before returning to more soothing 'Dinner Jazz' programming, the last words of the spot rang out over a crowd's uproarious laughter; “Yes, I’m Listening - A brand new comedy, by Adam Always".

Posted by Rob Crowston.

Down The Street, But Not Too Far

Fri, 26 Apr 2019 18:40:17 +0100

Down the Street, But Not Too Far

The moving van exploded into a thousand little pieces of things that a family once owned. There were the easy things; those two things were table legs and what was a wicker laundry hamper lid. But there were confusing things too, just a bunch of stuff; there was stuff everywhere, all over the street. It was a really big mess.

Mary Kinder was the first one on the to get near the van. She was six. As dust settled, and smoke dissipated, Mary, who had only been a hundred feet from the blast, but luckily, sitting in the protective shade of a small power transformer shed, had been very still for a moment after the big bang sound. Her eyes had shot wide open and her mouth too. She was very still for a few seconds and then, after a little shake of her head, had peered around the metal shed only to see a moving van on its side. There was a small flame growing in the engine department area and clouds of smoldering clothing, facecloths and scraps of table napkins fluttered listlessly and without further purpose back to the ground.

At first she wasn’t afraid, but she was really, really surprised. She understood that the sudden and tremendously loud blast, the household things, the slowly turning front wheel were all connected. She could see that. She could see the once perfectly white picket fence of Mr. Thompson's house was scarred, blackened and listing awkwardly and she could see that something important or at least very, very unusual had just taken place. But what she couldn't see was why? Why had this happened? Why was there a moving van lying on its side in the middle of her street with a small fire growing under the hood?

She was first to arrive because the only other people that were closer to the explosion appeared to be dead. Mary wasn’t sure about that. She wasn’t sure about dead. But they looked dead. They weren’t moving and they were all twisted up and they weren’t holding hands and the little boy who had been laughing with his mother when the mother had smiled at Mary as she walked by wasn’t making any noise at all now. Mary thought that it was strange that a Mom could be walking hand in hand with a little boy on a sunny day and that a boy could be laughing and that the Mom could smile at Mary as she passed and then, in a second, be all wrecked and not moving one bit and laying on the street with her dress all ripped and not nice looking anymore.

By the time she got to the van, the little fire in the engine part of the van had grown and now it seemed to be all over the front part of the truck, but it was quiet, and it didn’t seem dangerous. In fact nothing about what she saw in front of her, on her street, right near her home, seemed as dangerous as the big bang sound that had startled her so much that she had done a little sit-jump even though she was leaning against the hut in the sun with Ed her bear.

Off in the distance she could hear the sound of a fire truck or a policeman or the ambulance as they got closer. She started to hear the sound of voices too. Her mother’s voice, loud, but not mad loud, and running footsteps. Sounds like old man Carson’s little bell on the handlebar of his electric scooter ringing furiously - the same as when Mr. Carson wanted the boys out of his yard in the evening, and there were other voices and people shouting. Still, the van, and the fire and the smoke and the mess and all the family’s stuff were quiet, like the middle of the night, as everything lay all crazy and broken in her street and all the voices were far off – even her mom’s voice when she'd been turned sharply by her mother and told to look at her and after that too, when her mother pulled her into a hug that Mary thought might break her.

Her mother smelled just like her mom always smelled, nice and a little bit pretty, but there was another smell too. Not just the smoky smell, or even the faint gasoline smell, but another smell. A different smell, a not very nice smell. Was it the people's stuff? Did the people that were moving have stuff that smelled bad and now their stuff was all over her street with a van and a mom and a boy and a broken fence?

She felt herself drawn away by her mother, pulled by the arm away from the van and the fire and the smell. Pulled off to the side of the road towards Mr. Carson, who had stopped ringing the bell on his scooter, and was now shouting to some of the other neighbours who were outside on a warm sunny afternoon, just after a moving van had exploded and fallen on its side in the middle of her street.

Mary’s mother tried to shield her from looking at everything by forcing Mary behind her big, soft summer dress, but Mary bent a little at her waist and could see around her mother. She could still see the fire and the van on its side and all the stuff lying around all messy and not put away. She could still see the smoke and the slowly turning tire and the boy and his mom. She could hear her mother sobbing and calling out questions, she could hear the sirens, close now, only a minute away. There were more footsteps too but they were running footsteps now and there were men’s voices and men calling out and men shouting to other men to go get things. Women were crying and shouting and calling for children to look away or go back inside or stay close.

Then the firemen came and the policemen were right behind them. She had never heard one of those police car rooftop-loudspeakers before, and she was surprised to hear that it sounded just like they did on TV, but way, way louder. Not as loud as the big loud bang that surprised her when she was sitting behind the power transformer hut with Ed the Bear, but that was a different kind of loud. That kind of loud was an all of a sudden, all at once loud and the police car loudspeaker was more like a really loud radio but not a radio playing music, more like just saying loud words that were telling people what to do, and the grown-ups were doing exactly what the loudspeaker said they should do.

Seeing all of this; the smoke and the dust and the little fire and the slowly turning wheel and the fence and the mom and the boy... Mary became, for the first time since the big bang sound, a bit afraid. Afraid like her mother had been a little while ago when Mr. Thompson and Mr. Madison and Mr. Chow and her dad went away. Was this the war? Was the war here now?

True Confessions

Wed, 18 Sep 2019 23:27:40 +0100

Let's start with a confession: I am afraid of a few things. Things like rats, snakes and I'm really, really afraid of the Dentist. That's funny 'cause I wake up next to a gal who trundles off to a Dentist's Office every morning and worse, discusses her day with me at days end. I shiver and quake through most of these chats and clearly see her subtle disfavour of my cowardice. To add insult to injury, a whole cast of her McGaw clan work in the field and LOVE to 'talk shop' at any and every family gathering.

This has been going on since I met Shelley McGaw almost 20 years ago. Dr. John McGaw, Shellley's brother is a Dentist... and a Hell of a nice guy. He's top of his game, plays with the most expensive and best toys (or implements of doom depending on your point of view) and runs a top shelf operation. I can imagine others in his field using his example of professionalism and dedication to spur on their own endeavors. Plus, and this is the best part – he's become a dear and valued friend.

On Sunday last, I broke a little chunk off a molar. I only have a few molars left and so I recognized that this would be a big deal... not the least of which would be the real world requirement of an actual in-person visit to Driftwood Dental here in Courtenay.

I grid my loins, stood steady into the wind, threw caution aside in true super-hero fashion and suggested, in a barely audible whisper to Shelley that a visit might be in order because of the broken tooth thing. She didn't even flinch. Hardly looked up; 'no problem', and she was onto other things.

I fret. I imagined. I worried. It was awful... like watching a horror movie unfold in front of me I would guess, although I can't watch horror movies 'cause I'm afraid of them too.

A whole day of worry, then a command performance at Driftwood Dental for a little exam to see what was needed. Y'know what was needed? A return visit – how unfair is that?

Over the years I've come to know most of the people at Driftwood Dental, not so much exact face to exact names every time - remember I'm afraid of the office and so despite my brave front, every single visit – even when there's no dentistry involved, causes me pause and uneasiness and that whole unsettled feeling and so remembering everyone's name becomes a bit of a blur, but mostly I know and, truth be told, like these men and women.

A date is set: afternoon of the next day. That's almost no time for me to prepare – no time to catch a terrible disease, no time to break the law and get thrown in jail, no time to arrange for a kidnapping! No time to weasel my way out of this catastrophic unfolding. And so, the next day I show up on time, as required – it's the adult thing to do.

I'm greeted by Sarah – She's very nice and since we don't really know each other so well, she rises from her reception desks extends her hand, shakes mine and welcomes me. She says she's pleased to see me and that it'll be just a short wait. All friendly and nice.

A few minutes pass and Jessica emerges and says that I'm to follow her... She's really nice too. Pretty as a picture and all sunny and chipper and calm – as though this is no big deal and people do this kind of thing all the time without incident and, it would seem, of their own free will! She chats about her day, and to make her feel like I'm a big boy and not at all freaked out, I ask her how long she's been at the practice? Of course I should already know this, but the whole exercise is, for me, at the top of the disorientation list. I get confused. “3 years here, 7 in the biz” she replies, and adds that she loves it at D D and that for her, it's the team of people that make it so rewarding. Cheerily she goes on; “Isn't that really the most important part of any job? The people you get to work with?”.

I pretend to be paying attention and agree. I hope my head is shaking in the right direction. She sees, but doesn't acknowledge that I'm just ever so slightly preoccupied. Furtively, and just in case the opportunity arises, I scan my surroundings for an escape, rehearse last minute excuses, check for unobstructed pathways for when I bolt. I check to see that I haven't wet myself.

There's a flurry of activity, friendly questions about my med history from the office R N, Anne-Marie McGaw - John's wife and she barely disapproves at all when she queries me about my lack of exercise. There's warm 'Hello's' from my nieces Michelle McGaw and Julie McGaw, both of whom contribute to the team at D D. Natalie passes by and gives me a warm and reassuring nod - I know she knows, she's had to deal with me before. Then there's the whole getting me settled routine conducted by Brandi which includes a brief chat about living in Cumberland and her showing off her fading tan-lines from her last vacation... and then, he arrives. That's right, it's him – he who shall poke about with silver hook-sticks and probe my mouth – MY MOUTH with mirror things and other pokey things. He's here, next to me, hardly noticing me. Chatting to Jessica like it's just another walk in the park! But it's more than that, way, way more! Can't he see that? Sweat forms on my brow, hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention, there's a good chance I may be whimpering!

“Hey Rob,” he says, “...make a fist.” and I do, I think. “You're gonna feel a little pin prick...”

...and then, well then pretty much nothing. That's the thing about sedation at the dentist's office, you don't really remember anything. I remember driving across the 'B' bridge on the way home, I remember Shelley suggesting I have a nap.

...and just like that; it was tomorrow. All fixed, all better. All done.

I should be better at this by now. These people know their craft, and they're really nice too. They really do care, they really want to make it a pleasant experience, and I'm going to guess that they do that for everyone. I have to confess - the truth is that I'm no less afraid today than I have ever been – that's become ingrained, a part of my DNA. But, and there's always a but; But with the right combination of carefully administered drugs and a team like they have at Driftwood Dental, one might survive a visit to the Dentist. In fact, I more than survived. I bet, in retrospect of course, that I was probably quite brave while I was under... like a fireman or a guy who swims with sharks or a lion tamer.

Vinyl - Hard to Kill

Wed, 10 May 2017 17:34:45 +0100

Vinyl. Impossible to spell. As a matter of fact, even spelling bee winners cringe at the thought of the word, but it's not just hard to spell, it's hard to kill.

There's been dozens of music delivery formats put out there - 78's and 45's and reel to reel and 8 track, cassettes and MD discs, CD's and MP3's... plus a whole mess of other attempts to get us to buy music. Did you know that Miles Davis's 'Kind of Blue' has been released in every single delivery format that has ever been pushed onto the public? Every single one. Better 'Kind of Blue' I guess than The Archies, but still...

Vinyl - hard to kill. Especially in this resurgence of collecting records. I see posts everyday, lots of them featuring an old (or new turntable) and a spinning disc and an album cover of some obscure bit of recorded history. Sure, I subscribe to a couple of pages where you'd expect to see posts like that, Vintage Audio and some Hi -Fi pages... but it happens all day long on Facebook too.

You know what I think is neat about that? I think it's neat that all these young collectors are discovering a whole 'new to them' treasure trove of music. I've seen odd old Mike Bloomfield records and funny, obscure Bobby Vinton and Zappa and Cream and disco. I think that's great. Music lovers discovering music. Sure you can find tons on the net. Tons and tons and tons on the net. Endless varieties and styles and genres. You can find traditional music and secular music and Jazz and folk and blues and EDM and on and on and on... Want something from that little three recording label based in Berlin – it's available on the net! Everything Montovani ever recorded? Easy, it's on the net. Patsy, or Dolly or Roy or Elvis? Done, done, and done.

But there's something else going on with young collectors of vinyl that simply cannot be ignored, and that is the diversity of what they're collecting. Show-tunes show up as 'gems found in a basement' and lost Jimmy Buffet albums re-appear and are raved about, there's rough stuff and pop stuff and late night stuff and great stuff and sad stuff. Tons of stuff and it's mostly way outside the confines of 'Just the Hits'. The depth and breadth of what seems to be making it into collections is as vast as the format has available and I think that's swell! It's not just the hits of 1977 or 1961, it's the strange and obscure, the out of the ordinary and the magical. And it's all finding it's way into the hearts and minds and lives of a whole new generation of listeners.

At first I thought it was just going to be a fad, a passing parade and that vinyl would lose it's way within a summer of small attention, but I was wrong. Sales continue to rise, admittedly not at streaming music levels, but sales do continue to rise. That on it's own is something of a statement. Turntables are becoming more and more valuable – some reaching two, even three times their original retail price! There's the whole record care side of things, the brushes and cloths and sprays and spindle weights. There's protective sleeves and slip covers, mats and anti static guns! All this stuff is getting serious attention.

And I know why.

I know because I've lived it, seen it, felt it, smelt it. Want me to share with you? What it is that's so special about vinyl? It's not the vinyl. Well, not directly. It's what it represents – it's a personal collection of music that required effort and persistence and dedication to amass through a process that, in the end, means something to someone. Because no one ever asks to flip through your MP3 collection.

The Test

Tue, 17 Nov 2015 02:21:29 +0100

This past summer I had the great and grand pleasure to work with a small, dedicated group of young people from the Wachiay Friendship Centre on a message driven creation sponsored by Island Health. The result of those efforts was a little film called 'The Test". It's an HIV awareness video. It was conceived, after many hours of intense debate, written, story-boarded, filmed (on cell phones!) and edited by the group themselves. This is their first effort, and, considering that these people had almost zero experience with making movies, a stellar achievement. Better still, I think the experience lit a spark in a couple of them and I expect the planet will see work in the future that shows their creative insight.
My thanks to Van Island Health for their commitment and their financial support. Thanks to Michael and Lisa at the Wachiay Friendship Centre, to AIDS Vancouver Island and most certainly to Aki, Naomi, Micheal and Devon. Bravo to you for a job well done.
Watch it here.

To Alex and Elyse!

Tue, 13 Oct 2015 21:18:00 +0100

What a fine day.

In this enchanted location.

For this magical event.

I'm R C – I am the proud father of Alex and now, too, an over-the-moon with glee father-in-law to the lovely Elyse. Whom, I'm sure we'll all agree, looks stunning and vibrant and so very happy today.

The only thing that comes even remotely close to the joy you are sharing with us Elyse, is the pure, unadulterated love I see reflected in my son's face every time his gaze happens upon you. Thank-you for that Elyse, what a truly heart warming gift to me that is.

The other day Alex called and asked if he might talk to me about something.... He said it was important. It took a while for him to get 'round to it, but eventually he managed to mention that there were going to be a lot of people giving toasts today... and? I said. And.... well.... says he – maybe you could keep it short.

I have, it seems, something of a reputation for long winded stories but I promised that I would try. We'll see how that goes, because sincerely, this is me trying to be brief.

As you can see, I've brought a little box with me. It's very simple - I found it at a garage sale... but as you can also see – it's empty.

Oh look, my speech!
( At this point I open the box and pull out a great long roll of the text which I ceremoniously un-roll before the crowd )
Great, now I don't have to make things up as I go along!

Let's see..... oh, yeah, the box. Empty – see?

Most people get married believing a myth.

A myth wherein marriage is a beautiful box full of all the things they have longed for: companionship, intimacy, friendship, understanding, compassion...

The truth though is; that marriage, especially at the start, is an empty box. You both have to put something into it before you can take anything out. There is no love in marriage. Love is in people. And people put love into marriage. You have to infuse it into your marriage. A couple has to learn the art...

and develop the habit of giving, of patience, understanding and loving. You both have to realize too, that the box is magic. That it can never get too full – it will never over flow... And always remember that neither one of you has to fill the box by yourself. You both have a responsibility to contribute all that is the best of who you are to the box. Because the magic isn't for you, it's for your partner. That's the magic part.

Keep the box full – and always remember that if you take out more than you put in, the box will soon enough be empty.

So today, I have for you this little box. Of course I understand that even though it's a magic box, over the years it might also end up holding ordinary things. Things like receipts, or the shoe shine kit... or maybe, and I've spoken to your Mom Elyse and she's in full agreement, if we're both very lucky, our grandchildren's Lego. I told you it's a magic box!

Ladies and gentlemen please, if you will, raise your glass and join this so very proud Father and this very happy father-in-law in a toast - A toast to to my fine son Alex and his loving partner Elyse – Here's to a lifetime of happiness, a lifetime of magic!

Kerry Catherine Lawrence

Wed, 27 Jan 2016 03:41:56 +0100

For My Sister on her passing.

August 24 2015

Just in case, I'm Rob Crowston, K.C.'s big brother.

James Taylor sings:

“The secret of life

Is enjoying the passage of time.”

We're all here today because my sister, our sister, our daughter, our mother, our wife and our friend Kerry Catherine Lawrence knew, despite everything that was going on with her body, knew better than most, how to enjoy the passage of time.

When K.C. First appeared on my landscape she pretty much ruined everything. 'Til then, it was all about me, then she came along and it was all share-zee's and “hold your sisters hand” and “look out for your sister....” I'd like to say that sharing everything with K.C. was a great experience, but it wasn't - she was a ridiculously crabby little thing. Even way back then, she had opinions about how things should go or what we should do or how we should act... and heaven help you if you didn't agree. She'd furrow her brow, and point a crooked finger at you - Kinda looked like this: _____.

Despite her natural tendency back then to stomp around in a bad mood, our parents gave us a magical childhood, in fact, not a couple of weeks ago, she and I were just talking about the big family vacation to San Francisco. Which surprisingly,started out as a weekend in Portland Oregon. This was well before Chris came along. We shared memories of how we traveled in the back of a little Triumph Herald called Herman. Everyone named their cars back then. We talked about China Town, the bus tour, we laughed about breakfast on the beach on the way home – not so much because it was romantic, but rather, my folks were broke on the way home and they only had enough money for a shared cup of coffee, a half pint of milk and a couple of those little boxes of individual packages of cereal. Not that we noticed, we were having breakfast on the beach! She laughed about how hard it must have been to travel without credit cards. For me, one of the best memories from that time was laying in the back of Herman along side my sister ( the back seat of Herman folded down to make a little platform that we slept on ) gazing up at the stars as we hurtled along the freeway on our journey home.

At some point after we moved to Canary, Dad built K.C. a little playhouse in the back yard – I was forbidden by K.C. to enter. Sure, Barbara, Shirley, Margret, Marianne, Lynne and Cathy of course were all welcome, but not me. Cathy was so welcome, that the Dad's cut a hole in the back fence and put a gate in so the two inseparable friends didn't have to climb the fence anymore. Talk about spoiled. The playhouse? That was her place. I bet I didn't spend ten minutes in that playhouse the whole time we lived on Canary. No boys allowed. And she told me so regularly.

But I got her back. I locked her in the bathroom cupboard when Mom and Dad went out. I made her find the carefully hidden Christmas presents and then threatened to out her to Mom and Dad for looking for them if she didn't tell me where they were but best of all, one time I locked her head in the power window of Dad's brand new '65 Ford Galaxy 500XL. That was the best. “Go ahead” I said, “put your head out the window we'll pretend we're driving somewhere....” and she did and when she did, I locked her head between the frame and the power-window. Of course I got in trouble, but it was worth it. She was so mad at me.

James sings:

“The secret of love

Is in opening up your heart.

And since we're only here for a while,

Might as well show some style.”

K.C.'s style... The bling... the tan... the glow of her constant cigarette!

My lovely sisters' smile lit up a room. She smiled at those precious things around her that meant more to her than is possible to measure. It was never the stuff, although I know she adored her new home, it was always, the people.

Mom and Dad of course, especially you Dad. They say that Fathers and Daughters... that it's special and that couldn't be more true than in this particular case. Dad,you were her Hero – her every day, always there, This is MY Dad! Hero.

Trisha, Kristy; we heard all the stories – all the ups and downs, all the trials and tribulations of growing up. The good bits, and the bad bits. But she never wavered in her support – you were her girls and that's all there was to it. Her love for you was never ending, never failing – it was always, and it will be forever. Trisha, when you were crawling around inside the beast of the machines you repaired – when she told those stories she was ten feet tall and so terribly proud of you. She was proud of both of you. You've grown to be fine, caring and lovely women. And aren't you lucky to have had a women so strong in character,so steadfast,so tenacious, so God Damned stuborn to help you blaze your trail?

A few short years ago, Kristy and Mike gave us Tia and that gave K.C. a whole new thing to love - to - bits. I didn't even know my sister knew how to baby talk 'til Tia cam along. I'd never heard it before – but there it was, big as life. She pulled so much joy from that new and precious relationship, it was so very, very important to her.

Danny; if K.C.'s Dad was her Hero, you were absolutely and without question her Knight in Shining Armor. I have no idea how often she mentioned to you her love for you, but I do know how much she loved you; to the depth and breadth of her soul. When you came along at what? 12 or something like that - It was like all the other boys just faded away... none of them had a chance anymore. It was always - you. Soul - Mates. True, real, deeply in love, soul mates.

Remember all those years in the beginning? When we were all so broke. not enough to buy a six pack let alone essentials like diapers, or food or make the rent. Remember that first house you bought together Danny? Today they'd call that a fixer upper – maybe.... But you did. Together you moved forward and built a home, and a family and place where love grew. Over all those years, over 40 of 'em together I'd guess, you two built something precious and special and so very fine. Thank-you Dan. Thank-you for being the stand up guy that took such good care of my little sister. I tip my hat to you and I, we, are all so eternally grateful for all the good and all the joy and all the happiness you gave her.

“Now the thing about time

Is that time isn't really real.

It's just your point of view,

How does it feel for you?

Einstein said he

Could never understand it all.

Planets spinning through space,

The smile upon a face,

Welcome to the human race.”

I can't imagine that K.C. would have wanted me, or you, or any of the human race to be all sad and weepy today – My guess is that she'd want us to enjoy each other’s company, to share a laugh or a story, or some food – and that was a thing too wasn't it? There was never enough food when you went to K.C.'s. Weird. I bet too that she'd be all pissy that Dan spent any money at all on this thing for her today. Because of course, those funds could have gone towards the next vacation. Or that Simone and Dodie would go to all this trouble for all these people – can't you just hear her: “No, no, no, that's not going to be necessary....” But truth is I think she would have been touched by this display of love. So, on behalf of all of my family, thank-you for doing this kind thing for her.

For a good long while, K.C. had been battling Krone's Disease.... it's a cruel affliction; indiscreet, petty and mean. But for the most part she hadn't let it get the better of her. “It's not that big a deal, and besides, what are you gonna do?” she'd say. She had projects like painting chandeliers above her bed jet black. She had all these wonderful friends, friends that meant the world to her. She had vacations that pulled her up when she was sometimes so very far down. She had her bling, and her cigarettes’. She had family that loved her, she had her precious daughters and her beloved granddaughter – and she had you Danny. So K.C. might, had she been given the chance, have had one thing to say to all of us here today, and that might be that she did understand the secret of life, that yes, she did understand that:

"The secret of life

is enjoying the passage of time".

...and thanks to all of you.

I think, for the most part, she did understand.

We're going to miss her...

I'm going to miss her terribly. I loved her very much.

This is a little video of James Taylor singing the song I quoted from – I'm going to pretend he's singing it for her.

Secret of Life - James Taylor

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yHWHPPHpAj8

End of Joke, Laugh Here

Thu, 19 Jun 2014 02:40:29 +0100

The other night I was at a schmooz for a new media company. They were
launching an internet product that they hoped might be the next big thing. Cool
technology, big dollars, forward thinking – all the hype, all the right buzz words.
Lots of people milling about, some old friends in the biz, some newbies and the
usual hangers on and wanna bees you always seem to find at these things.

At one point I found myself standing in line, engaged in conversation with a small
group and one of the fellows launched into a rather
long but very well executed joke, and on command we all laughed and smiled,
nodded our appreciation and hunted for the next vein of discussion…

But one of the women in our circle piped up and said that while she loves a good
joke, she simply couldn’t tell ‘em. Surprisingly, at least to me, almost everyone
else joined her chorus agreeing that it was a special gift, some kind of personal
art form, only ‘funny’ people could tell jokes.

I ventured that they got it all wrong. I said that telling a joke, presenting an idea,
selling a client, convincing the boss or grandest of all, reaching an audience were
all related and that if you could do one, you could do ‘em all. All you need is one
simple tool. OK, two simple tools.

Two simple, easy to understand, easier still to implement tools that transcend the
message – the ‘joke’ as it were, and they always work. Ready? Wait for it….
One: You have to understand your audience.
And Two: You have to know how the story is going to end.

Certainly it always helps; in fact in the creative game it’s essential to know as
much about the audience as you can. Who are they? What do they do for a
living, how much money do they make, what do they read – or don’t read - their
likes and dislikes – as much as you can manage to find out. All that stuff only
helps to better tell your story. Consider it research material – maybe your
accountant can write it off!

And knowing exactly where the story is going – How does the story end? Once
an end-point has been established, you can use whatever data you might have
on hand to develop, promote, sell or satisfy your audience. That stuff becomes
the incidental, the fill, the ‘set-up’.

So how does knowing something about your audience, and knowing where
you’re going get results?

It’s all in the delivery. A joke, like damn near any other presentation has a
beginning: ” Two guys walk into a bar…” a middle: “ … so then my wife says…”
and an end-point: “ … after the dog! “ As long as that particular joke, be it two guys in a
bar, or two Nuns on a bus, ends with “…after the dog!!!” You’ve got a winner!

That’s where the story has to end. No matter how you get there, that’s the goal.
People who say that they can’t tell jokes always start the joke before they’ve
remembered how the joke ends. And how many ‘presentations’ have you sat
through over the years that suffer the same painful dilemma? The audience
doesn’t care what happens along the way, certainly it’s nicer if it’s relevant to
your cause, but that’s not why your audience is listening. They’re listening for the
reward. They’re listening because you promised to give them something. In
business, you’re either going to make them money or save them money. In a
joke it’s that last sentence, the big pay off.

So the next time you hear someone start to tell a joke at a cocktail party, listen
carefully, and remember to pay particular attention to the way the joke ends.
Three good reasons for this; One, you get a laugh, and who can’t use more
laughing, Two; you’ll learn a new joke, one that you’ll be able to launch into the
next time there’s a lull in the conversation, and Three; you’ll learn that it’s not the
specific joke, but rather, how the story teller brings his audience along for the
ride, involving and engaging them, always moving his listener towards that final
pay-off, the rich reward, the grand finale'… the punch-line. End of joke, laugh here.

Get it?

Martin M Borycki - 26/04/1953 - 07/01/2014

Wed, 09 Sep 2015 16:01:20 +0100

My words, my noise from the Celebration of Life for my friend Martin Borycki...

I wrote these notes a few days ago in hope that I'd have something prepared for today. I guess we'll find out together if that has become so.

It happened that it was Jack Kerouac's birthday.
Like our friend, Kerouac was a poet, a painter, a writer, an American take on a Zen Buddhist with attitude and quite probably certifiably insane.

My friend, our friend, Martin, was all those things and so much more.... he was a multi-instrumentalist, playing keyboards, stringed instruments, wind instruments, percussion and any number of children's toys that might happen to squeak, or rattle or jingle or hum.
He wrote and played beautiful music. Music that pushed boundaries and challenged the listener to pay attention and to keep up. His music often fills my home and comforts my mind with it's depth, it's completeness, it's utter disdain for convention and it's timeless beauty. I play it often and loudly and I always marvel that these ideas – these crazy ass, mind fuck ideas could find flight. I love his music. If I go back to the beginning I recall a party in Crescent Beach many, many years ago, some of you would have been there... I recall Martin, perched on a windowsill in a bedroom smaller than a shoebox – all of us crowded around while Martin held court with a big ass hollow body electric. Big and bold and belting out some made up on the spot Cowboy Jazz Afro Swing thing that in so many ways showed Martin in his glory.

He was a painter. I have some of his art. His paintings hang proudly and patiently our our walls. None of it is easy, though some of it is very simple. There are complex pieces and troubled pieces – noisy and aggressive and bold. Mostly though, they're intoxicating, and touching and telling and always Martin.

He was an 'Apple devote' – a hot off the press first user, an early adapter to any and all software or hardware that might happen upon the market – especially so if it helped him compose music, or make art, or manipulate reality.

He was a writer. He was a writer of thousands upon thousands upon thousands of words. Some of his words sit upon my shelves waiting patiently for me to re-read the work. Screen plays and skits, musings and ramblings. Funny and silly and ridiculous and cleaver and thoughtful and sometimes so very, very sad. I have often commented to co-workers and associates – because I work with writers every day, that I've never encountered a writer that understood so clearly the mechanics of a story - the eb and flow of characters and plot and outcome. But of course he was a writer more complete than just the mechanics because he had the passion and the conviction and need to to tell his stories. He wrote well – he wrote fantastically and by that I mean he could not only spin a yarn, but he could spin it from straw. He could command the sentence and the paragraph it belonged to, and together they told the stories Martin needed to tell. Fury though and marked with wrath that you might suggest an edit, or a change of phrase, or development of plot. No way. No how. Not gonna happen. For back up I'll turn to Kevin for support knowing full well he'll stand along side me in this.

I recall so clearly, even all these years later, a very young Kevin and a very young Martin joining me in the studios at CJAZ to record some of the silliest, most outrageous advertising copy ever recorded. In fact, it was within those recording sessions that our friendship began. I still have the Master Recordings of that first collection of comic material.

He was a lover.
Please don't confuse this with 'he was a good partner', I can't imagine the kind of patience that would have required, but he was a lover.
Sometimes it could drive you crazy... all that love stuff. Insects, and rocks and the sky and all that.... but of all the things he loved - of all of them, and I am proud to say that I was one of those things, at the top, at the very top of the list were his beautiful daughters. Make no mistake girls that in your father's eyes there was no greater thing. There never was, there never could have been anything ever that shone more brightly, that he spoke of so endearingly, that so captured his heart nor soothed his soul so completely as you three. For whatever trouble, or mishap or turbulence you may have endured with your father, I can assure you that it was always you. I was shown every photograph, I heard of every accomplishment, heard of all the trials and the terrors and what I saw time and time again in his tales and his telling's but mostly in his face and from his heart, was the love – that special and complete love that he had for you. This I know to be absolute because it was so plainly so.

For me though, the thing that I will miss the most, is the laughter – Holy fuck how we laughed together. Great uproarious belly laughs – line after line of heavenly heartfelt laughter. Had we been so lucky as to grow old together we would have had to don our super absorbent man-diapers for every meeting. A Guinness, a Jamison's and piss your pants laughing. That's what we did best.

We quarreled near the end. Differences of opinion, the booze, business, honor and position. But we were coming 'round to something... we had to, we went back too far.

Earlier I mentioned that the first draft of this jumble of words began – well, in my head it's been brewing for weeks of course, but in earnest, it began a few days ago on Kerouac's birthday and so I thought it fitting to close this bit of mush I've cobbled together with better and perhaps truer words than I could ever muster. So listen up Martin – I think Jack wrote this one for you;

The world you see is just a movie in your mind.
Rocks don't see it.
Bless and sit down.
Forgive and forget.
Practice kindness all day to everybody
and you will realize you’re already
in heaven now.
That’s the story.
That’s the message.
Nobody understands it,
nobody listens, they’re
all running around like chickens with heads cut
off.
I will try to teach it but it will
be in vain, s’why I’ll
end up in a shack
praying and being
cool and singing
by my woodstove
making pancakes.

...goodbye my friend; I love you and I will forever miss you.