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This tale may not have happened exactly in this fashion, but it is the way I like to remember it. In my first year of university, our class did a production of John Bowen’s The Corsican Brothers. I was not on stage for this particular chain reaction flub, but was waiting to make my next entrance and where I was situated, I had a good view of the action. I cannot remember the characters’ names or which actors were involved, but there were two males on stage, standing at least a dozen feet away from one another. The first character was to kill the second with a flintlock pistol. This one night, the gun did not go off. Now, backstage there was an assistant stage manager with a starter’s pistol as backup for just such an event. But for some reason unknown to me, this gun did not work either. The actor with the flintlock continued to pull the trigger while stamping his foot, presumably to simulate the sound of a gun shot. The other actor apparently did not understand these gestures and thus refused to die. So the first actor shoved the pistol in his belt and said: “Then I will kill you with my knife.” As he raised the knife above his head, the assistant stage manager backstage finally got the starter’s pistol to fire. The knife-wielding actor looked down. “I’ve shot myself in the foot,” he said, “but you must die!” He then hobbled over and stabbed the other actor, who understood now that he was to drop down dead. As I said, I’m not sure if it all did happen like this, but I do like this version. If any of my readers were there, I would certainly not be averse to receiving corrections to this story.

There were a couple of other minor incidents that I was involved with on the same show. While neither of these could be identified as chain reaction flubs, they do demonstrate a couple of creative solutions to situations which are distracting enough there is serious potential for a bout of flub-itis. At one point, I made an entrance down a set of stairs with Chateau-Renaud, the villain of the piece, wickedly played by Richard Moore. There was a sign that dropped down indicating that this scene took place at a fencing club in Paris. One night as we entered, I whacked my head on the sign. This had not happened before and, fortunately, it did not hurt, but it sure made a loud noise. “Chateau-Renaud,” I said, “remind me to insist this club raise the roof beams.” Ah, it does feel good to remember there were times I was on top of the situation. Which leads me to the second incident. In another scene, my character, a wealthy bon vivant of Parisian society, enters a ball, once again down the stairs. Two women, upon seeing me, were to rush up the stairs to greet me. Just before opening night, the director told me to grab one of the women and give her a kiss. So we had never rehearsed this and I do not know if the two women involved were informed of this change. Merely following the director’s orders, I grabbed the pretty blonde -who was always the first to reach me- and gave her a kiss… tongue and all. Then with my arms around the young ladies, we continued down the stairs. The pretty blonde leaned in close and whispered: “If you ever do that again, I’ll knee you in the balls.” Smile and wave, thought I, smile and wave. But as I liked my balls just fine without her knee, I decided thereafter to keep the kiss to a quick peck sans tongue. And, on reflection, I had learned, thankfully without harm, the inappropriateness of my action. It was a good lesson to learn and at such a young age -whew! Oh yes. The other thing I learned on this show was to duck moving signs.

As always, please feel free to comment on anything you have read here and if you have an interesting stage flub tale, do pass it along. Next week, the horrors of doing a one man show where you do not know the lines.

Way back in 1984, I did a season of summer repertory at the Playhouse in Victoria-by-the-Sea, Prince Edward Island. Anyone who has been there will know when I say the Playhouse is both charming -the wooden structure was built as an upside down ship by a shipwright, circa 1911- and intimate as it holds 144 (or as we used to say when it was a full house, a gross out). I played Bob in Jean Kerr’s Mary, Mary, even then a terribly outdated 1961 romantic comedy. Bob was a book editor (or publisher, I can’t remember which) who was consumed with getting his estranged wife, Mary, back. A good friend of mine, Eugene Sauve, played Oscar, Bob’s lawyer. Eugene was familiar with theatre as he had done a lot of backstage work and stage management. But this was his first show as an actor. Nevertheless, his stage presence was so natural that all eyes were drawn to him. Of course, it didn’t hurt he was also two hundred pounds of muscle and a very good looking guy. Anyway, he and I are onstage alone at the end of the first act, following an unhappy reunion with Mary. Bob is upset and takes it out on the author of whatever book he is working on. “This man writes like a sick elf,” I say (yes, that is the line and one presumes in 1961 it was chased by gales of laughter). Anyway, this line was supposed to be promptly followed by a quick blackout. But one night there was no blackout. The two of us are standing onstage and I glance up at the booth and see the lighting technician is asleep, her head resting on the lighting board. It is important to note here that the stage manager on this show was located backstage and only had audio contact with the booth. Now, there had already been a lengthy silence by this point and I looked over at Eugene. He seemed to intuitively guess it was his turn to say something. “Does he?” he blurted out in a creaky falsetto that, coming from his muscular body, cracked the audience up. “Come on,” I said, “let’s discuss this further in my office.” And we exited forthwith stage right through said office door. Once we were off stage, the lights went to black, so I have to imagine the technician was awakened by the laughter. Now, this incident shows us a couple of things. One, that it is admirable to keep the show moving with an impromptu line and two, that to spew out instantly what first comes to mind is not recommended. Eugene’s “delayed” and falsetto delivery probably had the audience assuming he was at fault.

I am now going to skip ahead a year to a situation that has nothing do with chain reaction flubs. I am doing this to demonstrate that, at least when I was younger, I could learn a thing or two. I was doing my one man show, Speed Limit, based on the life of Beat rogue, Neal Cassady. It was basically a two hour monologue (in two acts), some of it delivered in rapid fire speech. I performed this show about thirty times, in Charlottetown, Halifax and Fredericton. I knew somewhere along the line -odds being what they are- I would draw a blank. And, yes, it happened a couple of times. Once, following silence, I found a line but in the process jumped a couple of pages. Upon realizing this to be the case, I went back and delivered the missing material. This did not harm the show’s integrity in the least, as the character’s spoken drug-fueled thoughts were often disjointed. But there was one night… Somewhere in the middle of the first act, where Neal is in a San Quentin cell, I suddenly did not know my next line. I hesitated, threw my arms up in the air and sat down on the cot, all the while searching ye olde memory banks for the absent line. But I had learned one thing from my previous flub, that in a one man show, there was no one to screw up save myself. I felt like I had all the time in the world. I reviewed, in my head, the lines leading up to the blank. And, don’t you know, the missing line appeared. But I had also learned something from Eugene’s creaking falsetto. Don’t just blurt out the line once you’ve got it. The audience was still with me. They were motionless. I took in a deep breath, stood up and said, “Well…” followed by the proper line and delivered the way I wanted it to come out. I cannot recall any further line flubs during the run of this show. Plenty of those in another one man show I did, but despite digression being the better part of squalor, I will relate those in a coming entry. After my performance that night in Speed Limit, I spoke with several attendees of the play. They all concurred, when I stopped speaking in the middle of the first act was some of the finest acting they had ever seen. Fortunately, I had learned something way back in my university days too. When a mistake is praised, claim ownership. “Thank you,” I said, beaming. “Yes, I felt that moment worked very well tonight.” There were already a couple of lengthy pauses in the play -courtesy of the inspired direction of Laurel Smyth- but after this night’s experience, I figured another one couldn’t hurt. So Laurel and I found the suitable place to work in a third lengthy pause. After all, there was no one to screw up save myself.

Next week, I am back on track with more chain reaction flubs.

This is the saddest story I know involving a stage flub. There were three one-act plays, packaged as a night’s entertainment. I played the lead in the first play, opposite an older male actor and a younger female one. The male actor, a veteran of many years on the stage, agreed to do the role, as it was the only way he could direct the second play. And, he confided in me, times had been tough, so he needed the money. I had seen him on stage in a couple of shows and he was a wonderful actor, so I was pleased to get the opportunity to work with him. But he had turned down more acting gigs in recent years than he had accepted. You see, he was terrified he was going to forget his lines onstage. Apparently it had been an ongoing and increasing problem for him. He and I had the bulk of the lines in the play, which was only an hour long, but that still was a lot of lines. I liked the old fellow and due to his admission of certainty of forgetting lines, I went out of my way to reassure him at every chance. And I developed a backup plan. Secretly, I learned all of his lines too. During rehearsals, I took note of where he experienced problems and I devised ways I could feed him his lines onstage. I was confident I could save him if he ever faltered. The run was a short one, six performances over two weekends. This did not deter his fears, however. As opening night approached, he became more convinced he was going to forget his lines. Now, it is tough to bolster someone’s confidence in the face of their own undoing: the old self-fulfilling prophecy of doom. But I felt I could save the old fellow if and when it came to that. Well, we knocked off the first weekend’s shows without a problem and sharing a drink with him after the third performance, the old fellow appeared much looser and he expressed the first hints that he felt he might be able to finish the run of the show unscathed. The following weekend, we zipped through shows four and five. Now closing night was upon us. Generally, in such a short run, where you don’t have the opportunity of many performances to develop and nuance the character, I tend to throw everything I have at a closing night. All the half-formed thoughts about what might make the character better will be explored in this final kick at the can. But we had come this far without any problems, so I decided to restrain myself. No new line deliveries, no innovative blocking, nothing that might throw the old fellow off. We were clicking along at a good pace and were about half way through the show when I noticed something was wrong. I looked at the old fellow and could see in his eyes, he knew it too. I couldn’t put my finger on what it might be, but I was certain we had jumped a substantial amount of material. Now, the layered way this script was written, whatever we had missed would be key to the audience understanding of the play. As we continued forward -in what was now perpetual stage time- I went back in my mind, reviewing what he and I had said. We got that… did we get this, or am I remembering last night? Try as I did, I could not identify where the mistake had occurred and therefore could not go back and retrieve the lost information. The play zoomed to its conclusion and the audience, no doubt bewildered by what they had just witnessed, gave us a polite ovation as we took our bows. I followed the old fellow off stage, but felt a hand on my shoulder. It was the young woman, the third member of the cast. She gave me a big hug and murmured thanks for all the help I had given her in this her professional stage debut. As I headed to the downstairs’ dressing room, I heard a nearby exit door close. This was odd, but I gave it little thought at the moment. Once I got to the dressing room, the old fellow was nowhere to be found and no one had seen him. He had escaped in to the night, still in costume, through the exit door and did not even stick around to watch the second play, which he had directed. The closing night party was at my house and he did not make an appearance there either. I knew he was devastated by the very thing he predicted would become a horrible reality.

The next afternoon, I went over the script line by line and that is when I discovered what had happened. And it had nothing to do with the old fellow at all. The young woman had jumped two and a half pages (about five minutes worth of material) and my next line had just followed suit. It had all occurred so seamlessly, without a break in pacing, that it was about four pages later that I realised something was amiss. Carrying the script as proof, I went to visit the old fellow that evening. When I told him what had happened, he did not believe me but thanked me for trying to make him feel better. When I attempted to show him the script, he said: “It’s no use, Greg, I know I’m at fault. I’ll never go on stage again.” And, as far as I know, he never did. But I blamed myself too, for not having learned the young woman’s lines. The very thing I had overlooked had proven our downfall. I never spoke to her about this and for all I know, to this day, she is blissfully unaware that anything had ever gone wrong. I’ve lost touch with the old fellow since and perhaps he has gone to that great Green Room in the sky where every line ever learned now comes to him with the greatest of ease. But I will never forget the total sense of despondency that had enveloped him over something he convinced himself, wrongly, was all his fault.

In the end, I look at this as one of those theatre-as-a-team-sport incidents. We can try to cover each other, but still sometimes it just doesn’t work. To carry on with this idea, in the next couple of weeks, I will detail where one flub has led to another. Please feel free to leave a comment on anything that you have read here. And if you have any memorable stage flubs of your own, pass them along and perhaps I will post them at a later date.

This week’s entry (and next week’s) will detail a pair of troubling stage flubs, in that as a direct result of the flub, unhappiness was brought off the stage and in to real life. Due to the sensitive nature of these incidents, I will not be identifying the persons involved (other than myself), nor the title, year or location of the play. Consider this a combination of protection of the innocent and a healthy wariness of legal action. There, butt covered, attend to this tale of woe.

The setting of the play, in this first instance, was 1920’s small town Canada. I was playing a shopkeeper. At the beginning of one scene, my character is revealed alone on top of a half-size step ladder engaged in the stocking of shelves. Another character, played by a female actor, entered my shop. I delivered my opening line and she did not respond. I stopped my stocking and glanced over at her, only to see that she was standing there with a slight tilt of the head and eyes-a-glazed. The unmistakable look of her being far, far away. I coughed and then said something like, “And what can I do for you this morning?” Her expression changed. She was now back on stage with me. However, still she did not speak. She just stood there, looking bewildered. I got down off the ladder and sidled over to the counter, while making small talk about the weather. She continued to stare at me, but now with an intense concentration, and yet, not a word came out of her. All this time I had been trying to figure out how to feed her her own line. The problem was, her character had entered to say some information that was to come as a surprise to my character. So I had to figure out something better than saying, “Oh, are you here to tell me something I know nothing about.” My gaze bore in to her, beaming her line at her. She continued to stare at me with the same intensity as previous. She’s got to come up with something, I thought… but, alas, no. So, that’s when I said, “Say, I was talking to a fellow today who gave me some SURPRISING NEWS.” She spoke now, but I wish she hadn’t bothered. “What did he say?” she asked. Back to square one thought I, but then I also saw it as the one way out. I told her this fellow had told me the info she was supposed to say and then I adapted my next line, marking my surprise at the news. “Well, of course,” she said, “that’s what I came to tell you.” The rest of the scene went as rehearsed. Blackout came and the both of us exited through the shop door. My traditional way of dealing with such an incident was to make light of it and then be done with it. This method had always worked well for me. So, once we were off stage, I put my arm around her and whispered in what I thought was a good-natured tone, “You’re welcome for me saving your butt out there.” She shot me such a horrifying look of furious disgust, I instantly removed my arm from her person. We never spoke thereafter about this incident. In fact, other than on stage, we never spoke again. The next time I had direct contact with her, we were passing one another in the hall. I said, “Hi.” She deliberately turned her face away so as to not even have to look at me. This sort of treatment continued for the run of the show. When I entered the Green Room, she would leave; when we passed in the hall, she refused to look at me. At first, I could not believe this was happening. But as she did not seem to be escalating the issue, I was content to keep out of her way. And, as she never missed a line on stage again, I was willing to keep it strictly professional between us. I considered speaking to her, but due to her odd behaviour, I felt there was a very good chance that might just make things worse. Perhaps she was embarrassed by the incident. Perhaps she took offense at my backstage ribbing. Perhaps, after me tossing lines at her she had never heard before, she felt she saved my butt. Perhaps she was just so far away, she didn’t have a clue what happened. I doubt I’ll ever know. But I am glad we had not really been close before this incident, because then I would have cared to be thus shunned. And ever since I have been more certain of the reaction before ribbing any co-worker about their flubs.

There are any number of reasons an actor will forget their line. They may not have done their homework and therefore just don’t know the lines well enough. They could be distracted by something unusual they see backstage or in the audience. They could remember they lied to their spouse about paying the hydro bill. They could just be day-dreaming (a particular hazard that is more prevalent as the number of performances of a certain character increases). Whatever the reason, the sudden silence of a missed line will generally wake up everyone on stage. Whose line is it? Did I screw up? And then hits what I like to call “stage time”. Heightened awareness slows down time so that thirty seconds of dead air feels like an eternity. Everyone on stage at this time is racing through the cobwebs of their minds, in an attempt to find something that will restore the script to its proper place. This comes with degrees of success, of course, and I will address some examples in future entries. For now, I will walk through the anatomy of a missed line, based on one of my own experiences.

A few years ago, I played Jack in Norm Foster’s two-hander, Storm Warning in Port Hope, Ontario. The other actor was the lovely and talented Veronika Hurnik, and both of us had worked very hard to get the lines down. There are a lot of lines in a full length two-hander and we were further hampered by only having eight days of rehearsal. Often certain lines will be problematic for an actor. And, in rehearsal, you draw a blank on the same one over and over. This was certainly the case for me in Storm Warning. So, I entered our first preview feeling shaky on some of the lines, but the show must go on. In the middle of the first act, we were seated in Muskoka chairs having a conversation in which any two people who have recently just met might engage. It was going well and I could sense the audience was with us all the way. And then it stopped with a sudden silence. I knew it was my line but I had no idea what it was. Long seconds ticked by as Veronika and I exchanged glances and nervous smiles. Okay so far, as awkward silences between people who have just met are common enough. In my mind, I was going over what we had already said and, at the same time discovering, to my horror, that this particular spot was not one of those aforementioned problem areas. I knew I had never had a problem with this line before, but still, I was having one now. More long seconds ticked by, now past thirty and no end in sight. Veronika, as shaky on her lines as I was on mine, could not be expected to know what I was supposed to say, so she was, unfortunately, not able to save the day by re-phrasing my line in a way to get us back on course. I knew it was up to me. I leaned forward, drew in a deep breath and opened my mouth. I wanted to say anything to break the ongoing and lengthening silence. I could see Veronika expectantly awaiting my line. But then I leaned back and said to myself, I got nothing. Everything we had previously talked about, all that was upcoming, had suddenly vanished. By this point, the audience caught on to something being amiss. They were now shuffling their feet and shifting in their seats. We were losing them. And it was with this realization, that suddenly, boom, my line was there. I threw out a long “Well…” and said my line. The look of relief on Veronika’s face I am sure was mirrored on my own. She said her line and we were back on track. And, fortunately, the audience came with us. I am happy to report for the run of that show, some thirty-odd performances, neither of us ever drew a blank again. Yet despite all the wonderful and inventive moments we came up with in Storm Warning, the one thing that has stayed with me in the most vivid detail is forgetting that one line. That sixty seconds of silence for which I was responsible felt like a full day. And, I expect, it took a day off the end of my life. People often ask me, upon finding out I am an actor, “How do you remember all those lines?” And I always reply, that is the easy part. Clearly, not always the case.

Oops, I flubbed my FIRST flub. After I wrote on this subject just a couple of days ago, I remembered my actual first stage flub. I had completely forgotten about it, but when it came back to me, it was with startling clarity. Again, it was a Christmas event, this one a concert at my school when I was in kindergarten. I was five years old, perhaps even my very first time on any stage. My class was to perform a seasonal ditty using rudimentary instruments. Those least musically challenged children performed with bells or little triangles. Most of the rest, including myself, were issued a pair of sticks we were to whack together, hopefully in a not unpleasant manner. I was positioned in the middle of the back row, standing on top of the highest plank of seating of some sort of bleacher type arrangement. As we were about to begin, as the teacher was about to conduct, I dropped one of my sticks. It fell down to the floor and rolled out of sight beneath the bleachers. My first impulse was to retrieve it, but there were too many other kids in the way. The only thing I could do was make the sound of one stick whacking… nothing. Now that I remember this event, I recall the terrible feelings of having failed and, worse, the mortification of having had my failure witnessed by so many. My teacher and my mother both assured me this was no serious event in the grand scheme of things. But I was inconsolable… at least for awhile. I obviously got over it or it is unlikely I would have ever set foot on stage again.

Now, fast forward once more to high school, my second year in the drama club’s annual big show, this particular offering being Arsenic and Old Lace. My best friend, O’C, was cast as Johnathon Brewster, the fugitive murderer. In an effort to disguise himself, Johnathon has had plastic surgery, courtesy of my character, Dr. Einstein. Being drunk at the time of the surgery, my character, having recently seen a Frankenstein movie, has recreated that iconic bulging forehead as Johnathon’s disguise. One night, I was awaiting my next entrance in the set’s upstairs backstage area. O’C, who was on stage, suddenly went off-script, calling out: “Doctor! Doctor!” I peeked out from backstage and saw the bulging forehead was drifting down over O’C’s eyes. Fortunately, a make-up person had left a small bottle of spirit gum backstage. As O’C continued to cry out for the Doctor’s assistance, I scampered down the stairs and in front of everyone present, glued the forehead back in place, all the while uttering, “So sorry, Johnny,” over and over, in what I thought was a decent Peter Lorre impersonation. For the rest of the run, I carried that little bottle of spirit gum with me and at least once a show, I would have to perform the same cranial surgery as that danged forehead would not stay put. Ah, good times… Although this particular flub did not originate with me, as I did not apply O’C’s make-up, it still involved me. And it shows I had, at least by this point, gained enough experience to know I could correct a flub on stage. It is also a good example of theatre as a team sport.

So, now that I have already addressed one each of a wardrobe, prop and make-up flub, my next entry will detail some moments of the dreaded endless horror of forgetting one’s lines, or as we say in the biz, drawing a blank.

‘Tis the season and I think the very first time I would have been on stage was in a Sunday School Christmas pageant. I might have been five or six and recited a passage from the Bible. Can’t remember it now, or even from which Gospel it might have been. Do not recall any stage flubs -though there probably were some- either in this instance or in subsequent years, playing one of the shepherds washing their socks by night. My greatest achievement in this annual ritual was being cast one year as the Inn Keeper: “Why, certainly you can have your God-fathered child in my barn.” Never got to play Joe… When I was sixteen, I joined my highschool drama club. I was cast as the King of the Sewermen in Jean Giraudoux’ The Madwoman of Chaillot. I know, I never understood why our highschool was presenting such a piece. Anyway, I had one long scene in the play, exclusively between myself and the titular Madwoman (and I must admit, I cannot recall the actor’s name). My entrance was down a long stair case. I was wearing red flannel long underwear and in my hands, I carried a pair of hip waders. My purpose was to provide useful information to the Madwoman in her quest to stop big oil (if I remember that correctly). As I approached her on opening night, of what would be my very first time on the legitimate stage, the Madwoman uttered her line (and I paraphrase): “Don’t stand on ceremony here, please put your boots on.” Well, I pulled the hip waders on and I sat down and we continued with the scene. At one point I was to stand, which I did, only to discover that, although one side of the hip waders’ suspenders had gone up over my shoulder, the other one had gone down around my crotch. I noticed this due to the sudden discomfort I felt upon standing. The quickest route to relief was to pull the properly placed suspender off my shoulder. Relief was instantaneous, but so was the descent of the hip waders down around my ankles. The audience began to laugh hysterically. The Madwoman laughed her way through the rest of the scene. I did not have the experience to know that I could just take a moment and correct this wardrobe malfunction. Instead, I intuitively knew the best way to deal with this situation was to pretend it never happened. This meant I could not acknowledge that anything had gone wrong. I accomplished this by remaining straight-faced throughout. Which, of course, brought the audience to an ever greater frenzy of merriment. The laughter was so loud, without a break, there was no way of knowing if our lines were being heard or not. As I shuffled to my exit stage left, the hip waders down around my ankles, I got a standing ovation. And I gotta tell you, it felt pretty darn good. If I wasn’t before, from that moment, I was hooked on this crazy, unpredictable addiction called acting. And that moment was but the first of many flubs that have occurred over a career spanning roughly one hundred professional stage productions. More of which I will relate in my next entries.

Some old guy once said youth is wasted on the young. At least, I’m assuming it was an old guy… until I am corrected, I am going to assume it was Methusaleh who said that. Right- why am I writing about this? Well, a couple of reasons. First, my cat Arthur, who is in his 19th year, has declined very much in the past few months. He is partially blind, a little confused, rather frail and his incontinence is a constant pain in the butt (maybe for him but definitely for me). Did I mention he whines a lot? After a lifetime of silence, he has found his voice and has unleashed a lifetime of complaints, sometimes so severe, I am driven from my own home to seek relief. The poor old fellow can be forgiven for this last as he has had to put up with me for all but the first year of his existence. And, for the most part, he has weathered the many upheavals I have inflicted upon him -whether it be my own moods or the rearranging of furniture- with both grace and affection. My friend Wylaine, who has known Arthur a good long time has noted he has returned to the state of an infant with all its attendant demands of time, attention and cleaning up. Although I would not suggest this situation is the equal of caring for an elderly person, it has brought me to a place of looking at my own mortality. But being someone who has always voiced even the most minor of complaints, regrettably I cannot expect to endure all of the humiliations and frustrations of old age in silence, no matter how much I may wish it otherwise. For, however one defines it, old age is creeping up on me. I realised the other day I am now closer to sixty than to fifty. Which brings me to the second reason I am writing about all of this. After more than a decade of using the same photograph, I have recently had a shoot, the purpose of which is to acquire a new headshot. Upon first perusal of the many shots presented me, my first impression was, when did I get so old? Now, I do not mean this in anyway as a negative reflection on the photographer, a bright and talented artist -who is also an actor- by the name of Amelia Mathews. You will find a link to her website at the bottom of this entry. Amelia has provided me with many wonderful shots, some that are beautifully suited for the above stated purpose and some that are not. The latter, however, are not of lesser value. Rather, they are exquisite capturings of who I am. As I look at these photographs on my computer screen, I see much more than the wrinkles and grey hairs brought on by a life sometimes misspent, sometimes hard fought, but always always always interesting. I see, too, in these images, a man who yet possesses vibrancy and hope, a man who has much to offer, both to individuals and to the world at large. And, although I doubt any of this was Amelia’s intention, I would like to thank her. For, through her work, she has pointed out to me that age is a number accompanied by physical superficialities, but beyond that is a richness and depth unequalled by the beauty of youth.

I have not written here in awhile. For once in my lengthening life, I have had nothing to say. However, as I am working on a screenplay about the War of 1812 (truly a most ignored conflict these days), I thought I would point out there are within the next week or so, three anniversaries upcoming involving two of the most noted participants in that long ago struggle. Today (October 5th) is the 196th anniversary of the Battle of the Thames in 1813 (sometimes known as the Battle of Moraviantown). This was a decisive American victory near modern day Chatham, Ontario. It is also the battle where the legendary Shawnee war chief Tecumseh was killed. Tomorrow (October 6th) is the 240th anniversary of the birth of Major General Sir Isaac Brock on the Channel island of Guernsey. He was born the same year as both Napoleon Bonaparte and Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington (1769). The third anniversary is next Tuesday (October 13th), one hundred and ninety-seven years since the Battle of Queenston Heights in 1812. This so-called “brilliant affair” was a decisive British-Canadian victory where Brock died leading a “forlorn hope” charge uphill against the Americans. So, now that you know these things, do celebrate accordingly

Oh, sweet winged Mercury, god of messengers, please let the weather be dry and warm -but not hot. Let there be no wind except at my back. Make my legs strong and my bike run without fault. Let every package be small and light, at top rates and addressed properly. Let every elevator be waiting and every traffic light green. Let every route be straight without any backtracking or hills. Let me encounter free food and unlocked bathroom doors Let every receptionist be gorgeous and friendly. Grant me these things and I will try not to yell, to curse, to kick or take my bike lock to someone’s car. And one further thing, oh great Mercury, a day without cabbies would be nice.