The Showman

So I was a huge Kenny Rogers fan as a kid. Christ have you seen what that cat has done to himself with the fucking plastic surgery? Anyways. Well fuck Axel Rose doesn’t even look that bad. I mean Kenny was a handsome man.

Ya, so I was a huge fan. I loved the Gambler, Ruby and the classic with Dolly large Breasts – Islands in the Stream, oh yeah and Coward of the County. My parents surprised me one winter with tickets to a Kenny Rogers concert in St. John’s. Well holy shit I was literally beside myself with elation, I Russell Samways was going to see Kenny Rogers in real life. My parents had gone to one of his concerts before and brought me back a large book. In this book was a poster which hung on the back of my bedroom door for at least 8 years, until it was in tatters. The dude was wearing a pink suit too, I remember the picture being hazy, he was sat on a stool with one leg outstretched, I’m pretty sure the poster was meant for women. I wonder what Dad thought of Mom buying me such a poster, all gay looking and shit. I’m sure he contemplated taking it down a few times.

At that young age I had a slight concept of what stardom was and for me Kenny Rogers was the epitome of all that embodied stardom. I was rather perplexed by the way fans acted when seeing their favourite stars. The way they freaked out, the way they would want to touch them, have a piece of clothing or some possession of theirs, but what got me the most was the not washing your hands after they touched them.

Figure of speech was something I had not mastered at this age, and certainly exemplified by the time Pop Samways slept into Uncle Edwin’s cabin with us one time. Sometime in the morning Pop got up to use the washroom [a 5 gallon bucket in the bathroom, which happened to be more of a closet with a blanket nailed across the doorway than anything, hmm I still remember how it always smelled of ivory soap], when he ventured into the enclosed alcove my Dad was there and I guess startled Pop Samways. Well the next morning Dad was saying to Pop that he(Pop) should have seen his face, and that he looked like he had seen a ghost. I wasn’t really paying attention to the conversation but when I heard “ghost” it got my attention. I promptly got up and went into the room to see what the deal was, as asking him what he meant provided me with no response at all. Dad said that there was no ghost or any such thought of a ghost, but rather what he said to Pop Samways was a “figure of speech”, that was the first time I had heard either expression.

Back to the Ken Meister. So the date was set and we drove in town that evening with Dad pointing out the glowing light emitting from “The Sprung Greenhouse”. I had heard of it many times in the news but to see the glow was a real treat. It was revealed earlier that we would be going there in a BMW, which I soon found out was a car. For some reason Dad was making a big deal out of it, saying it was a luxury car and a really good ride, as far as I knew Cadillac was the top of the line, but this one was better. My impression of it was that the leather seats were cold on my 8 or 9 year old ass.

Memorial Stadium was our venue and what a concert it was, I was on my Dad’s shoulders most of the time, which wasn’t much of a consolation considering Dad probably needed to be on someone’s shoulders too. At one point Kenny Rogers was handing out stuff to the crowd and shaking their hands so Dad grabbed my hand and off we went making our way to the front stage – one midget in front of an even shorter midget. When we got there, Dad picked me up and held me out to shake his hand (sorta like you’d see a woman passing her child to the captain of the life raft before she herself climbs aboard) and when he came close I reached with all my might and slapped his hand(can you imagine how happy he was for me?). I was excited but not as excited as those women who take off their panties or throw their bras. When Dad took me down and asked me how it was I was I looked at my hand and I smelled it (you know just to see what Kenny Rogers smells like) and confirmed what I thought I felt moments earlier. Kenny Rogers slapped hands with me with a rightfully sweatyhand. It was then that I knew I would definitely have to wash my hand and any thoughts of never washing my hand again didn’t even get past the 2% possibility.

I didn’t get to see the sprung greenhouse’s aura on the way out because I fell asleep in the car. I remember waking up and there being a clever sized snow drift across the lane and dreading having to walk in the snow – certainly getting snow in shoes and pants. I remember waking up again as my father was tucking me in.

Isaac Samways, My Dad – Forever missed

Maybe I do care

I bought a watch last year at the Zellars here in Grande Prairie. It’s not so flashy or at least I didn’t think so.

I needed the watch for work, I didn’t want anything expensive, just a simple watch that had a digital display. I required that it put up with swinging 8 pound sledge hammers, getting squat between iron pipe and unions and my wrist, take a clever beating and it was definitely going to be soiled, really soiled with lots of grease. Grease and dirt and pipe dope and all kinds of crap that doesn’t easily wash off after 5 hand washings and a thorough 17 minute long shower.

This watch had to be tough!

I don’t have the biggert wrist mind you, so when I get a watch I prefer one with a smaller face. You know, one that doesn’t accentuate my puny wrist. I needed it to be comfortable and with buttons that didn’t mistakenly change a setting that I had.

I remembered my old Timex Indiglo Ironman watch from back in the late 90’s, the one I burned and melted with a lighter when it ceased to work. The same watch who’s battery exploded and hot melted plastic stuck to my arm, right in front of Danielle Bishop, Renee Lynch and Richard Coombs. I hadn’t planned on it explosion, or pop as it were. Nonetheless an indiglo was in my price range and remembering the reliability of the watch, I decided to go with a Timex Indiglo. Ironman that is.

I perused (as Joe Pack likes to say) through the selection of Ironman watches, most all were either too flashy or way too massive. Some looked like diving watches – like I’d ever use my diving watch for work, if I had one. One caught my eye, I even liked the colours, so I tried it on and, well, I’m wearing it now.

It’s been a great watch, I’ve even timed myself holding my breath a couple of times – 1:47 is my best time, in a fully relaxed state of body and mind of course. But when I got home my girlfriend said it was a girls watch. I was a little insulted, but I wasn’t really concerned.

From time to time I would look at the watch and convince myself that there was nothing “girlish” about it. I mean I only wear the watch when I’m at work or doing something in which its a little too harsh for my other watches. I guess you could say I’m a watch guy. I have 2 ecodrive watches that are solar-powered and I love them equally. One is silver and I consider it my “fancy” watch the other is a “military looking” watch, but both are very plain and conservative. The face is on both is very plain and not too big as to look out of place on my wrist. My work watch is the smallest of the bunch.

All was well until last night when I went to purchase the laptop I’m currently writing on. I arrived at Futureshop straight from the job I just finished in Tumbler Ridge. I was wearing my regular work attire – pair of jeans, longsleeve “inside” shirt and another longsleeve shirt over it. I walked in wearing my dirty black and grey nike sneakers a baseball hat and my sleeves pushed back 1/3 the way. The shirts were pushed back enough so that my watch was in plain sight.

After talking with the salesperson I decided on my purchase and we went over to sign some papers and pay for the computer. I was totally unconcsious of wearing the watch as it’s just a part of my getup, until I noticed the guy look at my watch a tad bit longer than I thought ephemeral. It make me wonder if he was looking at my watch – thinking it was a girls watch. My girlfriend’s comment came straight to mind. Normally I ask people why they do the things they do, I was going to ask him what in particular made him stare at my watch for as long as he did. This line of questioning tends to get the usual defensive: “I wasn’t looking at anything” or “I don’t know what you’re talking about”, so I decided against it figuring he’d think me weird and it would ruin whatever – customer-sales representative – rapport we have going.

On the way back home that evening I decided it best if when I showed up at 9pm to pick up the computer, I wear my “civilian” watch. Civilian is what I refer to anything which doesn’t involve work. For me I have civilian clothes, civilian coats, civilian cologne, civilian boots, civilian hats and of course civilian watches. Otherwise what I’m left with is work stuff, work clothes and stuff like that.

When I went back at 9 I wore my civilian jeans, a civilain shirt that Steph bought me at the Bodies Exhibit in Montreal, a civilian hat and my beautiful civilian watch. I wanted to either wear a t-shirt or something with the sleeves rolled/pushed up, something that would allow my – definitely not girlish- watch to be in plain sight. Perhaps he would notice me wearing a different watch and study it closely, but it didn’t even enter my mind when I got to Futureshop.

I did enjoy wearing my civilian watch though:























Does this look girlish to you? Because this is the watch

where do you go when you have to go?

I work in an industrial setting, a place where the extent of pleasantries are warm meals and the scattered BBQ. One very unpleasant thing is the toilet aka "the shitter", aka "the outhouse", aka "the crapper". But dare I say the washroom - as no washing of the sort occurs here, except maybe the luxury of having hand sanitizer. You can't call it the bathroom because you certainly do not bathe there. What I'm talking about is a small shelter build for one purpose and one purpose only.

Some may contain a tiny heater that does a splendid, often time overwhelming job of warming this enclosure. Some may contain air fresheners and some magazines, but it does not mask the primary use. It's raison d'etre is to poop!

A lot goes on on these work sites and a lot of people frequent them, especially on frac day. As many as 20 people in the run of 4-6 hours may experience their bowel movements in these not so sterile boxes. You could imagine the state of “the crapper” when all is said and done. They do get cleaned from time to time, in fact I’ve seen it done once in all my 4 years working in the patch. It isn’t the nicest place to do your business and some sites have nothing at all –use your imagination – most do.

A company representative also dwells on the location, he is what we call “the consultant” or “company man”. This person is a glorified secretary with many years of experience in the oilfield, they are extremely knowledgeable about operations and usually gets paid over $1000a day. They stay in what most call a shack, a portable office trailer, and every office trailer is equipped with a toilet. Some trailers - most in fact - have fully functional washrooms with showers, bedrooms, kitchens, office area and lounging area. These trailers are the envy of all on location, sometimes the medical personnel are lucky enough to have them but only on jobs where they stay there 24/7.

On this particular job the Medic or Bandaid as they are often referred to was relieved and a female came to replace him. I have no problem with that and why should I? Most of the medics I’ve worked with are female.

Several days ago I noticed the female medic walk from her truck/medical transport unit (basically a truck with an in bed camper with medical supplies in it and the capability to carry a stretcher) to the consultant’s shack. I thought to myself she’s going to see him about something, I also knew that the consultant wasn’t in his shack but rather out at the wellhead. I expected the door of the office trailer to open again shortly after she closed it – realizing he wasn’t in there. This was not the case. I figured maybe she would yell out in the trailer to get his attention as some trailers are 60 feet long and have many rooms and he wasn’t in the office area, I assumed it would take 30 seconds tops for her to come back out, but she did not. She was in there a length of time in which only one thing most likely happened. Roughly 5 minutes she was in there. A time I assumed only one thing was accomplished – a poop. She was definitely doing her poop.

Now she gets to poop where the consultant poops, the only 2 people that are permitted. It is certainly a privilege to be allowed to use this throne. None of us that are here day in day out are permitted to use it. We get here at 6:15 AM every day and usually don’t leave until 7 or 7:30 PM, most of my day is spent here, save the few hours back at the hotel.

Why is she allowed to use the bathroom and we have to resolve to using “the shitter”? Where the hell are equal rights in this picture? Do women not want to be treated just the same as men? Well then why the hell can’t they poop where the men poop? If equal rights was in the picture she’d poop on everyone else’s poop, just like the rest of us. For that matter, maybe they should have co-ed washrooms instead of male and female. What’s so special about a woman that she can’t go poop where everyone else poops? I mean everybody poops!

I brought this up with my girlfriend and she said that maybe she doesn’t want to go use the “facility” where everyone else goes. She probably doesn’t want to go in there after everyone else has used it. Well Christ it’s not like I look forward to going in there. “Oh yes I can’t wait to get to work and see how the toilet is today.” I see her point fully, and I’m not making fun, but why does this girl get to go to a better drop off spot than I do? I don’t really appreciate the whole idea; I think I’ll go ask the Consultant what his justification is for it.