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I wasn’t sure I wanted to write this post. But right now I’m not sure I could write about anything else. Because there’s an important conversation happening right now, and while it’s happening I can’t seem to see the point of writing a 2000 word blog post about the trailer for the Flash series.

Which I could. I absolutely could. But not today.

So… here goes. And yes, this will contain course language. This will get a little angry in the middle.

Confessions of a former “Nice Guy”

Real talk: there was a time when I bought into the whole “Girls say they want nice guys but only date jerks, I know this because I’m nice and girls aren’t magically falling for me” myth. I also once believed in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and a sinister organization with nothing better to do than orchestrate traffic to slow down my commute, but of all of these, it’s the “nice guy” thing I feel dumbest about believing.

Because seriously, I know it’s crazy, but sometimes that one pedestrian running into the intersection right in time to keep me from turning before the gap in traffic closes just feels a little choreographed, you know?

But as I was saying. Maybe it’s movies and televisions repeatedly hammering in the message of “You’ll win her over eventually” or “Nice guys get the girl from being nice, not by being confident and charming and actually asking her on dates,” maybe it isn’t, but I totally bought it. I blamed being single on girls not liking nice guys, not my crippling anxieties that make even talking to a woman at a party my own personal Everest, or my lifelong inability to tell a woman I like her, due to the fact that the first time I tried I picked the worst way I could have imagined. And I can imagine quite a bit.

Now I see the light. Now I’m aware that if a woman isn’t magically attracted to me, it’s probably more my fault than hers. I could probably stand to work out more often and make more than zero effort to convince her I’m worth her time. I can be rejected by a woman and not blame her entire gender for failing me as a person.

So why can’t the rest of us do that.

“Not all men,” but WAY too many

The other week, even before the tragic events in Santa Barbara, I came across a series of memes on Twitter making fun of those who pop into discussions of sexism and misogyny to shout that “not all men are like that.” Example:

And at first, as someone who abhors rape, thinks women should be able to discuss comic books on the internet without threats of violence, and at the very least leans feminist, I wondered. I certainly don’t want to get lumped in with the asshats who spread misogyny and rape culture, so is saying that not all men are that awful really so bad?

Fortunately, instead of registering with tumblr in order to annoy the people posting these memes with my questions, I thought about it for ten seconds and the answer became clear. Saying “not all men are misogynists” does nothing to address the drooling mass of men who are. And that is the actual problem, a problem made all the clearer by Elliot Rodger’s shooting spree.

In short, if someone’s trying to have a conversation about how all women (Yes, all women, as the new hashtag says) are at some point on the receiving end of misogyny, and how maybe we should be doing something about that, shouting “Not all men” is just derailing the conversation, attacking the woman for bringing it up, rather than the fedora-wearing, slut-shaming, geek-girl-mocking, woman-hating, “nice guy” fromunda stains causing the problem.

And you shouldn’t want that.

Finding a better target

You can’t make violence against women go away by silencing the women who speak out against it, and you shouldn’t want to try. You should want the claim to not be necessary.

If you’re like me, and want geek casting news to be concerned with finding the best actor to play, say, Doctor Who, and not which minority/gender boxes said actor checks off, don’t attack the people saying “why not cast a woman or minority instead,” get angry at the waves of idiots who scream to the heavens at the very idea of casting anything but a white male as Batman. They’re the ones making diversity in movies, TV, and whatnot an argument, when it should be a no-brainer. They’re the ones who don’t get that Idris Elba would be the best James Bond possibly ever because his skin contains an inappropriate quantity of melanin. When the idiots are silenced, then we can begin to defend Peter Capaldi being cast instead of Helen Mirren in calm, rational tones.

Getting tired of hearing people complain that women are underrepresented and/or badly written in comic books and video games? Don’t yell at Anita Sarkeesian, blame the industries that refuse to change, that can’t accept that women might be half of their potential audience. And then blame the dickheads who turned Wonder Woman wearing pants into a controversy that shook the goddamn heavens. Because if you can’t enjoy a comic about Power Girl if her costume doesn’t include a chest window, you need to sit in the corner and be quiet for a while.

Don’t want that cute woman at the club acting like you might try to rape her? Don’t blame her for worrying, blame the irredeemable cockstains who have ensured that all women everywhere have to worried that they might get raped. Blame them, and get angry. Get angry that we live in a world that blames the victims, and refuse to live in a society where only three percent of rapists will be punished for their crimes. Shout down the slut shamers saying “she was asking for it,” drown out those who would say “but sometimes they just make it up,” because if you’re actually more concerned about the tiny number of women who pretend to be raped than the thousands of women who are attacked and receive no justice, we cannot be friends.

We need to go after these wastes of human potential. The sexists, the rapists, the “nice guys” who think holding a door excuses having less respect for women than Fox News has for Obama. The idiots telling feminists “shut up and make me a sandwich.” The MRA activists angered that anyone might want as large a slice of the pie as white men get. The cocksacks drowning women’s blogs in angry comments and rape threats. The men defending Elliot Rodger. In short, the Fedoras. We need to turn on them, tell them they won’t be tolerated. Drag them into the light, tell them their ideas are wrong, that history will not mourn their passing. Because every day, somewhere, somehow, they are hurting people, and it has to stop.

And saying “Not all men do these things” doesn’t do a goddamn thing to stop it.

Hurgh. That’s a lot of vitriol. Let’s see if I can’t impart something positive to wrap this up.

Nice is different than good

As I said in the beginning, I used to think of myself as a “nice guy.” But I’ve had to reassess that over the years. Reading about “nice guy” behaviours and their sense of entitlement led me to think about some of my own actions, and discover that I may have thought I was being nice, but I wasn’t being very good.

And so I’ve taken some advice from Wil Wheaton, in his awesome speech to a couple’s baby girl on why it’s great to be a nerd.

I am not “nice.” I am kind.

Being kind is about understanding that each person you’re talking to is a human being, filled with turmoils and frustrations and fears of their own. Some of them are just jerks, to be sure, but there’s too many of them already, so we can’t afford to add to their numbers.

A “nice guy” performs an act of basic human decency because he thinks it earns him something. When you’re kind, you do nice things for people because you want to live in a world where doing nice things is the rule, not the exception.

Of course, here’s where I’ll lose the Fedoras of the world, because being kind doesn’t magically make women fall for you either. That’s not the point. If you do something nice and expect to be rewarded for it, that’s not an act of kindness, it’s an act of commerce. Being kind is about doing something kind because it’s a better way to live.

I am kind to the people in my life (well, save for the few I’m close enough to that we can safely enjoy a fair amount of friendly teasing). I was kind to the volunteers at Calgary Comic Expo, even if they were telling me I couldn’t enter the Highlander panel. I was kind to the media guests, even if they were charging me for an autograph. I am kind to customers at my work, and to strangers I interact with. And I see the inherent contradiction in saying all these things right after advocating a distinct lack of kindness towards Fedora-kind. But I have my limits.

They hurt my friends. They hurt women I wish were my friends. One day they might hurt my niece, and I can’t have that. They make it harder to build a better world. And they ruined the fedora hat.

I fucking liked fedoras.

Being kind means that I, personally, am not adding to the pool of misogyny drowning our world… but it’s not enough. We gotta drain that pool. Because as long as all women, yes all women, face this sort of abuse throughout their lives, we’ve got work to do.

Last time I talked extensively about geek TV projects coming to television next season, which were exciting, and briefly why. Today, I have some specific requests from those shows.

Now, I’m not saying that any TV executives are, in any way, listening to me. I’m not insane. Well, not that brand of insane. But two years ago, as part of an interview process for an entertainment website, I wrote an article about things I wanted from Arrow (it wasn’t actually called “Ways to be better than Smallville” but could have been), and pretty much all of them happened. And then I said “This show would be even better without that voice-over,” and they cut the voice-over a few weeks later.

So what the hell. Here’s my wishlist for some of the shows I’m excited for next year.

Flash: slow build the right things

One of the big stories that will be part of The Flash was set up when Barry Allen was introduced on Arrow: the fact that his mother was killed by something mysterious, his father went to jail for murder as a result, and Barry is on a quest to figure out the truth and exonerate his father. This is based on a recent addition to Flash lore: when Geoff Johns, executive producer on the show, reintroduced Barry to comic readers a few years back, this quest to find his mother’s true killer was one of the twists he added. And then solved.

Which means that comic readers know that this mystery has only two possible answers: either it was the Reverse Flash, travelling back in time to screw with his nemesis’ entire life, or it’s Barry himself, forced to allow his mother to die in order to save the entire world (see The Flashpoint Paradox, now out on DVD, or the Flashpoint graphic novel, for how that makes any sense).

The point is, let’s not make the same mistake Agents of SHIELD did with “How is Coulson alive” and drag things out too long. Mention it from time to time, sure, but as soon as it becomes central to the story, get moving. Don’t linger too long. Fortunately, the showrunners have already discussed the fact that working on Flash Forward taught them that audiences don’t have the same patience for drawn-out mysteries that they had prior to Lost, so this shouldn’t be a problem.

What they should take their time in doing is introducing and building up some of the most complex and interesting supporting characters the Flash has: the Rogues.

 

Captain Cold, Weather Wizard, Mirror Master, Heatwave, and the Trickster. And to a lesser extent, Captain Boomerang and Kadabra. When Geoff Johns first started writing the Flash (years ago, when Barry was still dead), he turned Flash’s Rogues Gallery from a bundle of villains so lame they had to hunt in a pack to deadly menaces whose complicated ethics and deep characterization meant they were almost as much fun to read as Flash himself. Each of these characters could be just as fun a recurring character as Arrow’s Malcolm Merlyn or Slade Wilson, so don’t rush their intros. Make a meal of these guys.

And then use the Suicide Squad to set up a crossover with Arrow. Do a damn crossover with Arrow, you’re the only ones who can.

Constantine: plenty of magic users available

Constantine is not going to be crossing over with the Arrowverse, nor the big-screen Justice League. And that’s okay. It’s not my preference, as I may have indicated, but 300 issues of Hellblazer teach us that John Constantine doesn’t need a larger universe of superheroes surrounding him to be interesting. Hell, as much fun as he’s been in the Justice League Dark, Constantine’s kind of better used in a world without Batmen or hooded archer vigilantes. A world where no Justice League is going to swoop in when things get bad.

There are, however, still DC characters that I’d like to see turn up.

There’s the Nightmare Nurse, a recent addition to DC’s magical line-up. She’s the person to turn to if you need healing from a bad spell or curse, the magical equivalent of the doctor who runs an off-the-books clinic where you can get a gunshot treated without a lot of questions or police. Tell me that wouldn’t be worth having in this show.

There’s Andrew Bennett, star of I, Vampire, a character that made a well-received return to the comics after a few decades of absence. I don’t know if Constantine intends to include vampires amongst the things-that-go-bump the main characters will be locking horns with, but if they do, a repentant vampire trying to protect innocents from his psychotic ex, Mary, Queen of Blood, might be a fun way to do it.

And there are others. Detective Chimp, a chimpanzee magically given speech and heightened intellect, was a fun part of DC’s magic books a few years back. If they find themselves with extra budget to throw around, Constantine has a long history with the Swamp Thing. Want to give John a contact in the spirit world? Why not Deadman? (Assuming they’re not still trying to give him his own series) But there is one character who, more than anyone, I want to see on this show.

Zatanna.

Zatanna is one of DC’s longest-running magic characters, a sorceress who uses her ability to cast spells by speaking backwards to fight evil while maintaining a career as the world’s most popular stage magician. Done right, she’s also one of their most powerful characters, since she can do practically anything, as long as she can say it backwards. And she’s got an on-again, off-again romantic history with Constantine, often acting as his surrogate conscience in recent years. I shouldn’t even have to suggest that she’d be a brilliant addition to the show. It should be staggeringly obvious. Sadly that doesn’t mean that it is.

Gotham: Watch the Wire and take notes.

Gotham has already taken great strides to ease my initial dislike of its very existence by promising to avoid the teen soap melodrama that made Smallville a show I watched but never endorsed, and by releasing a not-terrible-looking trailer. Instead, we have a show about the early days of the future Commissioner Gordon and the people who will one day become the Penguin, the Riddler, and Poison Ivy. Also they are threatening to include the Joker, even though the Joker can only be the Joker if Batman already exists, and maybe I’m too hung up on the Killing Joke, but a Joker who wasn’t already a vicious criminal when he fell in the acid works so much better.

I digress.

My point is, this show may focus on Gordon (and, sure, tween-Bruce Wayne), but the villains are also a big part of the proceedings. Oswald Cobblepot’s climb to the top of the underworld is just as much a part of the show as Gordon’s rise in the GCPD. So, if I read the trailer right and know my Batman lore, we have a show based on the cops and criminals of a city beset with crime and police corruption, in which a few select cops are trying to redeem the force and save the city while criminals scheme to gain greater control of the underworld. Turns out, there’s a great show you can learn from that did pretty much all of that, as well as any TV show ever has.

The Wire is widely believed to be one of, if not the best, TV shows in recent memory. Possibly ever. And it contains all the elements you need to make Gotham a success. Watch the cops who form a special task group to oppose the Barksdale Organization’s drug trade have to swim upstream against a corrupt and budget-stricken police force driven more by statistics than justice, and see if it can’t instruct you on how to approach Gordon’s working relationship with the GCPD. Want to keep us hooked on the crime side of the story? Check out the clash between gangster kingpin Avon Barksdale and his right-hand man, Stringer Bell, who’s looking to take their drug revenues and build an empire that stretches beyond fighting over street corners. And if you need a new take on the Joker… maybe give Omar Little some thought.

Now even though I’ve started to admit Gotham might not be as bad as I feared, I see little way it could be as good as the Wire. That feels like a pipe dream. But the guy in charge of the series also brought us the excellent HBO show Rome, so despite a few years of slumming it running The Mentalist, I believe he still has something special in him.

Agents of SHIELD: you’re a new show now, act like it

17 episodes into Agents of SHIELD, everything changed. SHIELD collapsed, leaving the central team with no backup, no resources, and little hope. And man does that make for more exciting television. Finally there was a sense of high stakes, which the show had severely lacked up until then. The CGI touchscreen computers that solved every puzzle were gone, replaced with 60s-style spy gear salvaged from a former Howling Commando’s estate. And the dullest character was revealed to be Hydra, making him 500 times more interesting.

So the worst thing they can do now is backslide on all of that.

It’s still unclear what Agents of SHIELD will look like next year. Apparently their sister show, Agent Carter, will involve Peggy Carter running missions for Howard Stark, as she’s been shut out of the post-war spy business. Maybe Agents of SHIELD will involve them doing covert ops for Tony Stark, via his new employee Maria Hill. But hopefully they continue to grow and evolve as a series, rather than sink back into the so-so NCIS: Marvel Universe… no, they were too afraid of using anything Marvel… NCIS: Funky Sci-Fi that they wasted over two-thirds of their freshman season being, while wondering why their ratings were in a tailspin.

Arrow: Now go nuts.

So there was one thing I really wanted from Arrow that the second season not only didn’t provide, and actually hinted it never would: to be part of the same universe as Man of Steel. That’s apparently not happening. DC isn’t trying to have all of their properties connect: the movies will be one world, the Arrowverse another, and all other TV series and animated DVDs will pretty much keep to themselves.

There is a potential here.

For the longest time, DC kept its properties separate and allowed no overlap. Smallville reportedly couldn’t use Bruce Wayne because the powers-that-be thought it would conflict with Batman Begins. But that’s no longer happening: if Gotham is a success, then Batman will be hitting the big screen in whatever Man of Steel 2 ends up being called right as Gotham’s Bruce Wayne is hitting his teen years. Flash will be turning up in Justice League while a younger Flash is still running around on the CW.

So the seal is broken. Multiple worlds, multiple versions of the same characters. Which I posit means you should be able to bring whatever and whoever you want into the Arrowverse. Especially since the Flash is adding the existence of powers into the world, something not present in the first season. So why not go for it, Arrow? Start name-dropping the big guns.

You’ve mentioned companies like STAR Labs (DC’s ubiquitous R&D company), Kord Industries (founded by Ted Kord, known in the 80s and 90s as the Blue Beetle), and Ferris Air (employers of Green Lantern), now name-drop the big boys… WayneTech and LexCorp.

I’m not saying you should start casting the Arrowverse Superman and Batman, in fact hold off on Superman until we see how well superspeed gels with this more grounded world, but lay some groundwork. Let us know that Gotham and Metropolis exist in the same world as Starling City. And while you (hopefully) keep up your great work in building your own little DC Universe, get a little out there. Introduce some more heroes, even ones with powers like Black Lightning or, since Markovia exists, it’s prince, Geo Force. Season two took everything that worked in season one and cranked it up: I can’t wait to see you do that again.

So in addition to volunteering and trying to cram as many nerdgasmy experiences as possible into three days, I was also there as an exhibitor of sorts. My company, Scorpio Theatre, was there to promote ourselves and our upcoming production of Who Knows, a Doctor Who tribute show we’re putting up… later this month. Wow. I guess that’s the case now…

This means that for the second year, I was a panelist at the Expo.

We ran four panels over the week, three of which I participated in. Here’s some highlights.

Writing Workshop

On Thursday, myself and the head of the Alberta Playwrights Network were running a script workshop for aspiring writers. The basic plan was that people would send us their scripts, we’d read them, and then give feedback. The amount of scripts we received would determine how long each person got and if we’d have time for walk-ins. We did end up having a walk-in.

The trick was that this panel was at 5:00 on a Thursday. Which meant leaving work early, fighting traffic, finding somewhere near the Stampede to park, finding my panelist badge, and getting to my room. Which I managed… 11 minutes late. And as I burst into my room, I found out that we had an audience.

Wasn’t expecting that.

I’d read the scripts we’d had submitted, and was ready to give thoughts and tips and feedback. I was less prepared to be entertaining while that happened. So, I had to improvise a little. Use specific examples from the submitted scripts to impart general lessons. I also invited some people onstage to do a reading of one of them, because that’s the “workshop as group activity” plan I know.

Ultimately it went well. By hour three it was just us and the remaining writer, but I think we imparted something valuable, and there was definitely one screenplay I hope to eventually see performed (I’d tell you the details but I don’t know how okay the author would be with their synopsis being spread around). Afterwards, we were free to sneak into the acting workshop Scorpio was running next door, see how that was going.

Writing and Directing

This one was excited for. Me and four friends swapping stories and giving tips on writing and directing. Similar to my panel on script writing last year, which was super fun.

Just a couple of things we hadn’t considered.

First, the script writing panel the previous year had just been the three of us. Now there was five. A little bloated, maybe…

Second, writing and directing are fairly separate entities. There’s not a great deal of overlap between them.

Third, this panel involved some of the most verbose people in the company. People who tend to take their time making a point or telling a story. Which is most cases is good, because we usually have pretty cool or interesting things to say.

In fact all of these problems would be minor to the point of not being worth mentioning if it weren’t for the fourth issue: we had 45 minutes.

There’s nothing we can do about that last one. Every panel from Friday on gets 45 minutes. The improv troupe, the professor doing an apparently impressive talk about the narrative similarities between Aliens and Beowulf, Bill freaking Paxton gets 45 minutes and then he’s done. But put that many people who have a difficult relationship with brevity on one panel, and you might not be able to field a lot of questions.

Still, it went well, we had fun, and although it cost me my chance to see the Highlander panel, I’d say it was worth it.

Who Knows

Now this was the big one. The Expo graciously agreed to give us a full panel to plug Who Knows, which was awesome enough in and of itself. They also put us in the second largest room they had, the Boyce Theatre. Well, the second biggest based on last year. There was now also the Expo Pavilion. Not sure which one of those was bigger. But in essence, there’s the Corral, the venue that seats thousands, that gets used for Nathan Fillion or Matt Smith or the Game of Thrones cast, and then there’s the Boyce, that gets used for Wil Wheaton, the cast of Highlander, and now, apparently, us.

Our first order of business: unveil our first promo video.

Second: introduce selected cast members. Third: try as hard as I could not to dominate the entire panel with elaborate answers about all the Who lore this show is soaked in.

Now this one was fun. The audience wasn’t full, but definitely had enough people to justify a larger room. We got some decent laughs on the video, fielded questions from the audience, and hopefully convinced some folk to come see the show. Since, you know, that was the whole point.

I don’t often get to give my thoughts on a project to a seated audience. And I have to say… it’s pretty satisfying.

Expo’s always a good time for me. I get tired from the long days, sore from spending so much time wandering the concrete floors, and it’s by no means cheap, but every time I’m left satisfied and excited for next year.

Maybe I should sneak up to Edmonton when their Expo happens in September… maybe.

I’ve never understood people who say “I can’t start a new television show, I’m already in the middle of three.” Okay, that’s not true, I understand that fine, otherwise I’d have started watching Breaking Bad by now instead of saying “But I haven’t finished The Wire.” But my threshold for “TV series I can follow” is much higher.

The problem is, I can’t just watch a TV show until I’ve run out of that TV show. Sometimes I can, I suppose, like last month when I managed to get through four seasons of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia in a week and a half, but that’s a rare exception. If I’m settling in for some TV, it’s usually based on mood. Sometimes I want something legitimately amazing, like the Wire or Justified. Sometimes I’d rather something light and funny, like the New Girl or Psych. Sometimes those cable dramedies with mismatched duos solving crimes or suing bad people (with some serial elements) are just the ticket: White Collar, Suits, Psych again I suppose, or Leverage (not a duo, but still in that genre). Sometimes I realize that Bruce Campbell has been on a TV show for six years and I haven’t been watching it, so it’s time to watch some Burn Notice. And sometimes an episode of Person of Interest or Arrow exists that I haven’t seen and, well, that can’t be allowed to continue.

And apparently I sometimes need to watch something great but incredibly grim.

There are shows out there with such an overwhelming atmosphere of gloom or dread that they make Game of Thrones seem sunny and hopeful, and when they’re well done enough, sometimes I can’t quite get enough of them. Well, to a point. There can come a point with any show I’m not watching on a weekly basis when the plotline becomes dark enough, uncomfortable enough, or so cloaked in ill portent that I have to take a break, because maybe watching the protagonists I’ve come to love get bitch-slapped for an hour feels taxing. But I come back. I always come back.

Here’s some examples of recent shows that are as addictive as particularly moody heroin.

House of Cards

What’s it about? When ruthless Congressman/House Whip Francis Underwood (Kevin Spacey) is passed over for Secretary of State, he and his equally conniving wife (Robin Wright) begin a campaign against the President he helped get elected, a campaign for revenge and power.

Why do you like it? Ever since the 90s, I’ve been a fan of Kevin Spacey and been kind of a fan of stories that dare you to root for someone thoroughly amoral by making him/her the central character of the story. The best example I can think of is the woefully short-lived and before-its-time series Profit, featuring Adrian Pasdar in a similar role to Kevin Spacey, only with corporate politics being the battlefield in place of Francis’ actual politics. Watching Francis carry out his plans, the glee he shares solely with us, the audience, as he manipulates his targets into his traps, it can be so much fun to watch that you occasionally forget you’re watching a monster toying with his prey.

What makes it grim? Francis’ enemies are many, and they are crafty. Multinational corporations and corrupt billionaires, the sorts of people with no problems taking on the White House. People I don’t like seeing get the upper hand.

When things get rough for Francis, and they do, I try to remind myself that he’s a terrible, terrible person who, honestly, could use a little comeuppance. And yet… who else am I supposed to root for? The few actually good people on this show just get chewed up and spat out in his wake, and the people challenging him are way worse than he is! If you’re not going to root for Francis, and he does not always make it easy to do so, the pickings are pretty slim.

When did you give it up/come back? Usually about two thirds of the way through a season, when things are going from bad to worse, I’ll decide I need a breather. This can last several months. But I’ll be back. I always come back.

Hannibal

What’s it about? FBI profiler Will Graham hunts serial killers with the help of his friend and therapist, Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

Will Graham was the protagonist of the earlier and less-known Hannibal Lecter novel, Red Dragon, adapted twice into film (1986’s Manhunter, with CSI’s William Petersen as Graham and Brian Cox as Hannibal, and 2002’s Red Dragon, with Edward Norton as Graham and Anthony Hopkins reprising as Hannibal). In the novels, it was Will who caught Hannibal in the first place. In the TV series… he hasn’t made it that far yet.

Special Agent Jack Crawford (Lawrence Fishburne) recruits Will Graham for his ability to put himself in the mind of a serial killer, to read a crime scene and figure out what’s driving his quarry, summing up the method and the madness of the kill with the phrase “This is my design.” Crawford does this despite knowing that Will is on the spectrum of personality disorders, albeit closer to autistic than psychotic. Or so Will claims. Crawford also goes against the advice of Will’s friend and colleague Alana Bloom, who worries that Will’s mind may not be able to withstand so much time in the dark places Jack is dragging it. But Jack needs Will to catch the country’s worst and most brutal serial killers, including Jack’s own white whale, the Chesapeake Ripper, so to keep Will functioning, Jack asks for the help of psychiatrist and amateur gourmet cook Hannibal Lecter.

Of course Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper, but they don’t know that.

Soon Hannibal and Will are joining forces to hunt murderers, while Hannibal begins to play with Will’s mind, just to see what will happen.

Will Graham might sum up Bryan Fuller’s approach thusly: “I attract the curious with Hannibal’s name recognition. I lull networks and audiences into false security with the trappings of a crime procedural, only to find new ways to horrify each week. I parade beautifully-shot atrocities across the camera, erode hope by whittling away at the heroes, yet leave the viewer craving another taste.”

“This is my design.”

Why do you like it? It’s from Bryan Fuller, who’s quickly challenging Joss Whedon and Aaron Sorkin as my favourite TV writer. He’s the creator of my beloved Pushing Daisies, and is responsible for most of the good episodes of Heroes. So it’s incredibly well written. Hannibal’s cold calculations and Will’s descent into madness are hard to turn away from, even when you really, really want to.

Former Bond villain Mads Mikkelsen (Casino Royale) makes for an exceptionally chilly Hannibal Lecter, warm and friendly when the situation calls for it, eerily calm and scarily brutal when he lets his true colours show (typically in front of rival killers, moments before removing them). Hugh Dancy is every bit his equal as the tormented Will Graham. And if those two and Lawrence Fishburne weren’t enough, the show’s attracted some pretty impressive guest stars, including former Kid in the Hall Scott Thompson making regular appearances as one of the forensic pathologists on Jack’s team, Gina Torres as Jack’s cancer-stricken wife, Gillian Anderson as Hannibal’s therapist, and most fun to watch is Eddie Izzard as Dr. Abel Gideon, a serial killer who attempts to claim the title of Chesapeake Ripper, putting him in the real Ripper’s sights.

The sequences in which Will puts himself in the killer’s mind are fascinating to watch, as he rewinds the crime, picks apart the technique, and finds the thing that drives the killer, often able to spot a copycat just from inconsistencies in how the victim is displayed.

It’s sharply written, beautifully shot, with a stellar cast. I’d be more surprised it isn’t hip-deep in Emmys if it weren’t so remorselessly bleak.

What makes it grim? Simply put, the world Hannibal and company inhabit seems terrifying. Every week they are hunting down another serial killer out of your darkest nightmares. And it’s never “He strangles blonde prostitutes to death and leaves them in dumpsters” serial killers, no. Never so gentle. Girls are left impaled on deer antlers. One used his victims’ intestines to make violin strings. Another used the bodies to grow mushrooms. Another stacked his victims into a totem pole. And throughout it all, Hannibal is still killing to keep his larder full for dinner parties.

This show will make you hungry. You know it shouldn’t. You know, deep down, that is not beef he’s cooking… but gods damn Hannibal’s dinner parties look amazing. That twisted bastard knows how to cook, and how to plate.

Plus, you know, the protagonist (the one who isn’t an unfeeling psychopath likely to serve your lungs to his guests with just the perfect selection of side dishes and garnish) is being slowly broken from the inside out, so there’s that.

It’s actually kind of hard to believe it’s on a network. If this is what NBC lets them get away with, I don’t want to think about what they could do on HBO.

When did you give up/come back? Last summer I started falling behind on Hannibal. Honestly it was Will’s torments that did it. I was scared of what Hannibal was doing to Will, and chose sunnier climes for my TV entertainment for a while. But when season two started, and I started getting close to having episodes auto-delete from my PVR, I jumped back in, and it was worth it. While not much cheerier, for reasons I shan’t spoil, season two might even be better than season one.

True Detective

Meanwhile, HBO decides it shan’t be outdone for disturbing serial killer stories.

What’s it about? In 1995, freshly partnered Louisiana state police detectives Rustin Cohle and Marty Hart are called in on the murder of a woman found posed in a ritualistic manner. In 2012, an older, sadder Hart and the burnt-out yet still sharp Cohle tell the story of the investigation that followed to two other detectives, who have questions about newer, similar murders. Rumours of someone called the Yellow King and a place called Carcosa point to a larger, darker truth behind it all than the simple answer Cohle and Hart are expected to find.

Why do you like it? Because it is goddamn mesmerizing.

While Carcosa and the Yellow King are clear references to Lovecraft-precursor Robert W. Chambers’ The King in Yellow, this is not a story in which elder gods rise to consume the world. If you go in expecting aliens, gods, and monsters to appear, you’ll be disappointed. And yet it holds true to one aspect of The King in Yellow short stories and the works of H.P. Lovecraft they helped inspire: the idea of a protagonist driven mad by horrifying truths. They simply trade the cosmic horrors of Lovecraft and Chambers for staggering truths about how awful the world can be, and it’s clear from episode one that something about this case eventually broke Cohle in a way he’s yet to recover from in 2012.

At its heart, this is the story of the relationship between the nihilistic Rustin Cohle and the self-destructively hedonistic Martin Hart. The case connects them, divides them, and brings them back together years later as the new investigation unearths all they tried to leave behind. Along the way there are pulse-pounding chases and confrontations and a possible state-wide conspiracy, but it’s always truly about Cohle and Hart, and man they are worth watching. The series is anchored by a spellbinding performance by Matthew McConaughey, which is not a sentence I ever expected to say. Woody Harrelson more than holds his own as the less intellectual partner, constantly annoyed by Cohle’s pessimistic rants.

The writing is brilliant. The direction is amazing. They have one of the most impressive single-take long shots I’ve ever seen. It’s eight episodes, and while the second season is already green-lit, it will be a new story with new leads, so the first season is completely self-contained, with a firm end. And man does the final episode become more intense when you have no idea how it’s all going to end, or who will still be standing when it does.

If this doesn’t clean up at the Emmys this year, I would hope the voters have a hard time meeting their own gaze in the mirror.

What makes it grim? I mentioned the horrible truths about the world, right? Rustin Cohle sees a dark world infested with horrors, and it’s hard to not see his point, even beyond the crimes he and Hart uncover.

When did you give it up/come back? Never. I couldn’t stop. Once I started watching the show I needed it like a drug. It haunted my thoughts for over a month. Like the characters themselves, I may never truly leave Carcosa.

An old friend, Tim, once said he envied me my dreams. Particularly since he himself always seemed to be much cooler in my dreams than his. An example: in university I dreamed that people were being pulled one by one into a shadowy alternate Earth. Upon arriving, I tried to find Tim, only to see him driving a car for a bunch of gang members, already sporting a backwards cap, sunglasses, a blinged-out necklace, and a huge smile. “Well,” I thought, “He seems fine.”

For those who don’t know the Reverend, it should be noted that Tim, currently a minister for the United church and one of the most pleasant people you’ll ever talk to, couldn’t get further from “gangsta” with a map and a mission statement.

Still, based on that snippet of dream, Tim was convinced my dreams are awesome. Well… not always. Let’s take a tour of the good, the bad, and the weird things that rattle around in my head at night.

The bad

My dreams often wake me up in the middle of the night, and not just the bad ones. Admittedly it was a bad dream that woke me up the other night. I dreamt that a good friend was sick. Very sick. Sick enough to scare me into waking up.

Actually it took a couple of tries. First I just “woke up” into a different dream, and the same friend was next to me on the couch. “I dreamed you were sick!” I said, and she was all “Yeah, I am, actually,” and then I woke the rest of the way up. Nice try, subconscious, but no cigar. Well, except for the “waking me up in the middle of the night” thing.

I got back to sleep, but it was still a throwing dream. And when I have a dream like that (typically about something bad happening to my dad), I often want to check in with the person in question just to reassure myself it was only a dream and everything’s fine. But it is always a little awkward telling someone you had a dream about them. It’s even more awkward to tell them “I had a dream about you, and you were really sick, and it scared me a little.” And it probably goes without saying that “And your skin was smooth like polished marble” just makes it all much, much worse.

(Oh, relax. It wasn’t you. Probably.)

That’s what bad dreams are for me lately. Something bad happens to someone I care about. Sometimes it’s my fault, sometimes it isn’t, in any event I wake up rattled. Sometimes rattled enough that going back to sleep is clearly not an option. Once I had multiple nightmares that someone I cared about deeply was in great trouble, gave up on sleep, and decided to clear my head before work by catching up on Doctor Who. Which episode was next in the queue? The hotel full of nightmares. THANKS. BIG HELP.

It’s enough to make me miss the nightmares of my youth. What was weird is that when I was a kid, nightmares would rarely be scary while I was having them. Chased by a four-story Frankenstein monster? I was just angry that out of all the kids at the zoo it picked me to snatch up. Zombie Fraggles? I’d just do my best Hulk impression and hurl them out of the bed. Freddy–

Yes I had a recurring nightmare about zombie Fraggles. Yes, RECURRING. Want to fight about it?

Where was I. Freddy freaking Krueger? The dream itself was just deathly boring. The devil shows up because I made an ill-advised wish after a big win by the Justice League because I figured they were on a roll, and thought fighting the source of all evil might be a good idea? Well, having second thoughts about it now, but here he comes, so better get to punching. None of them scared me until I woke up, my face flushed, my heart pounding.

Except one.

When I was very young, there was a recurring nemesis to my dreams who could show up at any time, any place. Whatever the dream was about, I’d get hot, hear my heartbeat, and I’d know… he was here. He found me. And we had to run. Who was he? The Thing from Readalong.

Yes, Readalong. Yes, the kids’ show with the talking boot puppet that taught kids to read. Yes, the Thing was basically just a beaver that talked in growling sounds. When I was two or whatever, it was too scary to watch, scary enough to inspire nightmares. Like everything YOU were scared of before you started kindergarten makes sense.

Anyway, these days bad dreams aren’t typically the ones waking me up.

The Good

The fact is that while bad dreams can throw off my whole morning, good dreams are waking me up far more often. I think it comes down to a couple of things: my conscious mind’s resistance to good things happening, and my subconscious being a jerk.

Okay. This might get a bit gloomy for a paragraph or two, so here’s a baby numbat.

If a dream gets too happy I wake up right away, regardless of the time. If something good is happening to me in a dream, like, say, the TV series I’ve been pondering for years actually getting shot, it wakes me up like an air horn. It’s like my mind can’t wrap itself around something that good actually happening, realizes it’s all a dream, and rejects the dream by ending it. Seems like enough potentially good things in my life have turned out to be dead ends or traps (for example, the woman who comes to chat at the bar in Vegas is clearly a prostitute) that I jump right from “that would be amazing” to “where’s the catch,” and that reaction kills dreams dead.

But sometimes it is just my subconscious being a dick. It will wave some amazing place at me, some Shangri-La of good times, and then make it impossible to get there. Or in the dream I will know, for a fact, that I can fly, or shoot lightning, or something impressive, and then it won’t work. The dream will establish some manner in which I am awesome, and then turn it off. Oddly this doesn’t wake me up, it just turns everything into a battle of wills between me and the dream. I typically win, but this means I would not call myself a lucid dreamer. Lucid dreamers rarely talk about the dream fighting back.

The weird

But the oddest thing my subconscious has ever done to take back something good happened in junior high. Back then, in the late 80s, there was a game called Bubble Bobble. Those who know it, remember it fondly. Those who don’t, it was great and the premise isn’t important. The point is, I wanted Bubble Bobble to play at home, on my still cutting-edge original Nintendo. One night, in the summer of ’89, I dreamt that not only had I gotten Bubble Bobble, but I’d gotten an actual stand-up arcade game of Bubble Bobble. Even better than the Nintendo version.

“Oh man,” I said. “This is one of those dreams where I get what I want then lose it, isn’t it?”

“AND SO IT IS!” shouted a booming voice. “So let’s take it NOW!” At which point a tornado swept in, sucking away the game, the building, the surrounding countryside, and I woke up.

I am not making that up. Swear to god, this is what my brain does to me.

Even weirder? One night when I was a kid my dream went into a test pattern. A “Sorry, technical difficulties” test pattern. The dream ended and was replaced by a still image of my bedroom door with light peeking through the frame, and a voice or text crawl saying “Your dream will resume in a moment, please stand by.”

I have no idea where that came from, but years later I’d read a comic in which the main character is informed by Sandman (supposedly from the Neil Gaiman comic but dressed like the Justice Society member) that he’s blown his dream budget, and will now have to dream about seashores for the rest of the month. Made me wonder just a little.

Now, it’s far from terrible in my brain at night. Sometimes the dreams are fun. Sometimes I dream of an adventure that’s interesting enough to be worth remembering (as much as I can, dreams being difficult to hold in your memory), but not so fun that I mind waking up. I’ve gotten four scripts out of dreams, as we’ll learn when Danny G Writes Plays resumes.

And sometimes I dream that one of the whitest people I know is now the driver for a black gang in an alternate dimension, and having the time of his life. And at least he found that entertaining.

Okay. Buckle up. This isn’t going to be fast, easy, or fun. Wait–why would you read it if it weren’t fun… think, man, think… I know! More cute animals!

Day one

I arrived at the Sunridge depot just in time for my 10:00 start, as part of Wave 2. I found the desk of Lori, the staffing supervisor, where all the relief carriers waited for their assignments. Available routes were handed out based on seniority, so I got the second-last pick. My choices were 1458 and 1472. Maybe the story would have gone differently if I’d said 1458. Probably not. At least so I’m choosing to believe.

I had help: the woman who once walked this route… let’s call her “Claire…”* was sorting the bulk of the mail for me. So all I had to do was bundle up the mail that comes pre-sorted by computers (the sequenced mail, as it is known), sort through my parcels (any package too large to be sorted in with the rest of the mail or carried in the satchel, thus requiring separate delivery), get my van, load up and hit the road, right?

As I mentioned last time, the Tuesday after a long weekend is a notoriously heavy mail day. The mail doesn’t stop moving on weekends, it just piles up at the depots, so I essentially had four days’ worth of mail and parcels waiting for me. Six containers of sequenced mail–that means little to any of you, suffice to say it was at least twice as much as I’d see any other day that week, or ever before during peer training. Forty-four parcels, again nearly twice the number I’d seen on our busiest day in peer training. And that’s before the manual sort mail and the fliers got added to the pile.

I was handed two sets of keys by the supervisors, and told I’d need all of them. Her exact words. “You’ll need all of them.” Remember that, it’s going to be important. Also, one of the keys had been bent and twisted beyond any actual use.

It was 1:45 before I left the depot to start delivering. The route contained three “park and loops,” where you park your vehicle and walk a series of loops that start and end around where you parked, allowing you to reload your satchel now and then. The three loops filled a 30-square block area bordered by 10th Avenue NE, Centre Street (all businesses), 16th Avenue (more businesses), and Edmonton Trail. There were also daily pickups: a street letter box, or SLB in postie-speak, that had to be cleared no sooner than 5:00, and a daily pickup from Albern Coins and Foreign Exchange, which was to be done by 4:20. Often packages of coins being mailed out. In other words, heavy, heavy packages. Both of these pickups were on the far side of Centre Street from the bulk of the route, and thus meant moving my van across a major hub of traffic right during rush hour. Well thought-out, Canada Post. No points for you.

After putting some gas into the van, which is never supposed to have less than half a tank but was left nearly empty, I charged into my route. I hit the houses and apartments on Centre A Street, the supposed starting point, then the businesses on 16th Avenue. “Good start,” I thought, returning to the van to grab the mail for Centre Street. Only… only the sun looked a little low in the sky. Even for November. I quickly checked the time. It was already after 4:00 and I still hadn’t finished my first park-and-loop. I decided to hit Albern Coins right away: these scheduled pickups are an overwhelming portion of Canada Post’s revenue and thus are not to be missed, ever. So I moved my van closer, using a small parking lot across Centre Street, as I didn’t know about the parking lot behind Albern Coins. If I had, I could have avoided the narrow alley to the smaller lot and I wouldn’t have hit that pole and dented the passenger door of my van.

But I did. Great first day so far.

I hit a few businesses, including one mini-mall, sometimes sliding mail under the doors of already closed businesses. Around 5:30, I called the end-of-day supervisor to report that I was very clearly not going to finish my route by 6:00. She said to do my pickups and get back to the depot, as all incoming mail (including the Albern packages) has to be on a truck to the plant to be sorted and sent on its way by 6:15ish, so I got the van, fought my way through traffic to the SLB, grabbed the letters and made my way back to the depot. I met up with Lisa, the end-of-day supervisor and one of the genuinely nice people I’d met during this job and will actually miss (the others being my peer trainer Greg and his supervisor, Steve). She took a look at the vast piles of mail I had left, and recommended I at least try to deliver the parcels. She’d be there until nine, so I should head back out and deliver what I could.

I resolved to try and fly through the parcels then see what residential mail I could deliver before 8:45, when I figured I should head back to be at the depot for 9:00. I managed 33 out of 44 parcels, but that was it. Everything else got put right back in the depot. I clocked out at 9:30, 11 and a half hours after I started, and limped home. I also grabbed some food, since I hadn’t eaten since 9:00 that morning, never having had time for a meal break.

Day two

I didn’t sleep well that night. For every hour or two of sleep there was one hour of tossing and turning. When I dreamed, it was of the undelivered mail I feared was waiting for me. I slunk into the depot for 10:00, and was relieved to hear that the surplus mail had been sent out, leaving me with only the surplus parcels and the new day’s mail. And the sorting went much faster: I was on my way a full hour and a half earlier. Cause for optimism, I thought.

As another bonus, on day two one of the customers in my first 16th Avenue mall told me that there was a group mailbox, so I didn’t have to run from store to store so much. Turns out the other malls had group mailboxes as well. And I found the parking lot behind Albern, which was handy, for they had so many more packages going out that day. So, making good time, right? I hit the second park-and-loop with enthusiasm. Enthusiasm somewhat tempered by the fact that everyone I met on the route said it had been weeks if not months since there’d been a regular mail carrier on this route.

But the enthusiasm faded. The sun was hanging low again by the time I reached the van to reload for the second half. I sped around, delivering what parcels I could before 5:30, but it was again time to hit the SLB and get back. I was lucky, in a way: someone from my training class was on her first day, and brought her SLB letters back too late, meaning she had to drive them to the plant herself. But it was now almost 7:00 and I still had a fair amount of mail left. I’d done my fliers for the day, that was something.

On that note. If you want to really feel like an idiot, deliver a flier for Domino’s Pizza to a restaurant. Or to a rival pizza delivery place.

This time Lisa said I should just call it a night, and I was grateful for that, because I was already late for Reservoir Dogs rehearsal. I staggered in, half an hour late, aching all over, starving from not eating all day, half-dead from exhaustion, and did my best to work the day’s scene. During the run, I was mostly okay, but between runs hunger and exhaustion hit me like twin sledge hammers. At least I slept better that night.

Day three

The guy who’d delivered my surplus mail hadn’t had any keys, so he brought back everything that had been meant for an apartment building. I, too, had been having trouble with apartments: the two keys I had that looked like door keys didn’t work on any apartment buildings. On any doors I encountered, really. I mentioned this, showed that the bent and twisted key was now breaking, and was met with nothing but skepticism from the supervisors, who seemed confident I should be able to open any door I encountered.

But the other effect of the other guy not delivering to apartments is that his extra mail got lumped in with mine, leading the staffing supervisor to assume that I once again hadn’t delivered past the businesses on Centre. I was tired, sore, frustrated, and in no mood to open day three with a scolding, but there was no way around it. Lori made it clear that today I was to deliver everything, no matter what. She also found someone else to do my pickups, and to deliver about half of my parcels, so she managed to be my new worst enemy and best friend in one conversation.

With no need to be back at the depot to drop off outgoing mail by 6:15, my path was clear: deliver everything. Every letter, every parcel. My sorter helped by suggesting I take a more logical approach to the route than the assigned path and do all of the businesses first, instead of saving half of 16th Avenue for the end of the day. After all, residential mailboxes don’t close at 5:00. I got an even earlier start, out on the road before noon, no need to buy gas.

However.

At my first mall, I had some issues with my keys, then learned that one of the two keyrings I’d initially been given was missing. I called Lisa, drove back to the depot, got a replacement set, much to the chagrin of the daytime supervisor (also to the chagrin of me, who’d hoped to be done with businesses by the time Lisa started at 1:00), and headed back out. The sun began to set around the same place in the route, halfway through my second park-and-loop.

There is something inherently demoralizing about delivering mail in the dark. Watching the daylight fade, feeling how much mail you have on you, knowing how much is still waiting in the van. It also didn’t help that while using my phone as a flashlight to read addresses off envelopes I dropped my phone on the sidewalk, smashing the screen and leaving me phoneless with no time to deal with it until the weekend.

I tried to keep my spirits up. I thought of the words of Winston Churchill (or at least the version of Winston Churchill from Victory of The Daleks): KBO. Keep buggering on. My remaining door key did not work on a single apartment building, but despite the route taking some zigs and zags my training had told me it wouldn’t, resulting in me hitting a couple of blocks with fliers and then having to come back to give them their actual mail, I walked the whole route. I delivered every parcel. Well, okay, in some cases I just left the slip saying the parcel could be picked up the next day. And by 8:45 or so I was just dropping the slips off without knocking, figuring it was too late to be ringing doorbells with parcels anyway.

Yes, on day three I brought everything I hate about UPS to Canada Post. Not a proud hour.

I returned to the depot, mentioned the key issue, and was on my way home at 10:00. A full 12 hours with no pausing, no food, only one bottle of water to last me the whole day. I limped home, took some muscle relaxants I’d borrowed from Ben the night before, and managed one episode of the Blacklist before crawling into bed.

Day four

I barely slept again, so I was not off to a great start, but I did eat the healthiest breakfast/meal I’d eaten all week, so I felt good about that.

With no mail returned, I instead had to deal with scoldings about apartment buildings and claiming I didn’t have enough keys. It was only now, on day four, that Jackie the supervisor bothered to tell me that the two key rings I’d been given, saying “You will need all of these,” were actually duplicates. That the one key ring I’d taken out yesterday and assumed to not be enough in fact held all the keys I needed. At no point did she explain why she’d given me two sets without saying they were identical. At. No. Point.

I also took grief for claiming I couldn’t get into the apartment buildings. She asked, repeatedly and condescendingly, how hard I’d tried. I replied firmly that the key did not fit and telling me that it should have didn’t change that. After this ugly opening to the day, while I was wondering how to contact Ian to get video footage of the key not fucking working to review with Jackie and, if necessary, the union’s shop steward, Claire, while finishing the sort and tie-out of the mail, told me that there was a keyhole in the buzzer panels, and that was how to get into apartments.

Took her about five seconds. Five whole seconds to fix all of my problems with apartment buildings. Yet, simple as this was, at no point did either daytime supervisor or Lori think to look at the key I was claiming didn’t work and say “Oh, that’s the wrong key, there’s a keyhole in the buzzer panel, use that.”

At. No. Point.

Argh. Manatees, please.

So, as I start my fourth day, I’m already in a mood, but I remain determined. Only 15 parcels, up five from yesterday but six of them are right at the start of the route, the least sequenced mail I’ve seen all week. No key shenanigans, no driving back to the depot, no zigging and zagging on 10th Avenue, all easy. Yesterday I finished, today, I thought, today I finish on time. Every letter, every parcel, back by six. Seven at the latest.

I was back at the depot around 9:30. If anything, even later than the night before. On a traditionally slow mail day.

To say I was disheartened would be a dramatic understatement. I was crushed. The thought of having to deliver to this route for a second week was giving me anxiety attacks. All I’d had to eat since 9:30 in the morning was one apple I’d bought while delivering to a 7-11 that I’d munched on when the opportunity arose.

Inside I was screaming at myself to give it another week. Give myself time to improve. Keep at it, KBO, damn your eyes. I might even move to another depot on Monday and get to take a break from Jackie, Lori, and 1472. But, just so I knew… I asked Lisa how, if necessary, I would go about resigning.

She said, in gentle tones, that if I was going to resign, now would be better than mid-next week. I said that I felt I should at least try to get my time down from 12 hours to eight. She said I probably wouldn’t, that 20-year veterans were taking 10 hours to finish a route, and that it would actually get worse before it got better.

I was starving. I was exhausted. My shoulders, back, and legs were sore, nearly to the point of agony. My fingers were covered in tiny yet excruciating wounds. I’d worked 45 hours in four days. And I was being told this was as good as it was ever going to get. So I did the only thing that made sense. I turned in my ID card, satchel, work shirt and unopened headlamp, and left Canada Post behind.

Aftermath

In the harsh light of day I, of course, wondered if I’d done the right thing. It turns out I would have moved to Bowness the next week if I’d stayed on, but I have no guarantees that would have been better. As I said last time, I don’t like failing, and leaving after one week felt a lot like failing. But at rehearsal the next afternoon, our Nice Guy Eddie said the most reassuring thing I’ve heard: “You on Wednesday versus you today?… You made the right decision.”

It was a bad fit. That’s all there is to it. I can deal with 12 hour shifts, but five of them in a row? With no meal breaks? That’s too much. It’s just too much.

This was supposed to be a part-time day job to help pay the bills while some other projects come to fruition, something to support me while leaving evenings free for my passion projects, but instead it was turning into a job that would swallow my entire life, sucking up every available moment from Monday to Friday and leave no time or energy for anything else. I’m playing Mr. Pink in Reservoir Dogs. After that I’m directing a Doctor Who tribute play that ties into this month’s fiftieth anniversary. I’m launching a webseries next spring. I write this blog when I can. And I still write plays. And I am not prepared to give up all of those things so that I can spend my days delivering mail in the dark of night then arriving home just in time to eat something unhealthy but quick (there was no way I was ever going to have time or energy to cook) and crawl into bed in time to do it all again.

And that’s what it was becoming. Twelve hour days with no breaks to eat, buy better shoes, go to doctor’s appointments, book doctor’s appointments, let alone write, rehearse, or do any of the creative things that give my brief existence meaning. My stomach turned every time I drove past Centre and 16th. I wasn’t sleeping. I swore I could feel my health deteriorating. And on top of all of this, I was talked down to like a child and accused of being either lazy or incompetent because I didn’t magically know something they should have been explaining. And everything I heard said it wouldn’t get better.

I don’t feel great about quitting so fast. Not everyone has made it an easy choice to justify. But I’m getting less sore, my fingers are starting to heal, and it’s been three days since I last fell into deep despair because the sun was setting, so it’s a choice I stand by. There’s a job that’s right for me. Just need a little more time to find it.

Thanks for bearing with me on this, if you managed to do so. Next time I’ll get back to talking about old plays, then I’ll yell about pop culture and superheroes some more. That should be fun. Take us home, Calming Manatee.

*Name changed not to protect her identity, but because I honestly never caught it. I suck sometimes.

UPDATE:
A huge thank you to all the posties who have commented with thanks, reassurances, and horror stories of their own. If there’s one thing I’d like people to take away from all this it’s that you guys work extremely hard to perform an important service and don’t get the credit and respect you deserve. Stay strong out there.

Also, when I mentioned the few nice people I’d miss, I should have mentioned all of my classmates from training. It was good to know you guys. Hope you’re doing better than I did.

Hark now to the tale of my extremely short-lived career as a letter carrier for Canada Post. I’ll try to keep it entertaining, but if I sense it’s getting gloomy or bitter I’ll throw in some pictures of manatees and whatnot. Everybody loves manatees.

The hiring process

It began with me deciding that instead of fighting the legions of unemployed journalists for jobs in my actual field, I should seek out entry-level positions at companies that seemed worth working for. And so I came to apply as a part-time relief letter carrier for Canada Post.

I’m not sure they understand what “Part-time” means, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

The hiring process was lengthy, if not complicated. First step? General skills assessment test. Simple enough questions. Section one, same or different: look at two addresses, say if you think they’re the same or different. Section two, basic math: addition, subtraction, multiplication, light division. Section three, sortation: here’s a number/address, which range of numbers or addresses does it belong to? Section four, memorization: here’s four columns of addresses. Take a few minutes to learn them, and then recall which column each of these addresses belongs to.

The real challenge was the harsh time limits. Early sections only gave you five minutes to complete 25 questions, with points awarded based on number of right answers. That’s 12 seconds per question. I over-thought same/different, and multiplying a four digit number by a two digit number can take more than 12 seconds, so I didn’t finish either of those sections. However, I did well enough on the exam that by the end of the day I’d booked an interview for the following week. I nailed that, and was scheduled for phase three: a physical test and a road test. I passed both (the road test was a close call), and received an offer. A week or so later, I’d start training.

Postie school

Training breaks down like this. First is four days of learning how to sort and deliver mail, split between book learning and sortation practice. Also tutorials on how to use the PDT scanning devices that track delivery of parcels, registered mail, and fliers. Next, three days of peer training: follow a letter carrier through their day, see what it’s basically like. I helped deliver mail in Ranchlands, right around where my parents lived until not so long ago. Me and my trainer split the route, with me delivering to part and then watching him speed through the next. Maybe that’s what made it seem so doable: I was only delivering part of a route and got to empty mailboxes at the start. Didn’t seem so bad. We were usually done by two. Sure, we never paused for lunch, but having lunch at 2:30 instead of 12 isn’t so bad, right?

After three days of peer training come the exams. A written test, on which you need to score 75%, and a sort test. Sort 120 letters in ten minutes with 99% accuracy to pass.

Or so they said.

Turns out they just wanted to see an improvement in your speed over the week and solid accuracy. Accuracy being ultimately more important than speed, as taking 60 minutes to sort instead of 45 will cost you less time than making a bunch of mistakes and having to fix it while delivering. So only one person actually got all 120 letters sorted with 100% accuracy.

Damn skippy it was me. Clean as a whistle, sharp as a thistle, best in all Westminster, yeah!

The final day of training was defensive driving. Which was entirely common sense stuff. Also boring and forever taking.

That complete, we were now officially on the on-call list as relief letter carriers. Well, those who were left.

Bad omens

Our teacher had warned us, up front, that not everyone in the class would turn out to be cut out for this job. And she certainly wasn’t wrong. The first week was like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Each day we had at least one less person in the class. One person quit during a lunch break. I expected each lesson to start with an Oompa-Loompa song about our latest drop-out. Two left because they were sick, and if you miss even one day of training you have to start over, as you’ll miss too much. One left because she’d expected this to be more of a causal, part-time thing, a way to supplement her income from running her own business, and it clearly wasn’t going to be. One left because he intended to spend much of the winter in warmer climates and thus would have to re-do the training anyway. I never expected to join them: I’m good at sorting, I actually like sorting, and was hoping a more physical job would help me get into better shape. I thought I could handle it.

Late in week one a union rep came to talk to us about the postal workers union we’d have to join. That’s where the horror stories started. Canada Post management types were quick to mention benefits: pay grades, pension, vacation time, etc. Union officials always added a “for now” to any talk of benefits, as the contract is up for negotiation in a few years and the corporation is gunning for that pension plan. When I joined the union, horror stories continued: tales of supervisors out to “break” relief workers, refusing to file for overtime, late hours and hard work. I didn’t let them scare me. I wanted to believe I could handle this job. I don’t like failing, which is weird, because I have so much practice failing at job applications, weight loss, and talking to cute girls at parties that you’d think I’d greet failure as an old friend by now.

On top of all these warnings, I’d booked two job interviews during the training period. Even before day one of work, I was, on some level, looking for an exit strategy. But I remained hopeful. On Tuesday, November 12th, I would start delivering mail on my own.

The Tuesday after a long weekend. A day known to be a heavy mail day. I could have planned that better.

Look, we’re already over 1000 words on this thing and thinking about last week is still making me a little stress-queasy, so we’ll leave it there for now. Later tonight, or maybe tomorrow, we’ll jump into how it all went so very wrong.