That Was Then, This is Then
Posted on | June 8, 2010
Lately my dreams have mostly been revolving about my past. Sitting in the backyard of my childhood, as an adult, with family.
Conversations with my mother about mundane things like, “Have you called your sister?”
“I will, Mom, I promise.”
Banal banter until I realize that she’s, in fact, dead; and we shouldn’t be having this conversation in the first place.
My adult self wandering about my grade school, looking for teachers that I thought were dead and thinking that everyone thinks I’m just a creepy old pedophile.
Not that my childhood was stellar, mind you. I was constantly berated, teased and calloused into submission. Add mocked and publicly humiliated and you have a full hand. The winner in the loser hand in the poker game of life.
Hell, someones gotta win, someones gotta lose.
Right?
About four weeks ago I bumped into my nemesis from grade school. This was the guy who got his goons to crawl behind me while he backed me up out of fear, only to topple me down. He recognized me and I wouldn’t have been able to pick him out of a police line up - but that didn’t matter. I didn’t even have the scars from the digs and prodding as residuals, it was just, plain, good to see him.
All the lessons in cruelty he taught me and I, as the grown up I’ve loath to become, (not that I loath myself, I just hate being a grown up) was just happy to reconnect.
He said something funny though. When a friend of his questioned who I was, I replied that he tortured me everyday. His response was, “No, I didn’t.”
I laughed, as I am wont to do in these kind of circumstances, and confirmed my story. He just stated, “I don’t remember those years. I’ve blocked them out.”
Isn’t it funny?
I remember, all of that childhood and for him it’s so different. I recall most of my formative years. Mostly public embarrassments but some of the good times as well.
I’d be hard pressed, mind you, with the proverbial auto-biography because I’m crap with dates and I’m sure that there must be some memories that are skewed.
Don’t we all do that?
God I hope so.
Playing the victim so well at times, I’m sure I’ve created some discrepancies which transformed me into a cholera orphan; living on the street and parent-less. But most of it is staggeringly clear.
Yes I was teased, pushed, punched, mocked (blah blah blah) but I’m not sure I’d trade it for anything. Now, that is, with time as a friend.
If I’d become the cool kid, in those formative years, I wouldn’t be who I am today. I don’t even blame the bullies. Not that the bullies shouldn’t be accountable but the breed that’s pushed out these days have become that different kind of monster of the facebook/youtube variety. They just didn’t exist in my generation.
They were the villain of the kinder, more civilized age. Gargamel, if you please.
The constant teasing (which was bad enough by the way) never crossed that line from villain to super villian - or maybe it did and I’m just not giving myself enough credit for surviving.
See?
There it is.
That damned orphan again.
All that matters is that I survived and I’m pretty, damned, grateful for who I am now.
And that’s gotta be good enough…
No, dammit, it IS good enough.
What Am I To Be?
Posted on | April 22, 2010
This is not who I thought I’d become. I really didn’t. Does any of our plans, when we were playing on the school grounds, ever come true?
I should be taller.
More hair.
Richer.
I have my dream house in the Hollywood Hills already planned out. Throwing my head back in witty banter with Angelina Jolie whilst we soak in my “forever pool” that looks like it bleeds into the Pacific.
Cosmopolitans for all my guests.
Watching George Clooney throw up by the avacado tree because he succumbed to one too many gin and tonics.
Ahhh, I can see it now. Mat Damon gabbing with Robert Downey Jr. about the trappings of fame. Terri Hatcher’s bikini strap falling off her shoulder, promising to expose her bodacious boobs. Oh and let’s not forget the Dalia Lama, in that crimson bed sheet of his bantering with Maya Angelou and Deepak Chopra.
All the while whispers of, “This is the best party. EVER!”
I’m not trying to dwell on all the negatives but I look at my life, and frankly, when I was a kid, this was not to be the current stream of my destiny.
It was supposed to be a life of fame. I should have already won my Oscar1 by now. I should be on the couches of all the talk shows, selling my wares like Kate Gosselin hawking her bowl movements on Ebay.
Reminiscing with Barbra Walters on what kind of tree I should be. Yakking it up with Jay Leno on my current film which, surely, would garner me my second Academy Award. Innuendo-ing with David Letterman on the perils of fame.
But it’s not all that bad.
I was at work a while ago, when up on the TV screen was “Entertainment Tonight Canada” and I asked that it be turned off. My supervisor asked why and my retort was, “I don’t want to see all those Canadians who’ve gotten their turn.”
He replied, “Look around you. Here you are a star.”
That blew me away. Just that little acknowledgment that I make a difference helped. Made me see life in a very different way.
I work with developmentally handicapped adults and while I get the proverbial nod of, “Oh you must be a very special person to work with them” (which I find condescending by the way) and a smile of kindness I look around me and I see those who find their happiness in what they don’t have.
And to make them laugh, listen to their problems, solve a small crisis.
That is important.
So maybe I’m not tall, not rich or famous. But the people I serve have taught me something even better.
Be happy with what you have.
Now how can I grow some hair?
- insert copyright logo here [↩]
I’d Write More But My ‘Thritis Is Actin’ Up
Posted on | April 18, 2010
I could start this with, “Oh my back. My aching back!”
Or how about, “That damned sciatica is throbbing. Must be rain on the way.”
No matter what it is, it’s not descriptive enough of those moments when you feel, “I’ve hit an oil patch and I’m just skidding towards the grave.” (Edwina Monsoon - Absolutely Fabulous). You know the second when your feet hit the floor in the morning and you realize gravity has not become a friend.
Not that it’s not counter-balanced for those days when you feel like your legs are wings and you’re floating around in a great mood and you feel ever so young.
The sun does that too me.
“Sun is shining, the weather is sweet
Make you want to move your dancing feet
To the rescue, here i am
Want you to know, y’all, where i stand”(Bob Marley - The Sun is Shining”)
But as all good things, the sun must go to bed like the rest of us and it’s in those moments when I feel slightly lower than before.
Well, not JUST because of the sun but also because of my neighbours who live one floor below me. Now don’t get me wrong, I know that it’s hard to live below someone. I’ve done it many times. Once I had a great little apartment with these fabulous hard wooden floors. Now they were wonderful until the woman who lived above me and might have had a crystal meth problem loved to wear her high heels from 1:00 am to 7:00 am.
It would drive me crazy. She never stopped! She’d walk from one room to the next, back and forth like an expectant father. Only this father presumably wore stiletto’s.
So I’m not at all without sympathy.
BUT (you knew it was coming didn’t you?) I get home late from work. I walk in my door, usually, at 11:15 pm and I’m not one to go to bed right away. I crank up the ol’ computer and talk to my man who lives in Spokane, WA. We web cam it.
Not that kind of web cam discussion mind you. I’m hesitant to show my dang’ly bits across the internet stratosphere because I’m convinced there’s some Asian whiz kid who’s managed to hack into my system and refuse to give them a show.
So we talk. Conversationally and not loud but they can hear the muffled conversations. Maybe I’ll turn on the television (at a very low level) and that, apparently bugs them too. It doesn’t matter that I’m in another room altogether. They can still hear it.
You’d think that the floor of my place was just floor beams and carpet!
Now I can hear them, they’re music, they’re conversation but because it’s before 11 it’s not an issue. Like I said, I’m not unsympathetic.
Then the pounding on their ceiling (which equates to my floor) began. Loud voices of, “Would you just shut up!” were seeping up from their apartment.
So I got quieter. And then quieter to the point of the inability to hear anything.
That’s when the “goop” as I like to call it started to appear on my door handle.
At first I thought it was just cooking oil. My first thought was that my first thought about them was right. Immature assholes. I’ve got to start listening to my “first impression” voice.
Then it became something that I’m convinced was flammable. So I called the land lord and now there’s a file on the situation but because there’s no proof that it was him, his name is but an addendum to the case. A possible perpetrator to the vandalism.
It’s been brutal but I think what bugs me the most is now I have to completely alter MY behaviour because of their intimidation.
Weeks and weeks ago I had bronchitis. Lots of coughing. Was nothing but fun and thrilling being woken up. Recognizing that it might disturb them I’d grab pillows and hack my way into oblivion. Then I’d move into the living room, sleeping on the couch.
But that wasn’t enough. They could still hear me. Not that it was concern out of my well being mind you but more about that they couldn’t sleep.
When they moved in it was out in the open that the walls and floors were thin. That sound traveled easier than a flight to Europe. And they accepted this.
I can hear them, they can hear me. But they seem to think that their rights superseded my own.
Oh and let’s not forget that they complain that I drop things. Like I somehow can control gravity.
It’s all a matter of perspective, of course. My friends think they’re psychotic and I’m sure what they’ve told their friends I’m just the drunken, old, pathetic fag who bugs them in the wee hours of the morning.
They’ve even talked about “retaliation” of the physical kind but that’s not me. So I write. THAT’S my retaliation. To purge the anger, to release the frustration.
The one saving grace is that they’re gone at the end of April.
My nervousness, though, comes from what happens when they move out all their stuff and have no concerns over this place. A simple match tossed over the shoulder when they leave is all it would take.
So, I’m counting down the days like a kid at Christmas time. To be able to have my alarm go off in the morning without pounding and screaming from beneath me. To be able to talk to my man without whispering. To being able to sleep in my own bed and get off the couch.
Ahhh, that’s just as good as the sun.
Ahhh, I’ll Do It Tomorrow
Posted on | April 5, 2010
The nature of my procrastination can only come from a place of genetics because there’s no explicable reason why my motto is, “Put off today what you can do next week!”
I mean, really, I have no idea as to the why I push things, events and essays away like rancid shrimp on serving tray. Even when I think I’m on the ball I end up scrambling at the last minute to get things done.
Bills are the worst. Even when I think I’m caught up with them I end up getting a phone call surprising me with the total amount still owed. I feel shamed and I just know they’re rolling their and thinking what a loser I am.
There HAS to be some explanation! I can’t possibly be as lazy or addle minded as might be perceived. I mean I feel like I’m constantly on the move.
Focus.
Yes, that horrible word that I’ve heard before all too many times1 has become the other “F” word in my life. I’ve looked into it and I’m pretty much convinced I’m not a victim of the oft prescribed A.D.D. That dreaded acronym that ends up defining you and seems to become the excuse of every lost thought.
I once dated a guy who was diagnosed with the “condition” -as he used to call it. Every unpaid bill that resulted in a disconnection of services came with a shaking of the head and a muffled curse, “Damned A.D.D.”
Could it be that medication is that all that’s required to get my lazy ass to write this damned assignment?
I’m not really selling my good points here, am I? If this was a dating service I’d be eternally single. The fat guy sitting in front of his computer eating Kraft Dinner and watching Star Trek: Voyager episodes on line.
Oh shit!
Forget that last part.
It’s the shiny stuff that grabs my attention. The easy way out. If it’s a choice between homework or watching a movie, movie wins most of the time. If I’m in a bar and there’s a video screen2 I’ll barely tune into the live conversation I’m having. It’s very frustrating for me and for the person I’m unintentionally ignoring.
“Yeah, no, that’s good.
“What do you mean it’s good? I just told you I lost my job!”
“No, I heard you. Go with the red one.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
(Pause, regaining eye contact) “I’m sorry, what? The scrolling on CNN. Fuckin’ Republicans. Now where were we?”
It’s not on purpose mind you. I’m sure it’s a disease or condition or even handicap. You pick the word, I just know it’s not my fault.
Well, not entirely.
I’d love to finish this but I have to ignore my homework some more and watch the news.
Men Behaving Badly - AKA - Bad Boyz
Posted on | March 29, 2010
What is it with famous men lately? I don’t get it, really I don’t. I mean, it’s not so much that they are screwing around on their wives; it’s that why do they think it’ll remain private and that the press won’t devour every lurid detail?
It’s the new “outing”. A coming out of the closet for heterosexuals.
So David Letterman had affairs with his interns.
So Tiger Woods grabbed multiple asses and gave a stiff1 and rehearsed apology stating that he thought he was deserving due to his fame.
And finally Jesse James who screwed around on “America’s Sweetheart” with women who just scream, ” Welcome to Syphilis-ville! POPULATION: YOU, ME AND FOUR HUNDRED AND TWELVE OTHERS”2
Is it really any of our business? Do we really have to know all the sordid details and hear the voice mail or read the published text messages? And it’s not just on the slime-ridden gossip shows where you expect to hear it. It’s pervaded the legitimate news, tucked in, neatly, between the Iraq war and America’s health care.
Shouldn’t it be between the couples, mud-stuck in the swamp, and their marriage?
So now not only does Sandra Bullock have to deal with a husband who, willingly, threw out his vows (whose love and fidelity she so unfailingly declared in public multiple times); she has to deal with the media galloping through every crumpled bit of minutia to cement her total and complete humiliation. Embarrassing to say the least. Do you think she’s thinking, “Uh-oh, me dumb.”
What about the Senator from the states lie about hiking in the woods but secretly going off to Argentina to bang his “soul mate” leaving his wife to sit slack-jawed in front of CNN, hearing the revelations as we hear it. John Edwards who, while his wife was battling cancer, decided to have an affair, then sire a child - AND THEN LIE ABOUT IT, only to come clean at the end.
How can they think they won’t get caught? Do they believe the media and the public are that stupid? We’re just looking for the next story to distract us from wars, pestilence and disease and all the bad stuff that gets us paranoid about taking the subway or sitting on public toilets. Swine flu pandemic, anyone?
I’m sure that there are those who welcome the latest snafu of high powered celebrities who take the focus off their problems and potential fuck-ups. I wonder if Justin Timberlake is wiping the sweat from his brow and heaving a sigh of relief, “Another day and no gay rumours. Go get ‘em Tiger!”
You just want to scream at them, “DON’T TEXT MESSAGE! THAT SHIT WILL COME BACK TO HAUNT YOU!”
Remember the good ol’ days with Oliver North and his shredding of documents? Makes you hearken back to a simpler time.
I guess what really confuses me are the Women who are practically falling over themselves to billboard, “I slept with a married man too!” Now in David Letterman’s case, the Scarlet Woman tried her best to keep it silent and have an air of privacy but those who bedded Tiger and Jesse seemed almost proud to be one of many. It’s almost like a “Twilight-Robert Pattinson” fan club of tweens who can’t wait to form a club to show their devotion to hormonal teenage vampires.
“You like red licorice?? I like red licorice. Let’s be friends!”
There was even one mistress of Tiger Woods’ who said she came forward because she thought she was the only Woman. Well, the only Woman OTHER than his wife. (Insert shaking of head and incredulity.)
Aren’t they at least, remotely, ashamed of being the other woman, knowing full well they’re destroying a marriage?
Was it Monica Lewinsky who gave them the pride of being the other woman?
And on Monica Lewinsky, she may not have saved text messages or emails but why did she save that dress with Bill’s sperm on it? Did she think, “One day I’ll get this dry cleaned and be the BEST Bride’s Maid?” or was it more that she thought, “A HA! EVIDENCE!”
I still think she played the innocent when she was in full faculty of her plotting. I can’t help but imagine she was working for the Republicans.
After that whole debacle, she managed to get a multi-million book deal. Are these new, up-and-coming-harlots thinking the same thing?
Piece of advice, Ladies. Before you can write a book, Honey, you have to be able to READ one!
It’s almost as if they almost wear their cheating prowess’s as a badge of honour. Welcome to the new pride parade. All these women (and some men) walking down cordoned off streets waving flags of deep purple and shouting, “Hell no! We won’t go! Oh, you’re with Entertainment Tonight? My left profile is better. Wait, the lighting isn’t right.”
Does anyone really want to read the story of Michelle “Bombshell” McGee and how Jesse got together to destroy a marriage?
I’m more scared that it would be a pop-up book that could take out an eye. Well that and that I might need a penicillin shot and a shower with a good scrubbing after reading it.3
Though I heard that Playgirl offered Jesse James half a million dollars to pose naked. And, yes, I’d buy that copy. But only because I’m a curious gay male who happens to think he’s HOT! (And I hear he’s got a huge cock!)
And now it’s being rumoured that he’s got more than the Bombshell notched on his bed post. That there are possibly three others and that he was having unsafe sex with them.
Can you even begin to think what is going through the newly crowned Oscar winner’s mind? I’m sure it’s, “Time for a blood test.”
Why are we making hero’s out of people who, a hundred years ago, would have been stoned to death?
And it’s not just the Women in the centre of these minor-distracting-mini-dramas who bear the brunt of this blame. It’s, rightfully and equally, these husbands.
Maybe it’s just these men who can’t seem to get enough power-tripping. Or maybe it’s that they’re so insecure about WHY they’re in the positions of money and influence that drives them to it. Either way, they’re asses.
So to Hillary Clinton, Regina Lasko, Elin Woods, and Sandra Bullock. I’m sorry that some men seem to just think with their dicks. But I’m even more sorry that the public has the need and salivating, disgusting, desire to ravish every part of your personal lives.
I’d say be strong and burn your bra but mostly I think you should just kick them in the nuts.
They won’t want to fuck around after that.
- apparently not the first “stiffy” he gave to a plethora of super-model-wanna-bees [↩]
- I just shake my head at that one. But I don’t have a penchant for overly tattooed Women with big tits. [↩]
- is it just me or do you think that penicillin is very close to the word penis? [↩]
Anger Management
Posted on | March 24, 2010
What do you do when you’re pissed off at someone? When you are there in their lives, helping them plot and scheme-only to find out you’ve been plotted and schemed against and then, only to find out you’re the constant minor character in their drama, how do you break out of type-casting?
Is it: SCOUNDREL in A SCOUNDREL PRODUCTION directed by SCOUNDREL produced by SCOUNDREL in association with SCOUNDREL FILMS…
?
We are always someone’s minor character. The Nurse1, who is pivotal to the creation of the climax but not essential, comes to mind.
Or how about the extra, sword in hand, who delivers the proverbial, “What ho!”?
My life has always been about the top billing but what if I’m not actually the name-above-title?
I’m the side-kick. I’m the three lines-or-less. I’m the face that graces the camera for .02 seconds while we focus in on the lead.
It’s hard not to see yourself as essential, as mandatory a player in everyone’s drama.
I think I’m far more important than I actually am.
I think therefore I am.
I think.
No, actually, sometimes I just don’t think.
Which brings me back to the title of this piece. Why do I get so angry when I’m not considered? When a phone call isn’t returned or a gesture, brought on by kindness, isn’t reciprocated? Why, oh why, do I think I’m more important than I actually am?
I guess it boils down to: IT’S MY DRAMA, PEOPLE! SMARTEN UP!
Letting go of your ego, every once in a while, is more important than you may think. Releasing that need of top billing may be just what is necessary to remind you that you’re not the star of the picture. Oh sure, we all may want to be Keifer Sutherland in “24″ but we’re actually just the guy in the red shirt who gets killed off in the first act of Star Trek. And, frankly, there are far too many to mention. William Shatner aside, we ain’t the star!
Just stop; pause, and remember that you’re not the lead in everyone’s life. You, just, might be the comic foil!
That, in-and-of-itself, is humbling. We can’t always be the star.
But we can sure as hell try to steal the scene.
FADE TO BLACK
- in Romeo and Juliet [↩]
The Speed of “huh?”
Posted on | March 17, 2010
I’m tired.
Exhaustion is just the surface of what I’m feeling. I’ve been delving into homework and I can’t focus anymore. Research is melting into personal life, into minutia, and I’m somewhat overwhelmed.
How much is too much? How much is not enough?
I should have listened to my Mother and gone and done that University thing when I was younger because at my current age, my attention span, or care for that matter has gone-done the toilet.
I research. I study. I plan. I plot. I acquiesce. All for naught.
Still feeling like the slow, fat, kid in class, I struggle with concepts of what the teachers want. I try my best but there are things that I just don’t get.
I hate school. It sucks. I feel like I’m back in high school and I’m trembling at the next test. Why is school harder than life? When I was in the education system I worried about acne, being popular and getting good grades.
Ummmm, not much has changed.
I’m 42 years of age and I’m worried about THE SAME THINGS!
Today I found out that my work situation is changing and not that I didn’t think it was going to happen but when it was announced I became sullen.
I’m losing my current supervisor. And not that the one taking his place isn’t FANTASTIC and the PERFECT person to lead but I hate change.
You see, my current supervisor is - AMAZING1. Understanding and the person to say all the right things. He has that rare ability to criticize while making you feel like you’re the most awesome employee in all the world.
I’m going to hate losing him.
Why am I so resistant to change? To letting go and not embracing the new? It’s very frustrating.
Today I opened up about my hesitations and he said the right thing. How can I function without that? What if the new supervisor (whom I love) doesn’t have that same balance of making me feel small while, at the same time, make me feel like I’m the most valuable employee who ever existed?
I just hate change.
Four months ago I saw a psychic. I know, I know LaToya Jackson’s Psychic Friends aside - WHY OH WHY WOULD I LISTEN TO A PSYCHIC? But she predicted this. That he was the first to go in a line of people who I couldn’t imagine not being there. Even the people who drive me nuts the most and make so insecure about my abilities I’ve come to rely on.
His leaving is like losing a part of my family. It just aches.
I’m the type who relies on consistency and while I don’t mind the occasional hiccup, I resent the big ones.
My supervisor will never read this because he doesn’t follow this blog2 but I want it to be known that if it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t be where I am now.
However, because of my constant blubbering and gushing here and fro - he knows how I feel.
I’ll miss him. I’ll miss that sense of camaraderie. That sense that I can fuck? up and it’ll be OK.
But on to the future. You’ve led me down different paths and I’ve recovered.
I’m sure I will this time.
A Life Worth Living
Posted on | March 6, 2010
Has it really been since December 13, 2009 since I’ve contributed to this child? I feel like a neglectful parent. You know, the kind that Children’s Aid has to come in because I’ve gone out clubbing1 and left them alone with a bag of Oreo’s in the play pen.
Writing hasn’t been coming easy to me. There are a plethora of thoughts running around in this ever aging brain but getting the energy to put keyboard to hard-drive has been waning. Though I have written and there are thoughts banging about like lottery balls in my “publish” queue, it’s finding the right words to send out to the troposphere of internet writing that’s left me dangling.
The days of public bowel movement scrutiny has become far more conservative. Not like my politics, mind you.
Work is still taking up 37.5 hours of my week2 and school takes up 8 hours of physical time. But it’s the homework that bogs me down. Like I said last time, the reading is so dry that I tend to start and then fall asleep.
I have to commend my teachers though. Very passionate about the subject at hand but more importantly doing their best to pass on that desire to us students. I have one teacher whom I admire very much. Strong, tough and a great sense of humour. You can feel the passion ooze out of her like curry from your pores after a great Indian meal.
Doesn’t make it any easier though when you get back a test that you thought you nailed only to discover that you’re not as smart as you thought you were.
(I choke as I type this) Being middle aged3 the memory recall for these tests doesn’t come as easily as when I was in my 20’s. I’m in a class room with children young enough to be my, well, children. I forget that question 4 doesn’t equal answer D because I think that situation Q could equate situation Z but add in the perceptions of situation B, and I’m lost. And, then, I get my test back and there’s a tiny stuttering of the heart beat. My lateral grin fades south and small lines form around the corner of my mouth.
Though my essays, while they can drag on, are putting me in the A+ category. I spoke to the teacher about that. She said that some people get their grades from the essay’s and some from the tests. I told her I didn’t care about them.
“Sorry to be selfish darling, but it’s ME ME ME!”
(Edwina Monsoon, “Absolutely Fabulous”)
And it’s made me damned competitive. I got back a report with a 45 out of 504 and my peer got 43. There was a slight smugness that took over my personality for a while and I tried to explain my higher mark. Then in another class I got 22 out of 255 and she got 23. I actually sat there moping. Wondering where she got that extra point and I didn’t.
Life after Rufus6 is far more empty than I thought it would be. Though the walking him through wind, sleet and snow does have its charm, it’s the loss of that wagging tail, tongue hanging out with dollops of drool, that really hits me. A friend of mine bought me a new couch as Rufus had destroyed the other one with his salted paws and dog hair but somehow that same hair has made its way to the new sofa. He was so unlike me: Hair STILL after death. Mine left me in the 80’s.
I think it’s Madonna’s fault. The more popular she became, the more my follicles sprang from hair line. Damn Madonna. It’s all her fault. “Lucky Star” my ass!
Speaking of celebs and our continuing fascination with them…John Mayer finally, after all this begging and pleading, stopped. Thank you, John. Now just, please, stop recording and live in obscurity. Hell, after his Rolling Stone, or Playboy,7 interview where he compared his penis8 to a KKK member (only liking white women) and saying that Jessica Simpson was like crack-cocaine in the bedroom9 he vowed that he would stay silent.
Then he tweeted that he would be silent.
That’s not silence, John.
I’m grateful that the tweeting craze seems to be at an end. And I think it’s because all of the legitimate companies and news organizations started on the bandwagon. It’s kind of like when your Mom says about the music your playing, “Oh I love that song.” Makes you hate the song REAL quick.
The one thing I’m truly grateful for, forgetting about John Mayer’s sudden silence, is the coming home party of the sun. It’s been in the southern hemisphere for far too long and it’s on it’s way back to the place it belongs. With all due respect to our South of the Meridian citizens, fuck you. I need the sun. This winter, while - for Toronto, has been the mildest I can remember, the lack of its presence has made me grumbly and out-of-sorts.
The days are becoming longer. It’s 17:00 hours here and it’s still up with no signs of going down. I love these days. I’m the type that, even though I’ll go to bed at 04:00, I sill keep the blind open so that the sun can land on my face. Vitamin D rocks!
I think it’ll be the summer when it’s hardest not to have Rufus. I’d spend hours walking with him in the park. Playing fetch and scratching his belly whilst my ass is sitting on the greenest patch of grass. I’ve thought about getting another dog but right now it feels as if it would just be to replace him. Not to have a companion for the right reasons but for the selfish ones. I’m not prepared to do that.
I will confess though: I see a puppy and I actually lactate. Not kidding you. You’d think I had a uterus, milk actually seeps from my nipples.
Too much information? Sorry.
I’ll try to keep the public masturbation down to a minimum.
- not seal, mind you [↩]
- more like 45 though [↩]
- cough, cough, hack, hack [↩]
- not bad, if I do say so myself [↩]
- again, not bad [↩]
- A.R. as I like to call it [↩]
- far too many choices if you ask me [↩]
- yes you read that right [↩]
- I’m trying to gouge the image out my eyes at the thought [↩]
Waiting For My Rocket To Come
Posted on | December 13, 2009
I was chatting, as I am wont to do, on another chat home.
It was a nice chat and that person on the other end of the internet spectrum suggested that I should continue to write on my blog. That’s it’s been far too long. And while I can’t disagree with them there’s far too many distractions that come with life to keep me occupied. And also, what the hell do I say?
But, alas, I’m here. Now. I’ll do my best.
There is a condition prevalent to us Northerners when winter comes. There’s a depression that communally sets in like patrons at a Starbucks all wanting the same grande mocha latte with a dusting of chocolate at the same time.
Winter.
I watched, with sad dispatch, the leaves committing mass suicide, leaping from branches as if it were the Great Depression and they were a banker who jumped from the 13th floor leaving behind a family of six kids.
I’ll be blunt.
Winter depresses the fuck out of me.
It’s not the white, fluffy, snow. That’s beautiful. It’s not the crisp nights when you can see your breath dancing in front of you, fogging up your glasses. That’s refreshing. It’s the fact that the sun has abandoned us.
“Good day sunlight
I’d like to say how truly bright you are
You don’t know me
But I know you, see you’re my favourite star.”
Jason Mraz “Who Needs Shelter”
There has been so much going on and so little inspiration of how to write about it that I’ve been lacking, once again, in my blog updates.
There are a multitude of reasons.
I still can’t get into my blog the way I used to. It’s my damned computer. It’s not recognizing the program which made drunken blogs so damned easy. Hmmmm, maybe that’s a good thing? I can think of ONE who’s glad the nights of spirited induced paragraphs are a thing of the past.
Or are they? Stay tuned!
It’s also been because the feedback has been waning. Not putting it to you, the readers, that it’s somehow your responsibility but the days of just writing for myself have long past. I was starting to feel like my voice was in a vacuum. That I was just blurbing for myself. And I’m FAR too needy a man for that.
So I’ve gone back to school.
It’s been humbling, tough, and invigorating at the same time. Walking into the institution for the first time I was struck how much like high school it was. There were lockers and really hot guys. And that they are of age makes it all the better. I don’t feel so much like a predator because, hell, they’re over 18 and fair bait. But there I am, clutching my binder like a grade 9 girl, feeling lost and insecure.
The goal is to be in the top ten of my class. It’s not working out like I wanted but maybe I’m in the top 20 so I can live with that. 90’s in one class but 70’s in the other. Like I said - humbling.
Doing work full time and going to school one day a week isn’t tough. It’s the bloody homework. Reading articles that if they just put in a car chase or unrequited love story, would make it far more interesting. It’s so dry I’m begging for a protagonist I don’t want to fall asleep too.
It’s good that I don’t have Rufus1 anymore because spare time is a luxury. Sunday’s2 are my day for fluffing, folding, and myself.
But I keep re-chanting, over and over like a Buddhist with his mantra, “It’s for my future…it’s for my future…it’s for…” You get the idea.
I was accused, however, at a certain place - which I can’t mention because of legalities - of abuse and racism. That killed me. I’m dealing with people now who are out to get me. It’s tough and hard not to feel paranoid about the situation.
Of course, and I’m loathe to say this, it’s someone who’s Black. It was almost a situation of having to parade my non-white friends to show this jury that, no, I’m not, indeed, racist. But isn’t that racism in and of itself? “Hey! Non-white friend, could you say you like me. Oh it’s because you’re NOT white that I need you.” That’s so racist.
And the abuse part? Well I was exonerated, completely, but it’s a moot point when people have a perception of you that doesn’t actually exist other than in their minds. So it’s become a wee bit of a Witch hunt of late. Misdemeanors that should be over looked are now being scrupulously examined like a coroner on a Jane Doe.
It’s a tough environment to be in. Watching what you say constantly is a harsh reality. But if you want to float in the pool you have to make nice. Smile, nod and don’t get involved.
That’s been a hit of a huge magnitude. But I now just keep my tongue wrapped up in the roof of my mouth and say nothing. Even when those who are accusing are breaking rules and being lazy.
Bitter?
Sorry.
I’m trying to keep this light and lightly informative. But it’s hard when you feel like you’re spinning your wheels, doing your best and there are digs that puncture the surface.
What’s that song? “Counting Your Blessings”? Yeah, that Bing Crosby song, from “White Christmas”. I’m trying to remember that.
When life hands you lemons you make lemonade. Only I like add Vodka. Makes it go down smoother and after 10 glasses you forget why you’re pissed off.
I also had to let go another friend who I thought it could work but it’s not going to. He’s an ex3 that just shut down and right now I don’t have the time or the patience. But I also recognize that it’s me. I have amazing friends who love me and keep me in the loop. He never will. So why bother? It’s been years. I’m sure he would say I didn’t try but again perception. I just got tired of promises made that were never fulfilled.
He told me the shoe wouldn’t drop and he dropped it.
Fear, I guess.
So I cut the umbilical. Let him breathe on his own.
“What about taking this empty cup and filling it up
with a little bit more of innocence.
I haven’t had enough
It’s probably because when you’re young
It’s okay to be easily ignored.
I’d like to believe it was all about love for a child.”
Jason Mraz “Love For The Child”
Okay back to the light, Scoundrel.
Life isn’t bad. I have someone who makes me feel special, loved in that way that makes you gooey. I have a job that, for the most part, I enjoy. I have friends who make me a king.
So what’s the bitching about?
I don’t know. I guess I find that easier to write about. Maybe that’s why I write. To purge the demons and help remind me that my life is pretty, damned, sweet.
So why do I want to run away? Why do I want to abandon what I have here and just start over? A freshly washed blackboard with no echos of chalk graffiti? No innuendo or rumour or even history that defines me?
Grass is greener, Scoundrel. Grass is greener.
More wine. Yup, that’s what the doctor ordered.
White, thank you.
Oh, shit. Was that racist?
Stressball Millionaire
Posted on | November 3, 2009
You know those emails you get? You know, the ones that tell you - “You may worry about money but he can’t afford a roof over his head,” and then you see some poor man with no shoes and you think two things.
1- “Wow, I’m so lucky”
2- “Lucky bastard. He doesn’t have to pay taxes.”
In the same breath that I’m not complaining, I have a list that’s four paper towel sheets long - plotted against perforated holes that tear when needed.
Point of view is something that I’ve been writing ?about ?since this whole birth began.
It’s what makes us justify our moves, our motives and our path in life.
I think this…therefore, I say that.
I do this…therefore I think you shouldn’t.
It’s all very confusing.
So I’m going back to school and working my full time job. Now granted, school is only one day a week but it’s like living expenses. It’s not the rent that kills me it’s the buying of toilet paper, laundry detergent and the like that wheedles away at the funds.
I’m at that point that where you don’t feel you have enough time. Time to fulfill all of your goals. Assignment here, test there, it picks at you like bird on the Ganges and you’re left exhausted.
But you plug through. Isn’t that life? I’ve often said life is crap with intermittent bouts of joy.
I hold on to that next bout of joy that comes barrelling down the path.
So I hold on to that possiblity. That joy that you just can’t recognize.
Did I mention that I have a man who loves me? Hell, he wrote a song for me. Friends who love me? Family who loves me?
No. I didn’t. And that’s what I have to hang on. And hanging on, I am.
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