Yeah I'll stand on guard for thee...all my shit's here anyway

Patriotism. What is it? What does it mean? Who gets it right? Where are my pants? All very valid and complicated questions. Also, these are questions I believe the masses should maybe invest a little more time in solving. For most, it seems to be a very simple and straightforward concept. They seem to grasp the ideal and run with it because they feel the have to. They raise flags, sing anthems, and pledge allegiances so as not to upset the apple cart. A fallacy methinks and a dangerous one at that.

Now, before I continue, let me just say that I am a very happy and content individual to have been born and bred in possibly one of the best countries on the planet. The atmosphere is pretty non-stressful, the people and their ideals are second to none, the weather is eclectic and character building, and the taxes, though steep, provide a very strong and responsible infrastructure for a healthy and tolerant existence. So overall, I'm very happy. Proud, not really. Incredibly lucky? You betcha. I'm lucky to have been born here. To be able to reside and grow here. But all the above perks of living in Canada had very little to do with me. Almost zero (taxes notwithstanding). So, how can I really be proud?

Pride, for me anyway, comes from a sense of personal accomplishment. If I created the first leopard print Snuggie or some sort of Giraffe turtleneck, then yes, I would be peacocking on a regular basis (and with good reason!). But to say I'm proud to be Canadian? No, sir. Sorry. Pride just isn't the right word. I'm happy that I'm Canadian. I most likely wouldn't want to be anything else when it comes to countries of origin. But pride has nothing to do with it. Luck and serendipity do. (Serendipity do! That's fun to say.)

Why do you have to automatically be proud of where you're from? Why do you have to represent without question? This blinds you from seeing the things that are wrong, need changing, and could make the place you're from so much better. The way some Canadians carry on about how they think Canadians should be as "patriotic" as Americans are baffles me. Why? What should they be so proud about? The decline of their country? The ignorant way their citizens are treated by their government? Being a powerful and influential country that fucks things up on the regular? Put the flags down, halt the parades, extinguish the fireworks, and make things better. That's true patriotism. If you love your country, help her out. I know people who's main sense of country pride lies in the sunny beaches and warm climate of their home country. Never mind that the children carry uzis and that the poverty rate is upwards of 80%. Hey we've got palm trees. Look at them! I'm wearing shorts in February!! What a paradise. Or places where the history is eons old. Just look at our old churches! Shame that our subtle racism is alienating almost half our population now. But churches look! Old ones!!

Come on people. What's with all of this misplaced pride and swagger? Is it overcompensation? Or maybe it's segregated societies needing something to feel overly good about. Let's try a little humility for a change. It's more fundamentally human and it definitely affects more positive changes. If you need to take pride in something, take pride in the pursuit of making the countries we love into what they can be. Let's take pride in the differences we've made and problems we've corrected not just because of our geographical station. That's my definition of patriotism. Where even the smallest contribution should be worthy of a flag wave or two. Let's show the world what great places we've made of our countries because we're happy and we care. Now that's true patriot love. That would be something to be proud of.

Good night, sweet squirrel...

(Coming home for Thanksgiving on Monday, I accidentally hit a squirrel while driving and ended his life. Regardless of all the road kill I have observed over the years, this was the first and only time I had contributed to the pavement graveyard. It's still affecting me. Therefore, this is a eulogy to the poor, unfortunate animal I sent off to rodent heaven.)

Dear Mordecai (this is what I named him),

I write this and you are gone. Please understand that it was never my intention to end your time on this plane of existence. Your life and being was just as important as mine and I believe that your stature and lack of understanding of large motor vehicles and the destruction they can cause was neither your fault nor your responsibility. I only wish you had thought better of dashing across Finch Avenue just as my car was proceeding eastward.

I can't say I know why you did this. I like to think that it was the actions of an animal who was at the end of his rope. I like to think that it was an intentional move spurred on by an unhappy life, maybe a tumultuous existence, or perhaps a depressing time of year (the holidays can be rough on us all). At least then I could envision that my unintentional snuffing out of your acorn gathering life was not so much a tragedy but a cure for your sadness. The fluffy tail sometimes does not tell the full story and although the sadness this scenario evokes is still very substantial, I might be able to come to terms with the fact that I might have helped in some small way. If this is the case I guess I can be happy that even though I warned you from the inside of my vehicle: "Fuck off squirrel. Don't do it idiot. Don't...don't...DON"T. AHHH you little fucker!", you still chose me to be your rescuer from the torment of life in the trees.

All this being said Mordecai, I wish you a peaceful, restful afterlife. May the place your little soul has been carried to be free from dogs and other strange and pointless predators. May the nuts flow like wine and the treetops be tall and branchy. May winter never come and summer never leave. And may the opportunity to run up to the side of any road, pause for a second, wait for a car to come along to kill you, run out underneath it's tires, make the driver a murderer, and end up the main ingredient in a redneck's thanksgiving stew, never appear. May your rolling carcass on the road continue the journey up to paradise.

I'm sorry my furry friend. Farewell and Goodbye.

P.S.

My car is now making a fucked up noise and I'm pretty sure it has something to do with your skull bouncing off my undercarriage you little bastard!

Mordecai the idiot
?-2010

A stream-of-(semi) conciousness...

(Just a point right off the bat. I'm going to just write for as long as I feel I want to with no fixing, editing, or spell checking. This may not be perfect, but it is my mind on your screen. By the way, I don't have a problem. This is merely an experiment and an isolated incident.)

As some of you mey know, I am working the night shift now and because of the hours my shift demands of me, I have no ther time to drink but in the morinings. And again, by drink , I mean, have a couple of beers. However, for the purpose of this piece I have imbibed four flagons of ale (a florgon!) and have decided to wirte to you in this state of mind with no edits or safety net. Here's what's on my mind right now.

I remember when subawy had two kinds of bread. Brown or white. Sounds racist to me but still. And now they have many . Some with cheese on it! My question is : What person still only chooses one of those two? If I go into a subway, I chose the bread that looks the least like bread. Oh yeah, the oregano cheese with chocolate icing one is the best!

You want to know the problem with over population is? Gravity! Seriously. Look at all the sky we have. It's a real estaters wet dream.

I'm not saying I do this but hads anyone checked to see if boogers have any nutritional value? If they do, dieting is going to get a whole lot more disgusting.

Today I used the terms "Riff-Raff" and "Ruffians: at two completely different times of the day. Aging is catching up with me. Or I need to go to better places. Keep thise whipper-snappewrs away.

We can make so many different things fly these days. Why not people? Why hasn't anyone even tried?

Seriously, Glee. Is it that good? I have no idea and I want to know. I feel totally out of the loop one this one.

I don';t like streak these days. It's weird. I know it's meat. But I'm not down. Is that wrong? Answer: yea.

I weant to learn siugn language but I think if I do, I'll just spend all my time looking for deaf people to impress them.

You don;t really have to walk a mile in someones shoes to know if the reason they're unhappy is because theyre shoes are uncomfortable. Just a couple of steps.

What the fuck is up with the letter Y in french>? It seems that the french alphabet is pretty much like our own and pretty understandable until you reach Y. Then you get EEGREKT! or whatever it is. Are they trying to be fancy and remind us that this is a completely different language just in case we forgot, or are they trying to make the anglophoines sound stupid. Either way, poutine is awesome.

How hard is it to end a convorsation when you're texting. it seems that anything anyone writes is repliable. And if you do end it it asounsds cold and mean. Then you have to pivk up the phone to make sure they arent' mad or offended. Weird time yo.

Is the plural of bluetooth, bluetooths or blueteeth? The red, squiggly line says it's blueteeth. Whatever it is use it when you're bicycling. But if you have more than one in your ears you';re a bag of douche.

I doin't trust dolphins. I am suspicious of any animal that gets along well with huans and isn't afraid of us. What are they hiding? Are we just a joke to them. Like "Hey Murray the Dolphin, I just had a dumbass human on my back when I was in Cancun. It's going to really surprise them when we take over eh?" The other dolphin replies, "Yeah it will Larry the Dolphin, I'm just watching and waiting." That shit goes for chimps too.

Why does no teapot pour prop-erly? Shit pisses me off. And makes me sound weird.

I gotta pee.

I'm bsack now. That was great.

I'm tired. Sleep now.

You guys. You are the guys.

Finally, some balance...

With all of the media today and the constant bombardment of opinion and "insight" we are routinely subjected to, it's extremely easy to be influenced by the impressively loud majority. They seem to have been able to make us think what they want and we feel there is no problem in doing or feeling that what they say is right. They're tactics are to inundate us, convince us, and then drive their points home by bludgeoning us over the head with a loop-like, repetitive dirge of their "facts" and expertise. Well I call bullshit. They are just a group of individuals who, by the way, very rarely know more about your opinions and leanings than you, another individual, do. I unfortunately have fallen victim to this sheep like mentality as I am, I lament, only human. Therefore, I am making a conscious effort to allow myself my own thoughts on things the pundits feel I should be only beholden to them on (weird sentence). So I made a list of my own beliefs, as trivial as they may be. Hey, get off my back. At least I made a list. What have you done?!

Overrated
Thinking Globally

Underrated
Acting Locally

Overrated
Paris Hilton
Underrated
Paris, Ontario

Overrated
Fluorescent Bulbs
Underrated
Turning off the Lights

Overrated
Diamonds
Underrated
Lou Diamond Phillips

Overrated
Die Hard
Underrated
Die Hard III (I'm gonna catch some shit for this one)

Overrated

Radiohead
Underrated
Radiohead

Overrated
Politics
Underrated
Reason

Overrated
Dane Cook
Underrated
Louis C.K.

Overrated
Jogging
Underrated
Walking

Overrated
Sex
Underrated
Sex with Another Person

Overrated
Twilight
Underrated
Reading anything, ANYTHING else

Overrated
Global Warming
Underrated
More Ice Cream

Overrated
Tropical Beaches
Underrated
Cottage Shorelines

Overrated
Weeds
Underrated
Smokin' dem shits

Overrated
Rap
Underrated
Hip Hop

Overrated
Lobster...
Underrated
...with Black Bean Sauce


I am finished. For now. As time passes, more things may lodge themselves in my craw-like craw. But for now, I leave you. Goodnight, and Good Luck.

I haz no wrds...

wen I wz n skul, my favorite subjec wz alwys eng. Math wz n gud, NE of d sciences didnt rly intRSt me, & of corS NE foreign lngwij corSz mAd me tres bored et tired (som shit stil stuck though). My most anticipated claS wz alwys d 1 n whch we rOt, rED, & 4 lack of a BetA wrd, celebrated d eng lngwij & aL of itz 1Drz. rEDN & writiN wer latched onto v earlE n my Lyf & I cn remMbR bn complEtlE smitN w d process & journey dat dEz two literary skiLz presntD. ther4, I dedicate DIS piece 2 d 404 lngwij & d 4gottn, BUTful vehicle of cmUnik8shn, b it verbal o visual, dat we hav aL Bin blessed n knON. @ lEst 4 a brief period.

It iz @ DIS tym I apologize. I do hav a point...

I sEmz dat n DIS prticulr tym period, 1 we hav Bin LckE Enuf 2 b existing n 2day, ppl hav btrayD our own lngwij 4 d qix & EZ form of txt spk. I, 4 1, cn undRstNd dat n d hustle & bustle of everyday Lyf, ppl hav tngz 2 sA & dey nEd 2 sA dem qix, w/o NE flourish o embellishment. It iz un4tuN8ly d way of d wrld & since weve aL decided 2 live Lyf n a huge goddamn hurry, ther iz nary a split-second unaccounted 4. evrtng iz condensed & L w/o fEln & mEng. & vowLZ? fuck vowLz! hu nEdz dem?

"Dammit! jst az I wz getin mo included!"

itz true dat evry lngwij goes Thru an evolution & somwot of a progression throughout history. I mean we dun spk n ye olde engish NEmor do we? bt doesnt progrS mean 4ward motion o an uphill ascension? Shouldn't our lngwijz bcum mo pleasing & dynamic insted of mo anoyN & EZ? o mAbE it shud bcum mo convenient. Im suR Tolstoy wshD it c%d hav Bin.

DIS iz a lng (_!_) buk!

It jst disappoints me 2 knO dat f tngz cArE on DIS way, DIS iz whr eng wiL eventually wind ^. jst tink how mind-numbingly anoyN it wz 2 rED DIS entire post. Imagine rEDN a whol buk lIk DIS (Twilight iz close) & magazines, o ads, o Miranda rghtz. wot wiL bcum of our mum Tongue?

We nEd 2 b a ltl mo vigilant wen it cumz 2 d tngz dat R important 2 us dEz dAz especalE. f we dun dey wiL b takN awA & we wiL jst lose cite of dem 4e. Imagine, f U wiL, d v thawt of grabbing a drink, sitN dwn & relaxing, & havN 2 rED DIS shit 4 200 pgz.

Literature.

wer aL faLN jst a bit t% fst & we nEd 2 slO dwn. We nEd 2 express ourselves propRlE az much az posebL so we dun bcum :)~ idiots hu dun evN Laff NEmor, we jst LOL. How we communicate iz an extremely important & identifying trait & nEdz 2 b protekD & revered. especalE swears. thOs R f'n motherfucking delicious 2 sA (& typ bitches!!!) letz git bak 2 our lngwij. letz wrte it, rED it, & luv it jst lIk we did bak wen we 1st LernD 2 do aL 3. I jst hOp we cn do it. othRwIz, tombstones wiL lose aL solemnity, d ABC wiL contaN symbols, & ppl lIk Ke$ha wiL L%k lIk geniuses. U hEr me ppl?!?!? GENIUSES!!!

1 luv

The first day of sick...

I'm not feeling well today. Nor yesterday. Even more nor the day before. Unintentional rhyming aside, it's uncanny. It's like as soon as Labour day comes and goes, I know there is about a week of me being ill (not the good hip-hop kind either). I know there are two times a year I get sick. Summerintofall and Winterintospring. Two times where I know to make sure I got crackers and ginger ale. This is my medicine. Luckily my place of employment allows for sick time. This is key because I just sleep. And sleep. And sleep. And slzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Sorry, dozed off again. I'm feeling a little more refreshed now but still struggling. This blowing wind seems to be aiming for my nose which has become some sort of faucet.

My nose. From Parker Brothers.

It is my favourite time of year however. I guess now that there is no school to go back to, Autumn makes for a very different season. The change in weather from patios to sweaters notwithstanding, the Fall is one of those blocks of months that I call a transition season. It is the bridge from effing hot to effing cold and is a huge reminder that there is beauty to behold even in the death of millions of living things. It is like a fantastic annual genocide that fills one's life with wonder and raking. Some people even make the changing of the foliage a road trip vacation and migrate to places far, far away just to see leaves that aren't green anymore.

Disneyworld.

In any event, the cold is now upon us. Coats are being brought out and long johns are being reinstated. I'm prepared, or will be once this bug has been slept away and drowned with Canada Dry. So bring on Thanksgiving, Halloween, and then yes, Christmas. I'm looking forward to it. The anticipation is electric. I can barely contain my excitzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

This is udderly depressing...

You know what sucks? I'll tell you what sucks. I think I'm becoming Lactose Intolerant. I just looked it up, and apparently it's possible.

The teats that rocks my insides.

Now this is not a for sure, but the very thought of it makes me angry. I'm very aware that as time progresses, more and more things may be taken away. I mean, there will come a time when each of us will become breathing intolerant. Regardless, this is my favourite food group. What am I gonna do without dairy. It just doesn't seem right. I can't put Rice Dream in my Tea. I can't have soy milk on my Fruity Pebbles. I'm not dippin Oreos into Lactaid. I won't! I refuse! Maybe I need a support group. I guess it's just black coffee at those meetings. Either way, for the first time in my life I have to pay special attention to what I ingest. Thanks loads body. And to think of all those times I made you drunk. There's gratitude for you.

Hand Sanitizer will save us all...

My Lord and Lady Jeezus, what a bunch of wusses we've all become. How paranoid and fearful is the human race today. What kind of cowardly, misguided, and especially and unequivocally neurotic species hath these days and times wrought?

Us. Except for the being dead part.

Now, I say this with great love and affection for the particular group of mammals I've been lucky enough to be born into. But, seriously, we're all getting a little strange.

I am of the age now (I just recently came to terms with) where I can take a significant look back and see just how different things are from when I was a wee lad. It's a lot easier to do so in this age of things changing on an almost daily basis. In a few years there may be infants actually longing for the good old days. One thing I remember was that there was really no HUGE problem with dirt and germs. Dirt wasn't exactly welcomed in the house or applied as some sort of cheap make-up substitute, but it was dirt. You get dirty, you washed (with plain old soap) and then you were clean, and ready to get dirty again.

Dirty, not Dirrrty. One R is fine thank you.

Same thing with germs. You would go to school, play with the kid with the cold, get the cold, stay home, get better, go back to school and play with the kid with the flu. These situations, while not particularly pleasant, were a part of growing up and made us stronger, building up a more powerful constitution to fight off future illnesses. They all served to strengthen the body, build character, and maybe even provide a modicum of mental toughness whereby we trusted our body to fight off the bugs as opposed to relying on the medicinal concoctions created by the ever trustworthy pharmaceutical corporations.

I like to be clean just as much as the next guy (unless the next guy is homeless. Then, decidedly more so.), but ever since we started going mad with this anti-bacterial craze, doesn't it seem like there are more and more super viruses out there? When I was growing up there was Cancer. That's it. Polio had been cured. Diabetes was somewhat under control and Penicillin was the shit.

Whassup now, Insulin?!

Now we got, West Nile, SARS, H1-N1, and even fucking Tuberculosis is coming back. Tuberculosis!!!! You know who one of the people who died from that was? Doc Holliday.

This guy. At this time.

How is it that the more insanely we worry and obsess about super clean and uber germ-free, the sicker we all seem to become? I guess it's another trend that will have us all in Haz-Mat suits before long.

I can understand that there is a lot of fear out there about illnesses and disease and it seems that everyone is sick in some way or another. But seriously, our lifestyles consist now of not touching anything and using more and more powerful, DAMAGING, substances to keep us pristine. It's a losing battle for no one is an island. And you know, it's probably better that way. Next time you're sick, stay home if you can and let the body work it's magic. Use orange juice and ginger ale as opposed to cough syrups and pills. And sleep. Rest. That's how you fight it off. Stop sanitizing so much. You're becoming weaker as a result. And I'm not a doctor. Just a very invested observer. I care therefore I rant. So shake a hand, tie a shoelace, and just once a day, grab the handle of the bathroom door as you leave. It may feel gross at the time, but that will lead to empowerment. I'm almost positive. And hey if I'm wrong, guess who's gettin' balloons for their hospital room? That's right slugger. You. From this guy.

Be well. And be sane.

"Precious Little," based on the idea that people are just far to happy with life and need two hours of depressing, soul sucking viewing by Sapphire

Another film I have been witness to over the past weekend was "Precious" based on the novel "Something" by Someone. Besides having possibly the most irritatingly pretentious and agonizingly unnecessary title in movie history, it was an incredibly harsh and terribly over the top depiction of the craptastic life lived by this poor, poor girl. Here's a brief synopsis:

Poverty stricken, illiterate, African-American teenage mother has worst life imaginable. Mariah Carey wears no make-up. Mo-nique (?) cries lots at the end. Nothing gets solved. I feel so depressed I want to vomit. Roll credits. Notice Oprah and Tyler Perry have executive producer roles. Actually vomit. Call my Mum.

I don't know why I watched this. When it came out, I wasn't necessarily inclined to watch it at all. I heard it was powerful, and I thought it might be a feel-good kind of film. I was wrong. I thought it might be something perhaps to be inspired by. I was wrong. I thought there might be some enlightening denouement and possibly some things about the human spirit that I could take with me. I was very wrong. Basically I watched an impressively overweight teenage girl from the ghetto get shit on for 120 minutes. Good times?

Between being impregnated (twice!) by her father, and being beaten and basically enslaved by her mother, this insanely mentally decimated child has no education, no contact with anything positive, and is forced to dream of a life lived as a famous model, singer, or actress. Okay, okay. I'm sold. How can I help her? Tell me, I'll do it. Just tell me! Why won't you tell me-he-hee?! Unfortunately, the film offers no answers. She ends up going to an alternative school, and it starts to look like Dangerous Minds but with no hope.

No Coolio either.

My only thought while watching this was "what are they trying to accomplish with this fictionalized, almost sensationalistic story disguised as entertainment?" I found absolutely no joy, no satisfaction, and no clue as to why somebody would even write this, let alone green-light it for a studio. I guess it sells and wins awards. I mean you got the Big O behind you and let's not forget Tyler Perry's Tyler Perry brought to you by Tyler Perry's hand prints on it as well.

Tyler Perry's Tyler Perry.

And why does the novel HAVE to be mentioned in the title. It's like "oh by the way, if you didn't want to blow your head off just from watching this movie, here's a plug for the book so you will definitely be left with no other option after reading." This movie was horrible during awards season. Every time it was discussed or announced, it took five minutes of embarrassing recitation just to say "is nominated."

Wow, I sound pretty grumpy don't I. I sound like someone who has no soul or is a little hard-hearted. I might sound like someone who just sat through this film and can't understand why things are so shitty for some people. I don't believe in anything anymore! Well, I do but it is now a struggle. Thank you Ope, Tyler Perry Tyler Perry, and Sapphire for extracting the good thoughts and replacing them with more helpful and meaningfully useful negativity. Guess you needed the trophies.

I will say this. The scene were she steals the bucket of chicken is great. But seriously, you can't catch a 300 pound girl with a bookbag and a 15 piece?! Your business is going to crumble.

Steroids.

Life is a little better than all this. At least for some. And I'm not saying that stories like this shouldn't be told, but not fictional ones. Document the ones that are similar and stimulate change. If you don't, it's just glorified snuff meant to make award givers feel guilty and that they owe you something. And Gabourey and Mo-nique (seriously I don't have time to Google. is this how her name is spelled?!), you killed it. I was very impressed. But Gabby, if you ever host SNL again...now I feel like crying again.

Who knew porn was that scary?

It's Friday night. The curtains are drawn and the angry rain outside provides an eerie soundtrack adding pathetic fallacy to any events forthcoming. A solitary light is on in the house but is situated in an area so far from ours that it is rendered almost redundant. There is a cold beer on a coaster and a hot girl on the couch. It's movie time. Scary movie time. On demand, what you got?

Actually, all of this happened on a Saturday afternoon. But the movie we were about to watch made the above atmosphere feel oh so real. I am a self confessed wuss when it comes to the horror films (you may notice their absence in my upcoming movie review posts henceforth to be called "Talkin' 'bout Talkies." Incidentally, stay tuned to my 17 part series about the Golden Age of Silent Cinema: "Mimin' 'bout Muties.") so the mere idea of viewing this film, a film I had tried very hard to ignore, held no appeal whatsoever. Baby Girl hit the menu, found the flick, and pressed the button. Ladies and Gentlemen, Paranormal Activity.

Ghosts. Pant-poopingly terrifying.

Now to be honest, when the lady decided (read demanded) that we watch this, I was a little anxious. We had just finished watching what we both agreed to be one of the better movies we had seen in some time (Youth in Revolt, fucking brilliant!), and to switch gears to something that different was a bit disconcerting. I mean 90 minutes of Michael Cera and then on to demons is like finishing a fantastic meal with the waiter kicking you in the balls. But after the pleas and the begging and then the usual threats of bodily violence, I benevolently gave in and watched her select this blockbusting scarefest and sat back to drink in the terror.

Well, 10 minutes in, the word "meh" became an internal mantra staving off perhaps thoughts and feelings of impending girlish screams sure to allow her full licence to confiscate my man card. It's actually quite funny, I'm sure, to watch a dude try to manifest swagger while laying on a couch.

No, not really.

That being said, day turned to night in this indie flick, and hands crept closer to face.

Let it be said that as a concept, this movie is extremely effective. It is very Blair Witchy in it's "Oh this is a true story (wink, wink)" and it did scare certain bejesuses out of me, but as a movie, it kind of fell flat. At least for me. I was too busy worrying about what was going to happen to dwell on the really scary thing: the acting. Well, I dwelled a little. Here we go.

The whole thing looks like a high-class porno. From the characters trying to act as if they are normal and yet smacking of more effort than that asshole kid in class who always has his hand up, to the framing and camera movements asking us to truly believe that people who are doing the things they are doing, and experiencing the things they are experiencing, have time and presence of mind to always pick up the damn camera and start turning over. I half expected the "demon" to be a wayward pizza delivery-boy who will come in for a nice glass of lemonade thank you very much. Even though he could lose his job.

Extra sausage.

Either way, the horrendous acting aside, and also the fact that as the movie went on (a movie she promptly fell asleep halfway through leaving me to fend for myself should some shit go down) you actually want to see some scary happenings because these characters are annoying as shit, the way that tension and the camera were being used, made me understand the trailer with all those movie goers being shocked and the terror on their faces. You stare at the screen...and stare...and stare...taking in every piece of the bedroom. Waiting for something to happen. Hoping for a little fright. Not understanding exactly what all the hype was abouUHHTHEDOORJUSTMOVED!!!!! What the fuck was that? I didn't see that comiUMMMITJUSTMOVEDBACK!!!!! This technique is very effective on people like me. Never before has a four inch movement of a door made me almost urinate. And then when she gets up and stares at the dude for HOURS!?!?!? That's effed yo. That is scary. I don't care who you are. When I move in with a girl now, damn her feelings, we're gonna seriously discuss my own room with a lock.

Overall, I'll be as truthful as possible. It's not really my type of film, but you have to respect the idea of it, and the fact that it can make powder footprints and the ominous flicking on and off of a light pretty terrifying. I am sure that it has little to no replay value but hey they got a another one coming out now. I hope she falls asleep during that one too. These movies murder my ego.




Hold me...

“My girlfriend’s dryer eats my buttons,” and other tales of temporary domesticity

For those who are married or currently just cohabiting with their significant other, the overall trepidation of the first period of living with your partner might be a bygone memory. It might be to a point right now that the thought of coming home to an empty dwelling or to a roommate that’s just a friend is so passe, it almost becomes a story of yore. Well, if that’s the case for you, allow me to take you back to maybe those first few weeks of domestic bliss. Those times when excitement of spending time with your special friend and building something together begins to wane and you try to mask the fear of immediately going from this…















To this…
















My relatively brand new relationship recently took a rather large step/risk. My new girlfriend’s cousin, whom she lives with, was going to Europe for 3 weeks and I was asked if perhaps I would like to stay there over that period of time. It wasn’t by any means on the same level or category of seriousness as marriage or having a baby, but considering this particular union was in it’s infancy, spending the first 1/3 of your companionship under the same roof with no buffer has two endings: the potential of movin’ in, or the necessity of movin’ on. Which one would this end with? I wasn’t really sure either.













This, also a possibility


So aside from the “can we get along for this prolonged chunk of time” contention, I failed, at first, to consider the details. Things like, she has no dishwasher. So every spoon, cup, and plate, if not cleaned almost immediately, is evidence and maybe a bit of foreboding, that I might be slobbish in future. Also, the dog needs to be taken care of in her absence. The cats need to be fed and litter cleaned. Because of the animals, vacuuming is required quite frequently, and absolutely, positively, NO CLOTHES ON THE FLOOR!

All of these tasks and minor considerations notwithstanding, the transition was remarkably smooth and issue free. I packed a bag, was given a key, and thus began the domestic bliss I was sure would fertilize this sapling of a romance into a strong, redwoodian trunk-like affiliation of affection. With a hopeful, excited air I strode into the domicile to begin the three weeks of stayin at my girlfriends. I had been away with girls before (granted, only for maximum 4 days straight) so I figured it was just those experiences times 5. No big deal. Plus, sex. Like, whenever. Seriously, whenever. That’s good things. What could possibly be tough about this?

Then I remembered the bathroom. The one bathroom. Call me immature, and yell at me to grow up, but I’m still not one hundred about using the bathroom after my girl does. Or, for that matter, having her use it after me. This was going to take some getting used to. But, after a while, I became more comfortable and accepting of the fact that she is in fact a human, and she can’t be sexy ALL the time. Okay, meaningless crisis number one sorted out and beaten. What’s next?














Her neighbour, Miguel, was excited about our progress also.


Well, misunderstandings abound. I was under the impression that this here deal was gonna be somewhat of a quasi-vacay for this guy. Limited responsibilities, new relationship perks on a daily basis and at a close proximity, and sex whenever. When-ever. But no. Baby girl had plans and jobs that needed to be done around the house. By the end of the stay, I had hung two sets of blinds, planted a garden in the backyard, cleaned and scrubbed her bbq, and shampooed her rugs. Then we would make dinner, have some drinks, smoke a joint, and pass out watching Intervention. This was some serious house playing.

Luckily, the potential of the two of us getting on each-others nerves was temporarily interrupted by a much needed and always awesome cottage weekend with the boys (as evidenced here). A perfect little comma in our domestic sentence. It was great timing too. Sometimes, tempers flared a little. Mostly mine.

For example, coming home from work one morning, I was expecting to be met in her backyard by her and the dog for a cigarette and an open door. Walking around to the back, they weren’t there. Okay fine, I would walk all the way around the complex to the front door and open it from there because she’s obviously still sleeping, I mean it’s 730 am. I get to the door, slide my key in and turn til it clicks. Placing my hand on the doorknob, I realize she had locked that from the inside making any entry into the house through that door impossible from the outside. Getting a little perturbed at this point. Tired, hungry, and sweaty. Where was she? I knock. No answer. I call. Voicemail. I knock again. No answer. I call again. Voicemail. I am about to turn my fist to prepare for some good ol’ door poundin’ as my temperature begins to spike, when she opens the door and smiles. I’m about to turn into dick-mode and demand to know why I had been made to wait, when I am smacked in the face by a familiar and delicious fragrance. My face softens and my anger cools down as I notice what is awaiting my return home…

















You can't stay mad at bacon


After that, I decided patience and some steady nerves was one way of making this work. I’d need to remember that this thing is not just about me, but that there is like a whole nother person involved. Look at that! Learnin’ stuff about makin’ things work all the time. Just tackling all these problems head on and for the most part, sorting them out and getting through them. Doin’ all right so far.














Miguel’s constant encouragement was essential.


All in all, the experience was enjoyable and fun, low-key and low-drama, and enlightening as well as educating. We both have a long way to go mind you. There was no fights about money or anything important. No kids and no real stresses to complicate our relationship. However, for a first kick at the domestic can, I’d say we passed with our sanity in tact and a stronger union as a result. I’ll still never understand why she has to wash clothes inside out but I’ll let it go for now. As long as breakfast is on the table!

And the flag comes off my back window...

Wow. I mean, I kinda struggled to start this post. I've began and erased and began again, mostly because I don't know really what to say. I'm still seriously affected by the unbelievable trouncing I just witnessed. I'm still reeling with disappointment and anger from the spectacle I had recently been privy to. I knew I would have to comment on it. That's what I do. Should I just let the fingers do the walking or should I plan out a calculated, fiery diatribe leaving no German unscathed. Maybe I could take it from a sporting aspect, or maybe a vicious rant about having instant replay in this tournament. My mind is a trailer park during a tornado. The winds of anger and sadness are wiping out barns of competent thought and displacing my cows of reason. However, amid this chaos I was able to attach myself to an underground water pipe and remain focused as the F5 swept past. My depression, fury, heartbreak, and disappointment, made it clear what I should write about...Why am I so affected?

For four years you wait. Well, if you're an England fan, for forty-four years you wait. You watch teams come and go, you get excited about the prospect of the Cup coming home, and you imagine, when all is said and done, that the captain holding the trophy aloft, perched atop a well-constructed podium with sparkly confetti being cannoned out into the atmosphere behind him, will have three lions on his jersey. An intensely goose-bumpy image to be sure. Alas, it never comes. Alack, not even at the Euro. Tournament after tournament, I open myself up for this unhappiness, and that's really the only thing I can count on at this point. Sad, no? Well, why do I still care so much?


I guess sometimes we have to allow ourselves a little slack when it comes to ultimately unimportant things and their affect on us. Would it be great for me to see all my favourite sports teams win championships and be considered the best in the world? Of course! Would I have had anything to do with it? Of course not! Is there a reason I'm yelling? Probably! These things would happen with me in front of the T.V. or not. It doesn't affect my life really but allowing some emotion to grab a hold of you in such a way is good I think. I guess it gives us a high apart from the mundane lives we lead. So I guess being affected isn't so bad. Caring about millionaires that don't necessarily care about you can have it's positives. And cheering for grown men playing a game can be beneficial to the soul. It must remind us that we're all human. And that it's okay to be moved by irrelevant things. It's almost like art in a way. So, I'm okay. I'm not overdoing it. I'm just really glad it's only every four years.

Smilers never lose, and frowners never win...apparently

I've been told recently that sometimes I can be a little negative, critical, harsh and negatively critically harsh. From time to time, my generalizations have been a little unfair, and that I possibly expect a little too much from humanity as it were. I tend to make comments about things that could be misconstrued as being embittered and maybe a little too judgmental. It's also been brought to my attention that I am in the habit of summing up people and situations at first glance and off of first impressions. All very potentially useful critiques of my personality and definitely some things that could give one pause. And now a look inward...

I admit, due to my relentlessly sarcastic nature, I tend to observe the world at large not just with my eyeballs, but with biting comments and scathing verbal editorials orated for the benefit of any people standing close-by. If only to keep my wit sharp and to amuse myself and others. I could stand to be a little nicer in that regard sure, but what is not understood is that it's extremely hard to keep quiet when there is so much material out there to comment on.

I am not, by any means, perfect, nor do I aspire to be. An impossible goal is the ultimate waste of time. It would be like me training to be a mailbox. And, I do not expect others to be perfect either, contrary to the comments I might make. My problem, and this could very well be a true sign of getting older, is that it becomes my only weapon against what I see as an incredible decline in the society on the whole. I need to let people and myself know that I'm not buying into this bullshit. The world needs a renaissance, and it needs it now.

I'm not going to get too heavy on this one. I know there are some of you out there who know where I'm coming from and might find yourselves in the same boat. I only wish I could be a complete live and let live kinda guy, but it's that kind of malaise that gets us to this point. Where is the art? Where is the discovery? Where is the cultural advances? Not that any of my random statements do much to change the world. I just know that as long as I make them, I'm not falling for it.

I know I should just go with the flow and my negativity does little to stem the flood of mediocrity our species has been enveloped by, but I just can't. We're better than this. Let's open a book (NOT TWILIGHT!!!), or see a play at Stratford, or write a story, or see the symphony, or take a walk, or eat at a different restaurant, or do this, or do that, or do fuckin anything!! Again I don't expect people to be perfect, I just expect them to be constantly driven to be better and always be hungry to be more. I am. And I would never ask of anyone what I wouldn't do myself.

So my negativity has a purpose, all be it a pretty weak one in effectiveness. However, it is my duty as a fellow human to point out the douchiness and stupidity of my brethren and sistren as we follow the path of existence together. It's a back-breaking, thankless, horrifying siege, but one I relish and accept with humility and hope. I would want others to do the same for me. So go forth my children and open your mouths with sharp and rapier witticisms. Make your snap judgments and sarcastic comments soar for those to learn from and better themselves. If anything it feeds our inferiority complexes. I'd do anything to be ignorant. Or have enough hair for a faux-hawk. It looks like fun.

It's good to be back...missed y'all!!

The reasons I pray for death's sweet ball-cupping...

Everybody gets irked from time to time. I am somebody who gets bothered quite a bit actually, perhaps even more than the average person. Is it because I am more sensitive than most? Maybe. Is it because I expect more from humanity than the "normal" person? Could be. But mostly, I think it might be because a small, secret part of me likes being annoyed from time to time. If only to have something to complain about and share with you good people.With that in mind, a list I say, of those little irritations that, unfortunately cannot be cured with a shot of penicillin.

-People who sneeze unnecessarily loud.

-The fact that, for some reason, people on motorcycles get to go WAY faster than us automobilists.

-Server's who gauge their final thank you's based on the tip they received after a quick peek.

-Painfully unfunny people who constantly joke.

-One-uppers.

-People who only like one kind of music.

-Bartenders who give you back $15 in change after ordering one beer hoping for a large tip.

-Anyone who claims to be a Dr. but uses their first name. (ie. Dr. Phil, Dr. Drew etc.)

-People who NEVER signal

-People who have no idea their breath is bad. You'll know them. They're the ones who stand the closest to you when they speak. And God help me, they will not take your gum, no matter how many times you subtly offer.

-People who talk to other people in a different language in front of you.

-People in zombie movies who board themselves up in a house rather than just walking past the bastards. You have like 5 shotguns idiot.

-People who read the menu at any fast food restaurant.

-Slow eaters

-The rapid growth of my nose hair since 30.

-People with hair who waste it by styling or cutting it stupidly.

-Anybody in an Eharmony commercial.

-The Italian soccer team. And fans of the Italian soccer team.

-Those days where you constantly think someone is calling your name.

-The 3 days in between burning your tongue and tasting again.

-The ridiculous amount of poker on TV.

-The Doctor who told me after I tore the ligaments in my ankle that I would have been better off breaking it. "Sorry to let you down Doc. I'll try harder next time."

-People who sleep in public. Creepy. Rob them. Unless they're homeless. Then there's no point.

-People who tell me to pull up my pants.

-Gauging the appropriate distance a person behind you has to be for you to either hold the door for them or just let it go.

-Being completely off on that and the feeling you get when they see you holding the door and have to do that half-assed jog to it. Thanks for the unwanted exercise asshole.

-People who point with their lips.

-Endless road construction, or highway shut downs that show NO change or difference whatsoever afterwards. I guess we just don't understand roads.

-Nickelback fans.

-Josh Groban's voice.

-Rob Thomas. That's it. Just him.

-J-Lo being called a triple threat when she is insanely mediocre at all three.

-George Carlin being dead.

-MLSE!!!!!

-Old Navy commercials. Every single one since the company started.

-The fact that cold air drops and doesn't rise. My room is boiling.

-Having to sleep away nice days.

-Sparkly vampires.

-Blueberries

-Showering with someone.

-Apartheid.

Wow I feel better. Thanks for letting me vent. You know what doesn't irritate me though? You. Yes, You. And if you liked this, don't you worry, they'll be another. BIG UPS AND I'M OUT!

My thumbs are buried...

So me and ma gurl have been frequenting the local moving pictures lately and have seen all manner of Hollywood fare guaranteed to entertain, enlighten, and dare I say, allow consumption of mass amounts of overpriced concessions before the previews have ended. We've embarked on the Kick-Ass journey and both believed it to be indeed kick-ass. We've viewed Date Night, on a date night, and the coincidence still tickles us. We've even seen Death at a Funeral which should be retitled: James Marsden on acid surrounded by sad black people. But the "film" I am going to tell you about right now is one that I can honestly say is the worst movie I have ever gone to the theatre to see, EVER. And I have seen Police Academy 6: City Under Siege. This movie is entitled: The Back-Up Plan. (Should be called The WACK-Up Plan. Yeeeah nice).

Let's begin the review of this J-Lo vehicle at the beginning. Oh and spoiler alert, I am going to seriously ruin this for you. Well, at least the first 34 minutes because that's all I actually saw. Besides, if you wanted to go see this, either read this or throw $12 directly into a Slap-Chop. Save yourself the gas money.

J-Lo needs a baby!!!! Apparently, she is a hideous dog-faced Latina with absolutely NO prospects at all?! Livin' in New York as all those sad incredibly hot spinsters do, bein' a great person, friend, aunt, and having a lot of integrity as well. See, she used to be high on the corporate ladder, an exec somewhere making large coin, but had an epiphany or some such and now she owns and operates her own Pet Shop. AWWWWWW!! You can totally see why she's single. Who the fuck wants that?! She also has a pet dog who gets around on a two-wheeled contraption because his back legs are useless. Much like this premise, ha-HA! The dog's name is scrappy, or rollie, or Stephen Hawking or something. Best character in this.

She's also got a sister who has like 146 kids or some shit, just running around in the scenes they're in, being complete bullshit children. As her sister is preparing a chicken for dinner, the bastards just grab it, raw and all, and book. This is just bad parenting. Anyhoo, Opening shot is of J-Lo's feet, in stirrups, getting basted by creepy doctor. She's lamenting on the fact that she hadn't had a pedicure before getting impregnated. This is where the script is taking us. A two second idea needing dialogue to fill 90 mins. I am hitting the keys very hard right now.

So she gets out of the clinic and hits the street. She sees a baby carriage and bends down to say "hi baby" and the woman pushing it yells "get away from me!" and goes on. Amen sister. The only laugh that escaped me. She's gotta go to her Pet Shop which is always empty. How does she afford any of this shit? But, yet she manages to get Cesar Milan in as a guest speaker a little later on. Completely makes sense. Blah, blah, blah, boring dialogue, stupid jokes, and now she is somewhere and has to get somewhere else, she's gotta catch a cab, so she does...

The Meet Cute. She gets in a cab, he gets in on the other side. Could happen. Instantly in love because their fighting over the cab sweetly and friendly instead of either cussing or backing out slowly (this IS New York). They both get out, he follows her to the Subway. Some stupid thing about picking up lucky pennies and it is now the next day. J-Lo and sister at the open air market looking at shit. She sees him at a stall. Makes sense in a city of about 8 million people. He is a dairy farmer who makes goat cheese. Of course he is. They flirt. He pursues her by finding her pet shop, they make a date.

Seconds before he is to arrive, she decides it's a good time to take the pregnancy test. As the doorbell rings and she realizes "Oh shit, right I made a date with creepy, goat teat pulling guy", she drops the test and the dog eats it. Ehh?...Ehh? That's good writing. So she goes on the date in a public park with a romantic table setting and wine and stupid, stupid conversation and ends up setting fire to it all. For real people! At her door they kiss and he invites her to spend the weekend up at his dairy farm. Of course he does. She says yes, walks into her house and discovers...GASP! The test smothered in her dog's puke reads positive!!!!!

So she goes to his farm, and they have a typical rom-com moment (sorry, bad rom-com moment). It's when she plucks up the nerve to tell him she's pregnant. "I have something to tell you." "Wait, before you do, let me show you something." He opens up his barn full of cheese, and there are candles lit everywhere like it's a romantic restaurant for fromage. Then they do it. In a barn full of cheese. Cool off ladies. Then ma gurl turns to me and reminds me why she's ma gurl, "This is fucking stupid do you want to go?" YYYYESH!! Went to Guest Services, said I had an emergency and had to go, got two free passes, and bounced. First and only movie I've ever walked out on. Went down to the lake and smoked a joint by Ontario Place. All in all a great night. Got to hang out with ma gurl and smoke a joint, and got something new to complain about. Not much else you can ask for.

More Suggestions and Confessions...

Wow. Been almost a month since I've laid some truth on y'all. But ima keep it real and again lay out some idears and relinquish some skeletons that have filled up my walk-in. Again do not judge, simply nod, agree and remember, we are all friends here. This is a safe place.

Suggestion-When receiving any award, the Victor must be obliged to thank Satan as well. God may have helped them win, but Satan fucked over the other four.

Confession-Drinking has gotten in the way of many things in my life, but never my drinking. If that happens, I'm gonna start huffin'.

Suggestion-I think sharks should eat and attack more people. We're already scared of them, why not make it worth our while.

Confession-My baloney has a first name...it's Murray.

Suggestion-Vans with no windows should be followed at all times

Confession-I had pink hightops in grade four. My mum made me get them because Chuck Taylor's were too expensive. Oh, the torment.

Suggestion-Beer should make you skinnier, not fatter. Rowdy, drunken, lanky people are much easier to throw out of an establishment.

Confession-I LOVE that gum that tastes like soap. All you people are haters.

Suggestion-Weed should be legal...that is all.

Confession-I hope any daughter I have will be a lesbian. Even if I have 5. All lesbians.

Suggestion-They should have a marathon where the slowest person wins just to see idiots drop after strolling for ten years.

Confession-I hate 3-D movies. If I'm not actually on Pandora, don't make think that I am. Damn you Cameron.

Suggestion-Get rid of the amber light in traffic lights altogether. Then invest in a brake company.

Confession-I'm getting to the age where I think a runny nose means I have Cancer. Seriously.

Suggestion-Any time a homeless person asks you for change, ask him to tell you a joke first. He'll probably know one or two. That way, he's earning the money, you're paying for a service, and you both end up laughing together at the end. How nice is that? Unless the joke is something like,

"Guess what me and a Bear in January have in common?"
"What's that Homeless Guy (giggling, waiting, here it comes)."
"We both haven't eaten in a fuckin' month!"
"Oh. Here's $20."

Then, not so nice.

Confession-My second favourite football team is the Detroit Lions. That may not mean much to a lot of you, but to those who know what that means, it speaks volumes.

Suggestions-Change the name of manslaughter to "oopsie!" Bring a little levity to the trial. I'd plead guilty to an oopsie. Shoulder shrug and all.

Confession-I used to think Hilary Clinton was hot. USED TO!!!!

Well, that was fun wasn't it kids? Have a good day at school and don't eat the smelly markers. They may smell like blueberries, but they taste like burning. Love ya.

Wow, productive Saturday. Feelin' sexy good.

Temperature: 14 Celsius
Mood: Focused man!
Shower Song: We Major by Kanye West and Nas

Gettin' shit done. How good does this feel right now. I am now typing on my new desk I just put together, and lovin' every minute of it. Got some other shit organized, got my laundry gwannin', did some much needed grooming (won't go into any more detail there), and sippin' an a icy cold beery beverage. I feel inspired, hopeful even. Here's a haiku:

beneath messes found,
I discover order sought,
my soul is clean now.

Bright and shiny day. Learned how to play Passenger Seat by Death Cab on my piano. Picked up the guitar for the first time in a while too. Can't play it well yet, so just repeatedly strummed the only chords I know over and over, but still, good times. Here's another haiku:

in spaces now cleansed,
the world seems to need a King,
I nominate me!

Gonna read a bit now, or download some music, or make some cd's, or maybe learn some more songs. Any of those things would continue this day in a very positive and much needed way. It's true what they say. When everything is cluttered, so is your mind. Things feel a little less chaotic now. One last haiku:

I understand now,
small things make the difference,
I'm getting more beer.

Enjoy your day. Sometimes things are good.

And just for fun...

...a little Beeahtles. My favourite George song.

Ages 0-9, you like Ringo because he's fun and goofy. Ages 10-16, you like Paul because he's melodic and literal. Ages 17-27, you like John because he's angry and anti-establishment. Ages 28-Death, you like George because he writes songs that are beyond everything. Amazing.

Redefining Real...or coming to terms...

Temperature: 9 Celsius
Mood: Confused
Shower Song: As Tears Go By by The Rolling Stones

For those of you that know me, or those who read this, you might notice that the word real, or various versions of the word, figures pretty prominently in my vocabulary and/or writing. It's a word or concept that I am on a continuous search for. It has, unfortunately, become a relentless struggle and arduous journey that I am sorry to say, I haven't reached the conclusion of. I have tried to see it in others, in certain situations, and in my own life, but to my great disappointment, I have yet to find it in anything more than fleeting periods. Believe me when I say, it has not been an easy journey, nor do I expect it to become any easier, but it is something that I cannot forsake. For anything to be of value to me, the realness must reveal itself. The problem occurs when one realizes that my interpretation of what is real and true, may not be someone else's. Their realness may contrast exactly with yours. This is what gives me headaches.

When you actually sit down and reflect on what matters to you, and seriously bring your value system into question, you would usually obtain some sort of definitive, uncompromising conclusion, that will steer you through the rest of your days. It's that moral compass you hear so much about and that soul you know you have. It allows us to maintain and come across some sort of identity and makes the word integrity make sense in a very real and personal way. Hey, I never really liked the Rolling Stones until I saw Gimme Shelter. When they were filmed getting into their hotel room, they flipped on the radio. You know who's songs they were listening to? Their own. How can you doubt the realness and integrity of a band when the one band's music they want to listen to, for pure enjoyment, was their's. That's real. That's what I'm talking about.

Effort in the face of indifference is putting on a show. Trying hard when it comes to things that matter, should not be of any consequence. Maintaining it, sure. But on the real, there shouldn't be anything of any purpose started or found without some sort of fate or serendipity. Look at your own life. I guarantee the things that have mattered the most or made the most impact, just happened. Relationships, careers, good luck, what have you. If it was something you felt was real, There was no effort involved in getting it off the ground. Keeping it there might have been a chore, but the genesis was pure and simple.

It's when these things that seem to fall in our lap and validate our entire concept of the realness we have been seeking, fall apart that we begin to maybe question or alter or views on what's real and what's not. If it started off perfectly, why does it end? Why is it troubled? Why can't my realness be achieved? Now do I have to rethink what matters to me and what I want? Maybe I expect too much and others might not be able to provide me with the realness I feel I deserve. Do I now have to settle for what is okay instead of my ultimate goal? We all think that at one time or another. But what does real mean to you?

It can be reached. You're not asking to much. There can be no way that your values and ideals can't be reciprocated and validated. You can't leave behind what you've strived to set out for yourself. Some may just take a little longer and require a little more patience. But what else really matters? Trusting your own judgment is very difficult sometimes. But if you've taken the time to really look and discover what you need and can't do without, it might make the time spent waiting, a little more manageable. Respect that. For real.

Playin' the role...

Temperature: 13 Celsius
Mood: Tired (sick and)
Shower Song: Maybe Tomorrow by The Jackson 5

So you like a girl. You think she likes you back. Or, you had a girl. It's done now. But, you didn't want it to be. But against your will, it is. Or you think that a girl might like you. If only she could see a certain part of you. So, in all cases, you try to create a persona and a behavior that is FAR from what is really going on in your head and consequently, FAR from who you really are at this particular time. Some would call it game. Some would call it swagger. No matter what people would call it, It all adds up to the same thing. It ain't you. Not you right now.

It's a very harrowing thing to realize that you are completely acting like someone you are not. Especially in the midst of your actions. Depending on the situation, you hype yourself up to act a certain way to get a result. But, that's the key. You have to get a result. The result you want. If the outcome falls short, or doesn't occur in the way you envisioned, not only are you frustrated and confused, you are ashamed of the way you allowed yourself to alter what you had worked so hard to define. Namely, yourself.

These moments. These changes brought about by bouts of sheer desperation, or perhaps, advice from those who care and want to help but cannot relate at THEIR particular time, can break someone and leave you completely torn and lost. It's probably the last resort. It's probably the easiest way. But without the happy ending, the futility is gargantuan. Even with the most successful denouement, it leaves you with a missing piece. Something fraudulent has happened. Something lacking realness. Something hollow and empty. Should it really be this way?

Everybody would definitely say no. It should be organic and nature should obviously take it's course. The person should like you for you and other such cliches. Just be yourself and things will work out. But who are you? In everyday life when things are fucking great, you know exactly who you are. And who you are is just fine, thanks. If it weren't, why would things be so good. You confirm your essence by how things around you are. If everything is wicked-awesome, guess what you are? And you ride that feeling and your definition is that you are gettin' it right. You got the secret. You know the game, and better yet, you're winning.

But then you start losing. Things start to change. What then?

It's when we lose, when we find ourselves without answers, without direction, and without a reason, that our test begins. We scramble and ingest advice and counsel from people who are in a completely different state than ours. Not because we want to, but because that's all we got, now that we don't trust ourselves and who we thought we were. The problem is that the only person that can figure it out, is you. You. That's it. All actions, all permutations of you, are an elaborate guise to achieve what is necessary at that particular time, when, in actuality, it's an incredibly unfulfilling siege that leaves you broken and fragmented.

The victory is attained when you come to terms with the fact that the only way to accomplish the happiness, the contentment, the result sought, is to trust yourself and your character. Think about who you are, and more importantly, who you want to be. It's in these times that we should be grateful that we are who we are. That we know the person we know. That we be the person we be. In good times, we think very little about who or what we are because things are working out. We just enjoy the fruits. It's in the worst of times, we become defined, we become whole, we recognize who we really are. We should grasp these opportunities, even though they suck, to rediscover ourselves and realize that no amount of posturing or disguising will bring any prolonged or substantial satisfaction. It only comes with our truth. And as frustrated and impatient as we may become, it is the only route to what we are really trying to accomplish. Nothing real is achieved from acting. And if it isn't real, it's not worth it.



*doesn't have anything to do with the narrative, but this song is ridiculous!

Manning up...and what it means.

Temperature: 11 Celsius
Mood: Embittered
Shower Song: Over by Drake

So first off, I work predominately with twentysomethings. Let's say from about 21 to about 26 year olds is the larger demographic in my work place. It's fun at times, it's frustrating at times, but mostly it's disappointing. Especially the guys. I won't include the women because, aged 20 or aged 80, I still have no fucking clue what they want or even attempt to understand them, although I will never stop trying. So let's look primarily at the new generation of "men" coming up right now.

Now I will admit that it really does not take a rocket scientist or even someone who has done a great deal of thinking to find employ at my job. Having no real ideas or thoughts is actually a prerequisite I think. I don't know how I slipped through. Must've been lucky I guess. Anyway, I was standing around with a few of them last night, and I was paying attention to their conversation. There were about four or five, commenting, laughing, opining, trying to get me involved. I watched and listened politely, and when it was my turn to shed some light on the topic at hand, I found no words. My natural body instinct was to smirk, act smug, and shake my head. The subject on the table was the size, shape, and girth of the female genitalia. Which is best, which is worst, and very graphic reasons why. Oh, and there were also three girls standing around us listening intently, maybe doing research, or perhaps waiting for validation.This is where we're heading y'all.

Now, that is not a topic I have never spoken of before. In fact I'm sure that I have gone into great detail with my friends or other colleagues who might have an opinion on this matter at one time or another. Oh yes, I remember when I had this discussion. When I was in grade 8! What has happened to the idea of growing up and being a man? And I don't mean the stereo-typical beer guzzling, football watching, truck driving Joe the media expects us to be. The stupid mouth-breathing, porn addicted, Nascar following idiots married to the wonderful, smart, but at the end of rope with him wife from every sitcom in the last fifty years. I'm talking about a man. Someone to aspire to be, and someone to be proud of becoming.

I struggle with this every day. I can almost hear any dude reading this yelling "GAY!" at me, and that's cool, whatever. If you did, just seriously take a long look at yourself son. Fix your shit. I'm not of course. Quite the opposite in fact. And I'm not going to apologize for trying to be better than what I'm expected to be. My problem is trying to come to terms with the fact that these people don't seem to have any problem with the way they are, and don't plan on changing any time soon. I'm looked at as the strange one. Well, I guess I am, and believe me, there were times I would get caught up and think that there was something wrong with me. Maybe I should
watch UFC and WWE. Maybe I should have sex with random girls and then brag about it to my friends. Maybe I should cheat on as many girlfriends as possible. Maybe I should start fights when I'm drunk. Where's my man points? Where is my testosterone? What's wrong with me?

I guess I realized that those are all things you do when you're a boy. Those are things you do when you're in High School. Those are things you leave behind when that final bell rings. Then begins the journey. Yeah I watched UFC and WWE. When I was 16. Yeah I had sex with random girls. When I was 17. Yeah I started fights when I was drunk. When I was 19. That's it. You go through shit and you move on. You try to better yourself with each lesson learned. These dudes still think wrestling is real and playing Xbox Live at 40 years old is acceptable. Put down the controller and pick up a woman. Stop chasing what you thought made you a man when you were a teenager and try to be the man your eventual kids would look up to and want to emulate.

So I guess my version of being the modern man is maybe a little softer than it was years and years ago. Maybe it's a little tamer and less dramatic than the boys today. But I'm done apologizing for it and thinking I got it wrong. Yo, I'll still throw down if necessary, I love a good dirty joke, and I fuckin' HATE any kind of shopping. I drink Scotch and play sports. I scratch myself, fish, and have gone a week without showering. But come on. In day to day conduct, there can't be anything better than being someone that can be depended on in every respect. Someone who takes care of their responsibilities. Someone who looks for something a little deeper and meaningful in another woman than the dimensions of her genitalia. Because once that's gone, you're still going to have to have something to talk about. So c'mon son ! Man Up! Maybe it's just me. And I'm not even saying I'm there yet, but I know where I'm trying to get to. I just wish someone could maybe point the way to them.