Archive for the ‘Life’ Category

Watch yer gramma

Posted: June 20, 2010 in humor, Life, writing
6

I don’t know why but it tickles the hell out of me when someone gets all ornery and persnickety about something and then fires off all cannons, like so:

Well did another day of hoop jumping.
I know for a fact that Rogers are stupid, have no COMMON cents!
This is no lie. Common cents is not a fact in there line of work.

“Rogers” refers to our local internet/cable/wireless company.  It’s big and it therefore often becomes the righteous target of many customers.  I recently had my own troubles with the company, involving several hours of phone conversation with someone who was desperately trying to help me.   In looking online for comparable stories, I stumbled upon the story belonging to the above-quoted gentleman.

As frustrated as I was, the above outburst of irony made me bust out in a massive grin.  The pinball game of his rage is flashing “tilt”.

You can’t vent your rightful wrath on someone if you don’t at least take the time to make sure you’re being coherent.  I know this, from a few times when I found myself attempting to verbally smite someone with my anger, only to fumble my words.   The resulting chorus of giggles left me undone.

Also, the irony of his second sentence left me howling.   Rogers doesn’t barter in cents.  They do it in dollars, thankyouverymuch.  Lots and lots of dollars.   And there’s nothing a damned bit common about their greed.  Those of us who cheerfully buy their services are complicit in their larcenous billing schemes.   So I guess our ugly customer’s last sentence is technically correct.   Common cents truly is not a factor in their line of work.  (One has to take a deep breath and make the grand leap that he meant “their” and not “there” – unless one is otherwise willing to twist one’s brain into contortions, in order to glean some sense of meaning.)

Oh, and the subject of his rant is singular, not plural.  “Rogers” is the company name, and it’s one company, not two.   Therefore,  “Rogers is (a) stupid (company)” would be better.  Best bet though is: “the people who answer phones at Rogers are stupid”.  Though I would respectfully disagree.  You can’t call someone stupid when you yourself write something at least as visually stupid as you purport your subject to be.

Credibility’s trousers are puddling around his ankles, having lost the belt of thought.

Anyone familiar with the Microsoft Outlook email program at their workplace might be familiar with a feature that allows you to claw back a message sent in error.  Sometimes, it’s done because it went to the wrong group, or because it contains errant information.   Or because it was too emotional, or contained grammatical errors.

Here’s the thing though:  the recipient has the choice of ignoring the clawback request until after he’s read the original message.   The evil sadists in our organization (raising hand) often will opt to read the hapless sender’s original email first.  Just because it’s fun.

It’s always better to proof-read one’s email/post first.   Spell-check utilities are great to use too but, let’s face it – a spell-checker wouldn’t have picked up a damned thing in that quote at the top, would it?  Every misplaced ironic word is spelt correctly.

(Don’t worry, I checked:  “spelt” and “spelled” are both correct, and can be used interchangeably.  That one bugged me for quite a while, until I finally took the time to research it.)

(You’re welcome.)

Simple errors can be forgiven, usually.  Certainly here on WordPress, I don’t go looking for errors.  God knows I’ve made enough of them myself.  I’m a forgiving guy.  Usually.   Except when corporations, newspapers and incensed letter-writers don’t take the time to proof-read their stuff.   If you’re trying to make a hard point, you’ve GOT to take the time to make sure you don’t distract from that point with the hilarious misuse of words.

And now, my reply to him:

“You might want to jump through a few more hoops, junior.  Rogers are not stupid.  The company is uncaring and hapless maybe.   The cents they gather are entirely for themselves, and so therefore aren’t common.   So perhaps you’re right, there.   I’m having trouble parsing how currency equates to a line of work though.  (Your last sentence).  Did you mean to say “their line of work”?  I hope so.  Otherwise I’ll be up all night trying to decipher your meaning.”

No doubt he’ll get all angry at me.   I hope so.  I’d love to read what he has to say this time.

*waiting with breathless grinning anticipation*

Oh wait – this little sketch kind of makes things a bit clearer:

UPDATE #1

He responded:

Royu ewtri , yhte shldn’tou etl peaepl ohw t’nca lleps no eth ten.
Ylno fi yeht aveh a dferunstnading of eht ngelshi langage.
Nda era wide awake.

If you don’t feel like trying to figure it out, the gist of it is:  “you shouldn’t be critical of a person for whom English is not their first language.  Or wasn’t wide awake at the time.”

Uh huh.  Looking for the sympathy factor.

My response:

“That’s cute. It doesn’t matter if English is a first or eightieth language. In fact, none of this matters to me at all, really.  Just stating the facts, dude – if you don’t want to get laughed at, make sure you’re making sense (not cents).

Don’t call anyone “stupid” if you’re not using the right words – it’s way too ironic and people (not just me) are going to just laugh.”

iPad

Posted: June 15, 2010 in ADHD, Life
Tags: , ,
20

Ever since Steve Jobs started talking about the iPad (well, even before that) I have drooled for that thing. 

Consequently, the Life Priority List changed, just a bit:

1. Food
1. a) iPad
2. Clothing
3. Shelter
4. Transportation

Last Friday I walked into Future Shop.  Can’t remember why.  But I saw a big iPad display sitting there, all shiny and sparkling.  And it wasn’t even real.  It was cardboard.

I wiped my face, and turned to the nearest sales guy.  “So.  You have any 64 GB 3G iPads in stock?”

“I don’t think so.  Let me check.”

He checked.

“No.  But we should be getting in some more tomorrow.  Apples sends its shipments to us every so often and tomorrow they’re scheduled to send us another one.”

“Oh.”

“I can take your name and number and send you a text if they arrive.   What do you think?”

Still disappointed, I said “sure” – and gave him the details.

The next morning I was downtown having breakfast and suddenly had a thought.  There are a bunch of Future Shops around town, and they have a great website where you can specify what you’re after, and it’ll let you know which stores have it in stock.  I quickly did the deed and found one store in Toronto that had one.  So I paid the bill and off I went.

The Apple girl was cute.  That’s the first thing I noticed.  And she was excited.  Not about me, of course – just my business. 

(The business about buying an iPad. Geeze.)

When I told her what I wanted, her bright smile disappeared behind a disappointed frown.  “Oh I’m sorry.  I think we’re all out.”

I said “OK” and turned to go.

“Wait.   Let me check with one of the Future Shop guys.  Just to be sure.”

I shrugged, and waited, while Jeremy (I think that’s what his name was) grabbed a key to the storeroom.

A minute or two later he came out.  “Here.  It’s the last one.”

And there it was, too.  A 64 GB 3G iPad.  Top of the line.

I felt like a 1950’s guy, all happy about his Mercury. 

Or that father in “A Christmas Story” – all excited about his new prize:  a leg lamp.

Or like Ralph from the same movie, with his Red Ryder BB gun.

Truly, the iPad was a thing of wonder.  A brand new technology, and there it was, sitting in my hands.  I remembered how so many people at work knew I wanted one.  Every day since it came on the market, they’d asked if I had one yet.

And now I did.

Unfortunately I couldn’t go right home until several hours later, so asked if I could set it up right there.  They said “sure”.

Later that afternoon, when I was at the ADHD workshop, I took it out and flipped it on so that I could take notes.   When someone several rows back gasped “it’s an iPad”,  I smiled, knowingly.

I took it to work with me yesterday, and showed it off to everyone.  Even people I didn’t know came up to watch as I demoed some of the cool apps on the thing. 

There was one thing I hadn’t counted on though.  One little detail in the experience that just never occurred to me.

Paranoia.

It’s not like my e-book reader, which I didn’t mind leaving out on my desk.

This puppy is *expensive*.  Also, it’s cool.  There was no way I was going to leave it sitting around. 

Hence, like a little puppy, it follows me everywhere. 

Losing it or having it stolen (which is the same thing) would suck so bad.  Almost as bad as losing my iPhone.

Last week I went to the movies, and at one point had to leave to use the washroom.  For some strange stupid reason I decided to check my email.  (Yes, *before* I actually did my business).  Instead of sticking it back in my pocket, I left my iPhone on top of the TP dispenser.  I remembered thinking “better make sure I put it back in my pocket before I leave”.

I finished up (all the while distracted by a host of different thoughts) and washed and went back to the movie.  There was some pretty cool music playing and I wanted to use one of the iPhone apps to “listen” to it, so that it could tell me the name of the song and the artist.  I reached into my pocket and……..

I jumped up and made a mad dash for the washroom.  There were dozens of people between me and the place, all just getting out of another movie.  I ran into the washroom and opened the door and….there it was.  Right where I left it.

Heart thumping hard, I walked back to the theatre, grateful and shaken.

So maybe you can understand that there’s some residual angst around owning these things.

I picture some Buddhist master grabbing the iPad from my hands and intoning “son, you don’t own this.   It owns you.”

And I picture myself grabbing it back and saying “yeah, fuck you, Master.”

Still.   It is a thing of beauty.  Isn’t it?

…..preciiiiousssss….

Extrovert Epiphany

Posted: June 14, 2010 in ADHD, Life
14

Isn’t it amazing how mistaken a person can be?

I never thought I could be so wrong about something.  I’m not sure why any of it matters, really – except that it does.  Probably because I’ve believed an untruth for such a long time.  Learning the truth has been the equivalent of me learning that the sun is really the moon and the moon really is just a big plate in the sky.

It all stems from a comment one of my favourite bloggers wrote on the last blog.

contoveros (a.k.a. Michael J.) wrote: 

“You an introvert? 
Nah.  Not the way you write!
You got extrovert written all over you.
Nice guy, but no introvert.”

I disagreed with him.  Told him why he was wrong.  Told him why I’m an introvert.

Learned the truth over the weekend.  The resulting mind-rush has left me a little messed up.

Let’s start with what “they” (whoever they are) say about introvert and extrovert personalities.  

A psychiatrist who was speaking at an ADHD conference on the weekend said something like this:

“An introvert speaks from the head; from the mind.  He rarely shows emotion and in fact can be mistaken for dull.  He’s more interested in the facts, not the feelings behind them.  Introverts” he went on to say “do have feelings.  Don’t get me wrong.  But they’re buried deep inside.”

“An extrovert, on the other hand, wears his heart on his sleeve.  He’s invested in the heart of things and when he feels, he feels deeply.”

I can hardly keep it together when watching a particularly well-acted movie where the heroine dies, leaving her young son behind.   (So fucking annoying, that.)  I’m keenly aware of people, and can often “read” them within a few seconds.  This awareness has everything to do with their emotions, their body language, the flickering look they get in their eyes, everything. 

But what about this need to process everything before reacting?  Why this abhorrence to displays of drama? (And oh dear Lord yes – I *hate* being around overly dramatic people)

The psychiatrist opined:  “sometimes people, when they’re young, start off either as an extrovert but conditions dictate that they have to grow up fast”  (check)

“Sometimes, they have to submerge their extraversion into a semblance of introversion, just to survive” (uh oh.  check again)

“And it’s only when they get older that they feel free to let loose and be the extrovert that was always there.” (uh huh.  Life of the party.  Hmm. )

But wait.  What about the fact that I can’t stand being around people for too long?

(Someone cue the ADHD marching band)

“ADHD people have minds that go all over the place.  They don’t want to stay in one place for too long.”  (Shit.  Check.   This explains why it’s hard to be around “normal” people who talk about “normal” things.  It also explains why there are so many problems staying focused when in a classroom or lecture or speech.  Or teleconference call, even when I’m the moderator.  I thought it was me being drained – as I told Michael – but it’s not.  It’s that I’m way too easily bored).

Finally, I discussed the whole ADHD conference with a gorgeous friend of mine at work today.  

**Why do I say she’s gorgeous?
==> Because she is.
**Yeah, but what’s significant about her appearance?
==>Well it’s more than her appearance, really.  She has a bright, curious gorgeous mind too.
**Right.  So what?
==>Well, I like her OK?  Get over it.
**FINALLY!  We get to the heart of it.
==>Pfft.  Whatever.

ANYWAY.   She said something startling.  And she said it so matter-of-factly – like everyone knew this and where the hell have I been that I missed it – that it left me a little shocked.  “You?  You’re not an introvert.  C’mon.  YOU?  No way.  You’re an extrovert like me.”

And there it was.

So Michael.  I’m wrong and you’re right.  For the rest of you reading this – take a look at the last blog.

This changes everything.

Also….

Time to party.

P.S. I got an iPad.

*snicker*

In Search of Logic

Posted: June 9, 2010 in ADHD, Life
Tags: , , ,
17

They finally caught up to me.

It feels like months ago that I learned that the ADHD doc who was supposed to see me in July died.  At least a month ago.  I wondered back when I heard the news whether I would show up on the scheduled date, only to be met at the door by a clerk, dabbing her tearful eyes as she informed me the doctor was OUT and would, barring a miraculous resurrection, never quite be back in.

It was with some surprise that I picked up the ringing phone today to hear the subdued voice of that same clerk, who was finally getting around to letting me know the good doctor had joined the howling chorus of angels.   That he had shuffled off his uncaring mortal coil, and that he had slithered into eternity with his bright aviator sunglasses on.    That he had pondered his last thought, and had instead pushed his soul past the clamouring ants and worms, on his way to the Ultimate Zenith.

“He’s dead”

“I know.”

“Oh”

*silence*

“Well, we have another doctor who might be able to see you.  Would it be OK if we got back to you before the end of the month with an appointment?”

Such a weird question.  Would it be all right?

All right….. what?  All right that they would get back to me?

Or all right that I had to wait until the end of the month?

How the FUCK does any office run that way?  Where they have to consult with each other to figure out an appointment time?  Or figure out if they really want to see you at all?

What office do you know takes the time to call up prospective clients or patients, to ask them if it’s OK that they get back to you later on this century with an appointment time?  They took the time to call you this time – why not save on time and make the appointment right now?

I don’t get it.

Maybe it’s an elaborate screening process.  Maybe you gotta REALLY want an appointment.  Maybe only the whiners will get to see the good doctor.  Maybe the nice ones will get left out, deemed “not really in need” by virtue of their kind niceness.

You know what?

I made a mistake.

I said “sure”.

I should have said “FUCK NO!  It’s not all right!  I’ve been waiting for months to see someone, and now you’re taking the time to give me a fucking phone call asking me if it’s fucking ok for me to get a call from you later?  What the FUCK is this?  Romper Room?   Do you see me through your magic tennis racket?”

Yeah.  I know.

I didn’t want to be “that guy”.  You know the one – makes everyone uncomfortable with his anger and his disgustingly bad language.

*sighs*

Well…..this time I was nice.

I’ll give them two weeks and when I call back……

I won’t even remember what “nice” feels like.  And neither will they.

Fuckers.

Accommodation

Posted: May 27, 2010 in Life
Tags: , , ,
8

Yesterday’s blog was such a resounding success it seems the only way to celebrate is to write another one.

I’m at a three-day conference this week, all IT-related (that’s Information Technology for those of you scratching your heads), and much of it is boring.

The food is good though.  Not that Jenny Craig (the filthy-rich bitch) will allow anyone on her program to indulge themselves.  Not that I listen to the harpy, mind you – not when there’s some well-dressed chocolate just sitting there batting its romantic eyes at me in a clearly indulgent invitation.  It’s not the chocolate’s fault that I dove in, head first and salivating like the mangiest slop-jowled dog.  No, I had a choice.

I just made the wrong one.

Oh well.  There’s always tomorrow.   (Come to think of it, that’s what I said yesterday, after making a startlingly similar choice.)  But there’s *just* tomorrow.  After that it’s the weekend.

Years ago, I would have obediently sat through a large number of boring lectures, because it was the expected thing to do.  Looking at those past days with new eyes leaves me a little amazed, really.  How can anyone stand to waste time, spending those minutes accommodating predictable speeches?   Yet, in looking at one of the audience at one spectacularly death-enhancing lecture yesterday, it is clear that many people do.  You have to think that perhaps it’s expected of them, and that’s why they do it.

During that speech, I finally realized the speaker wasn’t going to get any better.  After the 150th time he uttered the word “um” as he tried in vain to find a word he was looking for “THE WORD IS BLACKBERRY, YOU STUMBLEBUM!!”, I finally had enough, and so I got up and left.

How refreshing, this freedom. Oh, there was still some residual feelings of guilt.  The younger guy would have stayed ’till the bitter end, enduring the torment of an ADD brain.  It was that same younger guy who put up with an awful lot of shit that no one should really stand for.

Accommodation and tolerance for boredom are for losers.

(Hmm.  Now there’s a broad-based statement.  Feel free to rip it apart if you like.)

I’ll concede that sometimes accommodation is merely a sign of respect.  Instead of getting up and leaving the conference, misplaced respect kept many delegate asses in their seats yesterday.  Accommodation also demands that you sit and listen to Aunt Mildred’s 945th retelling of her lumbago ordeal.

Intolerance for intolerable situations and people is a sign of respect for yourself.    Also known as “selfish”.  Whatever. One of my friends from Facebook put it so eloquently yesterday:   “life is short …. We are here for a blink. A BLINK! and we’re done.”    Way too short to put up with accommodating others in their self-indulgent behaviour.

Uh oh.  Potential irony alert.    If you’re indulging yourself by not accommodating others, that makes you self-indulgent.  Maybe.   Here’s the thing (which reminds me, in a different context entirely about ignorance and apathy):  I don’t know and I don’t care.

Sorry (he said, exercising his God-given Canadian right to apologize his face off), I didn’t mean for this to be a preachy blog.  But what the hell.  It’s on my mind and so now, maybe, if you’ve read this far, it’s on yours as well.

So, rather than sit through another humdrum speech, I took a decidedly anti-Canadian stance and avoided them altogether, just so that I could sit in my hotel room and write this blog.  Just before I head out into the unbelievably hot Ottawa sun, for a 10-block walk to the downtown section of the city.

Got my shades, and my iPhone music, and my awesome green shorts and running shoes and I’m outta here.

Hope your day is just as pleasing to you as mine will be, starting……..NOW.

Miracle Wolf

Posted: May 11, 2010 in Life
Tags: , , ,
18

It was to be a regular checkup, three weeks after breaking the fibula in my leg.   The date I was first diagnosed, they set up the appointment for yesterday.

So, yesterday, I grabbed my cane and hobbled my way to the hospital.  I didn’t see the point of favouring my leg.  It seemed fine.  A week earlier I had asked my regular doctor about it.

“Doc, how long did you say bones heal?  I mean, it doesn’t hurt that much.”

She can be forgiven for glaring at me as this wasn’t the first time or even second time I’d asked her this question.

“It takes a minimum of six weeks for bones to heal.”   She stressed the word “minimum” in hopes that I would stop bugging her.

My face fell at the news.   Took me about a half hour to find it and place it back on my head, what with all the stumbling around with my cane.

“Ok doc.”

Yesterday I congregated with the rest of the gimps in the fracture room at the hospital.

“Mason” mumbled the medical assistant.   “Wolf”, he added.   I perked up my ears.

“Please follow me to x-ray”.  So we did.

Mason was hobbling just as I was.  I didn’t want to hobble.  Didn’t feel like it.  But my good doctor had told me I must.  That I had to favour the leg, and not put weight on it.  I’m an obedient wolf.

I looked at Mason.  “Hey.  I’ll race you to x-ray”

He looked over and smirked.   “Maybe later.”   Then:  “so what did you do?”

I shrugged.  “Well I was assembling my sex swing and…”  I grinned as he laughed.  “Actually I broke my leg while getting on a bus.”   Then: “…while trying to read my iPhone.”

We hobbled on for a few moments.

I looked at the medical assistant.  (Let’s call him “Joe.”  “Medical assistant” is too much and I’m lazy).    “Hey bud.  We have a problem with our legs here.   How much further is the x-ray?  Do we have time to stop for a coffee or picnic or something?”

Joe didn’t look back.   “Not much further.”

I looked over at Mason “so how did you mess yourself up?”

His face was a mask of pain.  “I twisted my ankle playing soccer.”

“Oh.”

“I guess that will get you a lot more of the female vote than someone who hurt himself using his iPhone”

Mason grinned.  “I guess so.   I’m getting my fair share of attention, for sure.”

We walked for another half and hour and finally Joe said “Mason, you go here and sit down.”   Mason, obedient to a fault (and probably tired of hobbling in pain) did just that, while Joe and I continued on.

Three days later we made it to the x-ray department.  Joe said “Wolf, you sit here.  Sit.  Stay.  Good boy”

I sat.

A very pretty little Japanese girl came out and said something to the hallway.

I looked at her. “I’m sorry.  Were you talking to me?”

She smiled shyly.  “Yes sir.  You’re Wolf?”

“Yes, I am.”  I gave her my best Hank Moody grin.

“Hi Wolf.  I’m Michelle and I’m an x-ray technician in training.”

“You are?  Where are your wheels?”

Her blank look confirmed what they all say about my humour.  “Never mind.  Sorry.  Am I up?”

“Up?”

“Is it my turn?”

“Sorry.  Yes it is.  Could you come this way please?”

I followed her into the x-ray theatre.   I don’t know if they call it that.  Theatre.  It’s a place where people view someone and someone is there to be viewed.

There was a heavyset woman in there who was coaching her.  “Sir, you’ll need to remove your pants and sock so we can get a good picture.”  Then she said to Michelle “you can get him a gown over there.”

I shrugged.  “I don’t think I need one.  I’m wearing boxers.”

The heavyset woman (let’s call her Jane) said “oh good.  That’s fine.  That’ll work.”

I began unbuckling my pants.   It was a fairly dim room but I’m pretty sure Michelle blushed.  She ducked her head and mumbled  “I don’t know where to look”.  Jane ignored her.

After crawling up on to the x-ray altar, Michelle came over and started moving the x-ray machine around.  It looked heavy.  An ironic thought pushed its way into the thoughts crowding my head.  What if that thing came crashing down on my legs?   How painful would that be?

Michelle did her thing.  Under micro-direction from Jane, she placed a triangular cushion on the altar, and had me turn onto my side and launch my good leg over top of it.  Despite wearing boxers I worried briefly (ha!) about stuff falling out.    Maybe I should have taken the offer of a peekaboo gown, for safety’s sake.

After they had bathed my body in x-ray radiation they shooed me back to the fracture clinic, there to be seen by the doctor.

“Wolf? ”

I nodded.

“Did you hurt your leg a while ago?  Like maybe a few months ago or something?”

I sifted through the flotsam of my brain.  Nothing.    “Not that I can recall”

Of course I’m always hurting myself on something or falling down.   I’m not an entirely graceful wolf.   It comes from just not paying attention.  (Man.  Childhood memories start to crowd in, with teachers and parents parroting the same phrase.  “Wolf you just need to pay attention.   You never pay attention.”)

“No I’m pretty sure I didn’t”.   I’m always aware when I hurt myself because usually there’s a big old bruise to go with it.  Although there were a few bruises I can’t to this day explain.  Maybe I’m a self-wolf-beater who goes to town on himself during the sleepy-time hours.  Oh God.  That didn’t sound right at all.

“Well I just don’t get it” said the doc.   “You obviously did break your fibula.  The x-ray confirms it.  But the thing is:  it’s completely healed.”

I looked at him.   “It is?”

“Come look at the x-ray”

We walked over to the x-ray viewer thing on the wall.

“See here?” He pointed at the white on black picture.  “That’s where new bone has grown in and overlapped.”

I looked at it and took his word for it.  “So tell me:  did I break it all the way through?”

He seemed excited.  “No!  You didn’t.  See here?” and he pointed to some obscure line on the picture.  “The fracture happened but it didn’t make it over to this side.”   I looked at the blur.  The blur looked back.

“OK”

“Right then.  So I guess that’s that.”

I picked up my cane.  “So I guess I don’t need to use this anymore?”

He shook his head.  “But,” he said “you can’t go running for a while.  Just ease into it.”

I almost laughed.  I never run.

“How about the elliptical machine?  How soon can I get back on that?”

He thought for a second.  “You could probably start that this week.”

Slowly a feeling of joy, the joy of movement dawned in my heart.  Either that or it was gas.

“I suppose trampolining is out”

“Yes, you can’t do that.”

“What about having a three-legged race?   Line-dancing?  Pogo-sticking?  Kick-boxing?”

He chuckled.  “No, you can’t do any of that for at least another three or four weeks.

It would be a lot longer before I did any of that.  I’d never done any of it before and had no intention of starting.

“Well thanks doctor.”

“You’re welcome.  Take care.”  Having said that, he rushed off.

So that’s it.  I’m healed.  Don’t have to look for elevators when I want to go anywhere.  Don’t have to hobble slowly while the rest of Toronto steps around me on its way to the store, or the theatre.

I can kick ass.

Well maybe not kick ass.

I am so jazzed right now.

Obstinate Ignorance

Posted: May 5, 2010 in Life
Tags: , , , ,
8

I guess all of us at one point exercise this trait about something or other.    How many times have you picked up a TV remote that refused to work, likely because the battery was dead, and kept pressing buttons harder and harder in an effort to squeeze that last bit of juice out of it?  (Raises hand)

How many of you in coming up to an elevator where the call light is clearly lit, and yet you’ve pressed the button anyway, confident that the extra push will get the elevator down to you more quickly?  (Looks around in annoyance at all the raised hands)

I call that obstinate ignorance.   The performing of an action or the verbalizing of a point of view that is completely divorced from logic, coupled with the determination to stay the course, despite any compelling arguments that might come our way.

Lately I’ve noticed a seeming plethora of such instances, on a more global scale.

Take this one:

9/11 was an action undertaken by Jews/the Pentagon.

Muslim extremists were the first to pounce on the idea that Jews deliberately set up the scenario for 9/11 and are quick to point out that Jews either didn’t show up for work that day at the Twin Towers, or else they left the buildings before they crumbled to the ground.  It didn’t take long for that piece of filthy nonsense to make the rounds of the conspiracy circuit.

Others think that the warmongers in the Pentagon set it all up.  They will tell you that the buildings were so structurally sound that it was impossible for them to come down the way they did, short of the prior existence of strategically placed explosives, and oh my God – the doors to the rooftops were closed AND locked as well, which just proves conclusively that it was an inside job.

I have words to say about this, but am trying my level best to keep this blog as clean as possible.   I will tell you however that my digestive system is reacting quite badly right now.  I think I may have broken some internal organ.

Or there’s this one:

If we just dialogued with Muslim nations, listened to what they had to say and took them seriously, they wouldn’t hate us.

Some people actually believe this.  They think that no one in the Christian west will give Muslims the time of day, and that Muslims resent this and are just “acting out” by indiscriminately killing innocents, all in an effort to be heard.  They really believe the problem is one of lack of dialogue.

This last one however really gets my heart racing:

If we’re not careful, we’ll end up with health care just like Canada’s, where you have to wait a year to get cancer treatment.

Usually this is first opined by a health care lobbyist, who in turn influences a senator who repeats it, whose comment then gets picked up by a newspaper or two, after which people at large will tell you their opinion of “socialized medicine”.  Ultimately Sarah Palin will tell you about her worries about death panels.

So what do these conspiracy theories have in common?

1) Laziness.   Those who repeat these theories have not taken the time to actually do research.  Instead, they have listened to one side of the argument only, and in some cases have hoarded the “proofs” in order to seem halfway intelligent when talking about it.

2)  Wrong order of argument.   Any researcher or scientist will tell you that when you approach an issue, you must do your level best not to come at it with preconceptions.  They will tell you to look at all the facts, gather all the evidence, form a hypothesis based upon your evidence, TEST IT, and when you’re sure your hypothesis holds true, adopt your argument as a valid theory.   And you should probably hold that theory at arm’s length, in case more data comes to light that tests your theory.

Let’s go back to the first example: 9/11

The illogic here just blows me away.   Yes, the doors on the rooftops may well have been closed and locked, preventing folk from escaping by helicopter.    I work in a large building too, containing thousands of employees.  I frigging guarantee you those rooftop doors are closed and locked.   You know why?   Because building management doesn’t want to pay extra insurance premiums.  It’s a safety issue.  Can’t let people climb to the roof where they may ultimately decided to jump off.  Not in a corporate building anyway.  Not in my apartment building either.

Conspiracists forget the visions of Palestinians shooting their guns off in celebration of 9/11 too.   They completely ignore the fact that there are records of the terrorists who went to flight school.  There are paper trails everywhere.   They don’t want to know the names of Jewish people who died when the buildings collapsed.    That would blow their argument wide open.

Conspiracists will point to the damage done at the Pentagon, and will  opine that it’s impossible for an airplane to do that.    Their illogic won’t even look at the victims of that damage – the people in the Pentagon, some of whom were killed.

Conspiracists will flip the argument around.  They will start with their idea, and then they will try to accumulate observations to support their claim.  It’s classic.  And it stinks.

Let’s go the second example: the idea that we “just need to talk to” Muslim extremists.

Once again, there’s an issue of laziness.   A close look at the dogma they espouse will inform the inquiring mind that they’re not the least bit in discussing anything with the Kaffir (which is us).  They refer to us as pigs and monkeys, and really – why would anyone in their right minds talk about anything with pigs and monkeys?    Also, it’s ok to kill us, because we’re not humans.  We’re pigs and monkeys.

No, the only way they’ll stop hating us, is a:) we convert; or b) we die.   It’s really as simple as that.   And oh by the way:  it’s ok for them to tell us whatever we need to hear, if it advances their cause.  How is Allah going to blame them for lying to pigs and monkeys?

Don’t take my word for it though.  Look it up – the information is everywhere.  Keyword:  Wahhabism.

And finally we come to the last example:   Canadian Health Care.   If you think you saw a bee in my bonnet before, just trot this one out in front of me and watch what happens.

The easiest way to learn about Canadian Health Care is to ask a Canadian.  Friends of mine on another forum have done just that, and have been mildly surprised at our answers and reactions.    Let me state it bluntly:  the senators and other politicians who sound  warnings about our health care are lying.  Some are doing so knowingly but my guess is that most are doing so in obstinate ignorance.  Once again, their point is made:  Canadian health care is abysmal.  And then the lobbyists (two guesses who forms the bulk of the lobbying majority here) will try to round up some facts to support their absurd conclusion.

They will ignore the fact that when I broke my leg recently, I saw a doctor within a half hour on the same day.  That I then went to my family doctor the next morning (no waiting for three weeks to see her), received a requisition for an ultrasound and an x-ray which were done in record time.

They will also hide their faces from the facts around my mother’s cancer.   The fact that she was diagnosed and received treatment in record time, despite the fact that she lived out in a rural area of the province.

They will also ignore the fact that there are U.S. hospitals where the emergency wait times are roughly five hours, and that Canadian hospitals have comparable wait times.   The last time I went to the emergency department, my total stay from the time I went into the hospital to the time I left, was something like three hours.

******

The reasons all three of the conspiracy theories above have so much traction can be summed up in two words:  obstinate ignorance.  Too many people are happy to believe what they’re being told; they don’t want to change their mind, and so they have chosen to ignore all contrary data.

Thus the lies grow.

Grateful

Posted: May 4, 2010 in Life
Tags: ,
15

When you’re doing something you’re not supposed to be doing, they’re the last people you want to see.

When you’re in trouble and afraid for your life, they’re the first people you want to see.

Twice in my childhood I was doing something I wasn’t supposed to, and got caught.  Both on the same day.  The day that  my friend and I – both around twelve years old – had decided to take a long hike.  

On that sunny warm day, the first thing we did was walk down the railroad tracks, as far as we could go.  Then we got off of the tracks and started walking down the road when we felt the dust of the road reach up and wrap around us as a police car drove past us and parked in front of us.  The cop got out and asked us to step into his parlour. 

My buddy and I looked at each other.   We complied.

“Do you boys know why I stopped you?”

Neither of us said anything.  We just looked at him.

“Well you’re not supposed to be on those train tracks.”

We just looked at him.  As adolescents do.

He wasn’t getting through to us.   He knew it.

“You know you broke the law here, right?”

I spoke up.  “No, I didn’t know that.”

“Did you see the sign that said ‘no trespassing’?”

Mike, my buddy, said “no”.

“Well it’s there.  And it’s there for a reason.  You can get killed by walking on the tracks.”

Mike said “no way.  We would have heard the train coming.”

The cop looked at him.  “That’s what everyone says, son.  And yet every year, lots of people get killed on train tracks.”

He could tell we weren’t buying it.

“There’s another reason you’re not allowed on the tracks.     There’s lots of vandalism on the train cars.”

We sat there, as the warm sunlight burned the backs of our necks.

“In fact,” he continued.  “I found some damage to one of the train cars just a while ago.  Did you do that?   Did you break anything?  Steal anything?  Should I check your pockets?”

He could tell looking at us we weren’t the type.  Still, he got our attention with that one.  Ever see innocent youngsters look guilty for no reason?  That was us.  We were in trouble.  We couldn’t prove we hadn’t done anything wrong.  But his gruff voice told us he thought we were criminals.

“Honest!  We didn’t do anything officer!”

He stared at us sternly.  “Why should I believe you?”

Now we were silent.  But the tension was terrific.

“You see why it’s a bad idea to go on the train tracks?”

“Yessir!”

“Are you going to go there ever again?”

Mike and I both shook our heads.

“What?”

“No sir!”

“Good.  Now get out of the car and stay from the tracks.  You hear me?”

“Yes sir!”

And that was that.

Well, except that the next thing we did was hitchhike down the provincial highway.

This time another cop picked us up.

Once again, Mike and I were invited for a little talk.   After we were done, he advised us to hop the fence at the side of the busy highway, which we did.

At that point, we cut our adventure short.

There have been at least two times when I’ve called the police because I was sure my family and I were in physical danger from The Beast.  Both times, officers showed up, not having any idea of what they were getting into, but coming anyway.   Both times they manage to defuse my angry drunk father.

Some may stop and count and think “well that makes you even, right?  Getting picked up twice, and twice calling them for help”

Not quite.  That makes four times that I owe them.  Every interaction with them was about keeping me safe.

I’m amazed at the work they do.  I have cop friends who’ve related some pretty hairy stories.   Though I once considered going into police work, I’m grateful now that I didn’t.   My friends talk about only having to deal so much with the criminals and dregs in our society.  Doesn’t sound like much of a picnic to me.    And instead of society thanking them for the dangerous work they do, cops find themselves on the business end of uninformed opinion instead.  It’s got to be frustrating, being told by armchair critics about how they should take down a criminal.  (Gently and with many apologies about hurt feelings, of course)

Check out the blog at the right side in my blogroll entitled “The Boogie Man Is My Friend” for yet more funny and hairy stories from a police woman.

Paranoia

Posted: May 3, 2010 in Life
Tags: , , , ,
18

A school principal in New Jersey sent a note home to parents, asking them to ban their children from social networking sites like MySpace and Facebook, noting “there is absolutely, positively no reason for any middle school student to be a part of a social networking site!  None!”

He was alarmed at the nature of places like Facebook, and the fact that predators can easily can make their way to children quite easily.  

I pride myself on being socially aware and forward-thinking, yet….I can get behind his paranoia quite easily.   Having learned recently the lengths to which Facebook will advance its earnings – by opening up its patrons’ profiles just a little bit more, so that vendors can use meta-data to brag about their products…well the fact is, Facebook isn’t safe anymore.  Not for adults who value their privacy and certainly not for children who may or may not have mad linking skills.

A friend of mine recently got a computer for the first time in his life.  He sent me a message from within a video site.  In other words, he used the site’s mechanism for sending emails, instead of just copying the link from the browser bar and pasting it in as a link to a message to me directly.  

I went immediately into paranoid overdrive.   What he did, unknowingly, is give the owners of the website my email address.  They provided a link on the site:  “Want a friend to see this video? Put his email address here and a note will go out to invite him to look at it.”  What could be more helpful than that?

Right.  So now they have my email address and they can combine it with all the other email addresses they have on file, and now they can sell those addresses to other third-party vendors, some of whom are kosher and OK, and others of whom are scam artists.

I felt the need to educate him but frankly didn’t know where to begin.  As an internet neophyte there is so very much to learn. 

Like:  when you forward funny emails directly to a group of people – AND WHEN YOU LEAVE THEIR ADDRESSES IN THE TO: FIELD INSTEAD OF USING THE BCC: FIELD – you have to know that the email is going to go viral.  As friends in the inital group of recipients forward the funny email to their groups of friends….well, eventually thousands of people who you never knew and to whom you never intended the email to go to will suddenly find your email in their inboxes.  And while most of them might be just as normal as you and me there’s going to be a percentage of folk who are just not trustworthy at all.  And that percentage will suddenly have your email address, which they can use as they see fit.

People join up with Facebook, which warns you to use your real first and last name.   That’ s their rule.  And you know what gets me?  EVERYONE DOES IT.  We are such a trusting people.  

Those same people also join Twitter and some decide to play it safe by using a pseudonym.  Then they link their Twitter account to their Facebook and voilà!  Their real name shows up in the stream.   And some use Twitter to talk about, oh, well absolutely everything. 

Like:  “I bought a new laptop computer.” 

Followed by:  “I’m just heading out for a night on the town.  Hope my little cat can stand to be alone.”

And they wonder why, when they get home, their new laptop is gone and how the thieves knew when to break in.

Back to the principal of that school:  he worries that some gossip about a kid down the hall will make it out to the wide net.  Before the internet, the gossip stayed within a small group of friends.  No longer.  Bullying and preying has been taken to new heights. 

When I first read the article I thought he was being a bit of a boob.   Having read the entire email though (found here: http://wcbstv.com/technology/facebook.social.networking.2.1662565.html ), and upon further reflection,  I’ve changed my mind.

I think he’s right to be paranoid.

(P.S.  I’m on Facebook and I don’t use my real name.  I’ve got a really freaky name on there.  Facebook’s rules can kiss my native-American ass.)   :)

Night

Posted: April 26, 2010 in ADHD, Life
Tags: , , ,
26

“Night time…is the right time….to be….with the one you love…..”

That Ray Charles song resonates.

There’s a life-beat to it, a drawing, a capture that won’t quit, won’t let go.

Night time.

Even the words amaze me.

Long before I figured out that ADD had a place in my life, I knew that the night-time was a friend.   She would glance at me through her long dark hair, her smiling eyes dancing, daring and ready to run.   And we would scamper around the dark city, curious about the next corner, not sure whether what was on the other side was dangerous or fun.  Or both.

There were so many failed mornings; mornings that would see my mother grow exasperated and angry as I struggled to get my act together so as to get to school on time.   Our school band had practice every single day for years at 8:00 in the morning.  And every single morning – every *single* one – I found myself running to school.  I never had enough time to merely walk it.

That should have told me something.

So many nights I became alive and alert.

There were many times after improv class when a few close friends and I got together, to sit under the stars at the top of an apartment building, listening to the sounds of the street.  We spoke of so many “what ifs” and laughed and drank.  It was under one of those night skies that my friend decided that next Hallowe’en he was going to dress as a priest.  My other friend figured that if he was going to do that, she was going to dress as a nun.  They both decided I should dress as an altar boy.  With a slave collar and chain.

We would walk down Yonge St. and scandalize society as best we could.

There was a time, when I was still in high school and didn’t live in the big city.  When I lived in Oshawa, a town that was about thirty miles away from The City.  The train was the only way to get here, and so that’s what I did on occasion.   I remember the first time I walked down Yonge St. too.  (That’s the longest street in Canada, or so it’s said).  It’s the main drag in Toronto, and it contains, per capita, the highest number of light bulbs on any given street you’d care to mention.   There are bars, next to record stores, next to strip clubs, next to department stores, tarot card readers, ice cream parlours and other restaurants.

The street was – and is – *alive*.

That first trek down Yonge St. evidently made an impression on me.  I remember a few hookers looking at my curiosity-filled, upturned, open-mouthed entirely naive teenage face, and laughing at me.

Where ever my feet would take me, that’s where I went.

I remember later trips, this time with friends, where we spent the entire night exploring the city, walking everywhere, laughing as the rain came down and we scooted from shelter to shelter.   The fresh smell of the wet air was invigorating.   We didn’t really *do* anything.  Yet we had such a great time.

It took me the longest time to realize that it wasn’t Yonge St., or the long lightbulbed corridor, or the smells, or the curiosity that affected me so much.

It was the night-time.

Yonge St. during the day is boring.  It’s filled with people, all scurrying from point A to B in the quickest way possible.  It’s what I imagine major streets in New York to be like on a busy day, albeit on a slightly lesser scale.

Night time brings clarity.  You notice things more at night.  Like smells. Glances.  Things.  People.  Lights.

There doesn’t seem to be an end to the night.  You can’t really believe morning will ever get here.   You revel in it, and you wonder how people can ever stand to be out there during the day.

Clubs, bars and curiosity shops each have their own characters that seem (to me) to only become apparent at night.  The light show and driving thump-thumping of dance music in clubs compete with the gaze of strangers, all of whom seem as curious as you.

Here’s the thing:  night-time captures my interest like nothing else does.  The ADD-enhanced frustration of day time business goes away at night.  That white noise buzzing of competing priorities fades away.  Everything – EVERYTHING – becomes so clear.  Like crystal.

I used to make a habit of walking the eight miles from my home to the south-most part of Yonge St..   I’d do this while listening to one of the extensive music playlists on my iPhone.   The  few times I did this last year was enjoyable, even though I found myself totally missing the scenery of that walk.  The music took my mind away on vast vistas of thought.  This happens every time I walk anywhere while the music is playing, and even when it’s not.

My leg is broken right now and I’m not walking anywhere.

But when it’s healed, one of the first things I’m going to do is walk from my place to the south end of Yonge St., again.

This time, I’ll do it at night.

I can’t wait.

Broken

Posted: April 23, 2010 in Life
Tags: , ,
21

Apparently you can break your leg and walk forever for three days, and even on occasion run just a little bit.

I know this, having done so myself.

It started out this past Monday night, when I was paying more attention to my iPhone than I was getting on the bus.  Consequently, I missed a step and ended up banging my leg quite hard on the steps of the bus.

“Whatever” I thought.  I was pretty sure I bruised it, having hit it so hard, but else was new?  I had gotten on the bus with the intention of checking out a large park in Toronto, called High Park.  Once a year the cherry blossoms show up on a whole bunch of trees there, for only a few days and, never having seen them, I wanted to check them out.

I sat down on the bus, and noticed that my leg seemed…..tight. It felt weird. Not painful though.  More like someone was stretching the skin around my leg.  I figured I must have banged it good and so I lifted my pant leg, fully expecting to see lots of gore.   But there was none.  Just this football on the lower part of my leg.

I shrugged and got off of the bus at the subway station.  Suddenly I was an 80-year-old man with lower extremity arthritis.  Couldn’t walk normally, even if Madonna were to come traipsing out of the subway, shouting (as only Madonna can do) “what’s the matter motherfucker?   Catch your balls in your zipper again?”

Puzzled, I abandoned my quest for the park and got right back on the bus again, this time to go see a doctor at a walk-in clinic.

What?

Oh.  Well, you see, here in Canada, we have these places, much like McDonald’s or Arby’s, where you can make an impromptu visit to see a doctor.   On a moment’s notice.  You don’t even need an appointment.  You just walk in, show them your provincial citizenship by way of a Health Card and within an hour or two, Bob’s yer uncle, and you’ve seen a doctor.   I suppose the only difference between these and McDonald’s is that, well, they don’t serve hamburgers and you don’t have to pay.  Seems a fair trade-off.

I’d love for these walk-in clinic doctors to change it up a bit though.  Come in, see one of them, and have them finish the appointment by handing you a prescription with one hand, and with the other, hand you a hamburger.  It would be worth the $1.50.

Anyway, the doctor checked me out, and scratching her head, she said “well it looks *awfully* puffy for just banging it on a set of steps. I’d better send you for an ultra-sound, just to be on the safe side.”

There are more details – boring really – so I won’t go into it.  Just to make a long story short: I saw my regular doc the next day, who in turn brought in a colleague doctor and both stood there looking at my bare leg, puzzled.  The colleague looked at me and said “wow.  That’s pretty awesome.”

I grinned.  “Yeah, it is isn’t it?”

He laughed.  “I think it’s just one huge bruise, really.  Get an ultrasound.  And maybe get an x-ray too, just to be sure.”

My doc smiled at him. “That’s what I was thinking” she said.   Then she looked at me.  “I’d stay off of it for a few days.  Get some ice on it, and elevate it.”

I nodded.  I always listen to my doctor.  She’s awesome herself, you see.  She knows what she’s talking about, and takes medicine and her patients quite seriously.

So.  I got both routines done, and went on my merry way.

The next day, I emailed my boss and told him I wouldn’t be in.  Then I went to the park.

Such a lovely place.  The cherry blossoms were in full bloom and it was quite sunny out, bordering on warm.  I mean I walked *everywhere* too.  Took my camera out and shot a whole bunch of pics, trying to capture it all.  The leg bothered me a bit but I ignored it and just had a great time.

The next day I decided I would take it easy.   I didn’t walk nearly as much, though I do recall running to catch the bus at one point.  I forget why.

The doc called me up in the afternoon, just before she was leaving for the day.  “Uh, I hate to tell you this but you’ve got a broken leg.”

I was stunned.   “Really?”

She said “really.  You need to go the fracture clinic at the hospital.  Though you really shouldn’t be on it.”

“I’ve got a cane.  I can use that to carry most of the weight.”

“No, you need crutches.”

“Well, I’ve been on it for almost three days now.  I’ll take a cab to the hospital.”

“Ok.  Call me back and let me know what happens OK?”

I agreed.

This morning I went to my appointment at the fracture clinic.  I found out something.   There are apparently two major bones in the lower part of your leg.  I only broke one of them.  The fibula.

It’s a good thing I didn’t break the tibia.  The tibia is the mean motherfucker junkyard dog of a bone.  The one that carries 5/6 of your body weight.  It’s the bone that rolls up its sleeves and beats the holy living hell out of the sidewalk when you walk.

The fibula is the little yappy sidekick dog of a bone.  It carries the big dog’s wallet and keys while it’s getting ready to scrap with the world.  It looks at the tibia with adoring admiration.  And it says “COOL!” a lot.

Anyway, that’s the one I broke.  No cast required for the fibula.  It didn’t warrant it.  “Just put partial weight on it” said the doc. “It’ll heal up in six weeks”

As I hobbled on to the bus with my crutches, I found out something else too.

Apparently half of the world views an otherwise healthy guy on crutches in a matronly manner.   For those who are having trouble keeping up, that would be the female half of the species.  Young or old, it doesn’t matter.  They all get this look in their eyes, that kind of says “oh – YOU”.

I saw myself morphing from a wolf to a pup on its back, requiring a belly rub.  It was pleasing and disconcerting at the same time.

The other half of the species – the guy half – either ignored me or thought my injury was cool.  A fellow inmate at the hospital – a guy from the U.K. who had injured one of his wings – compared notes with me.  He said “you walked around for three days with a broken leg?  You’re hard-core, man!”  He grinned.

I laughed.  “And yet, when we get a cold, we get all wimpy, don’t we?”

He laughed.  “Too right we do.”

At least it’s the beginning of spring.  At the end of the first week in June, I should be good to go again.  So there’s that.

In the meantime, I’ll milk this thing for all its worth.  I’ll say to all of my single gorgeous friends “hey, I’m letting all of the good-looking chicks that I know that I’m looking for their sympathy.”  Then I’ll add “so.  Do you feel sorry for me?”

Guys take note:  when you’re injured or sick this technique works like a charm.  Every time.

Ownership

Posted: April 21, 2010 in Life
Tags: , , ,
16

“Can I talk with you a minute?   Privately?”

The stout old church lady took my elbow and man-handled me into a corner.

“I’m just telling you this with the love of the Lord” she began.  She took her glasses off and pinched her nose.

My curiosity raised its snout, trying to sniff out what was going on.  “What?”

She blinked at me.  I noticed a multitude of pins in her gray hair, and I couldn’t help noticing how her print dress hung from her, right down to the ground, just above her sensible shoes.

Sensible shoes.  I shouldn’t be noticing those.  That’s too gay.

“You really need to be careful about what you wear, young man.”

I looked down at my clothing and took inventory.  Sports jacket, t-shirt, jeans, black shoes.   Puzzled, I looked back at her.

“I mean…”  and she sighed. “Oh this is so difficult.”

“Please don’t feel awkward, sister.  Just tell me.”

She couldn’t look me in the eye.  “It’s your jeans, young man.”

“My jeans?”

“They’re too tight.”

I looked down again.  Damn.  They were tight.  Just the way I like them.

“What do you mean?”

Her face started to turn red.  “I mean.  Young women can get carried astray by the tightness of your jeans.”

I started to laugh.  “What?”

“Well, they can see your, ah….”

I grinned in disbelief.  “They can see my junk?  Is that what you’re trying to say?”

She got all flustered.  “You don’t need to be so vulgar.”

“I’m vulgar?”  This was turning more ridiculous the more I thought about it. “Your observation is vulgar, lady.  If you don’t like what I’m wearing, I suggest you turn away and stop staring at my crotch.”  I waggled my hips at her.

“Oh I’m going to talk with Pastor Norman about this!”  She turned quickly, which dislodged one of her hair pins such that it was dangling by a hair down at her back. “Just you wait and see!”

I laughed and started to make my way to a pew in the church.   This time an elder grabbed my arm.  What is it with old people wanting to grab your arm all the time?  Why can’t they just jump up and down in front of you while waving their arms to get your attention?   Why do they have to put such a death grip on your elbow?  It hurts, damn it, and I just want to punch them in the face when they do it.

I can’t, of course, being Canadian, and Christian and Righteous and all.

Plus, I fight like a girl.

Anyway, as he pulled me close with his raptor’s claw, he hissed in my ear.  I think he thought he was being quiet and circumspect, but that hissing could be heard throughout the church.  I could tell, because people whipped their heads around to stare at us.

His stinky breath invaded the sanctity of my irreverent ambiance, totally messing up my Chi.   “Son, you need to pay attention to me.”

I tried to pull my arm away.  In vain as it turns out.   Last night’s hangover hadn’t worn off yet.  God.  That stinky breath was going to undo me.  I could tell.  My stomach started rumbling in protest and I had to swallow a few times just to make sure those late night nachos stayed down there, where they belonged.

“What?” I whispered back, hoping he would just say what he had to and leave me alone.

“Some of the saints are complaining that you’re too friendly with the women folk.”   By “saints” I guessed he meant the men.  I have no idea what that made women.  “Hussies” I suppose, if they’re that easily led astray.

I was going to just nod and agree with him.  My nose and my stomach demanded that much from me.   But my stupid conscience wouldn’t hear of it.  Of course not.  It wanted a knock-down drag-out fight.  So I burped instead.   “What do you mean?’

“We see the way you smile at them, saying ‘hello’ to them with that smarmy look on your face.”

“What.  You mean *this* face?”  And with that I smiled at him.  All teeth.  And as smarmily as I could.

He hissed louder.  “YES.  You need to stop that.”

“Why?”

He tightened his grip on my elbow and I swear to God, my left fist tightened as well.  I tried to relax it.

“Because you’re leading them astray.  We see how they crowd around you at the end of the service.  It’s unseemly.  And the Bible says…..”

“Oh here we go” I thought to myself.

“…the Bible says we have to avoid the very appearance of evil.”   With that, he shook my elbow and smiled knowingly.

I finally wrenched my elbow away.  “You know where the evil is, old man?  It’s in your mind.  You need to stop thinking that I want to fuck your wives” I said, “because I don’t.”

“In fact, I kind of want to fuck you, actually.”  And I gave him my gayest grin.   He actually stepped back a few feet.

“And I’ll tell you something else:   I will damned well talk to whoever I want and I’ll smile at whoever I want, too.   And if you ever grab my arm again I’ll drop you where you stand.”

I started to walk out of the church in disgust.  Then I turned around and looked at him again.  “Oh and I say that with all the love of the Lord.    Asshole.”

************

This never happened of course.  It would never happen.  And I don’t know why.

But put the shoe on the other foot, with men talking to women about what they wear, and how they socialize with men and you can *easily* see that it happens all the time.  Men – Christian, church going men – telling women about how they need to conduct themselves around men, and what they should and should not be wearing.

As a member of the male species I have to tell you: it’s embarrassing.

The women I know who’ve been subject to this bullshit (and let’s be clear:  I know many of them who’ve been through this) tend to suffer in silence, rather than call bullshit on it.  My own mother was subject to this crap actually.   It seems women generally (not always) want to keep the peace and not make a scene.  Plus, they’re given this advice by people they respect:  their pastor, their priest, or someone else in authority.  So it gets a bit confusing, because supposedly the priest or pastor should have “the mind of God” – at least that’s the case in evangelical church settings.  Some of the women in turn drink the same kool-aid and subject other women to the same fucked up nonsense.

I don’t know if I’ve ever seen this outside of church settings though.  I *have* seen it on a much worse scale, in Muslim settings and on Muslim chat boards.

I’m still scratching my head over the whole thing.  I guess ultimately it boils down to this:

Mankind will always look for excuses for their own behaviour.  They will always point the finger at someone else when they find themselves doing shitty things.

“I was brought up wrong.”

“I came from an abusive family.”

“I came from a poor household.”

“I came from a single parent household.”

“I got in with the wrong crowd (read: it’s the crowd’s fault, not mine)”

“He made me feel bad about myself, that’s why I stole/ate too much/got drunk.”

“She made me so angry.  That’s why I hit her.”

“She was wearing provocative clothing.”

“My little kid wouldn’t shut up.  So I made him shut up.”

The list is endless.

We need to own our own shit.  Bottom line.

Nasal Warfare

Posted: April 19, 2010 in ADHD, Life, writing
Tags: , ,
23

My stomach tossed and turned.  It knew the day was early but it clearly was uncomfortable, maybe even bored.  So it decided to wake me up.

*RRRR*

I glanced at the clock.   6:30.

Six-freaking-thirty.

Who the hell gets up voluntarily on a Monday morning at that awful time?

Evidently I do.

I ignored my stomach and rolled over.  Stomach protested.  Loudly. 

Sometimes it’s good to be a bachelor, what with all of that irritating rumbling going on.   This way I only annoy me.

Looked at the clock.  6:31.   Closed my eyes.

Brain woke up and started rummaging around in my head, knocking shit over and just generally being loud.  “Hey!  It’s a new day!”

I thought back.  “Fuck off, brain”

It persisted.  “But you can do so much now.  Don’t have to be to work until 9:00 so what can you do in the meantime?”

I thought “sleep”

“No no no.  You’ve got a few hours.  HEY!!” it shouted.

I opened one eye.

“What if you get your washing done?”

“What if I just shoot myself.  In the head.”

“No seriously.  It’s Monday so you know NO ONE is going to be in the laundry room.  You’ll have all of those washers and dryers to yourself.”

I rolled onto my back.  Brain had a point.

Fucking brain.

It was useless to try and get back to sleep.  Stomach and brain were both pushing and prodding at me so I got up, got my shit together and went down to the laundry room.

Having loaded the laundry, I was waiting outside the elevator to go back to my apartment when I heard a screeching sound, like metal banging on metal.  Loud.

And smelly, I realized shortly after the noise started.  I figured it out.   The garbage bin people were here, hauling out all the vomit-inducing detritus of the apartment-dwellers’ stinky cast-offs.

Ew.

Then the elevator door opened and I eagerly stepped forward to escape the stench.

Only, there was a rather large woman with a massive red beehive coming off, so I stepped back.

Good thing.    Her smell hit me harder than the garbage truck.   

Double ew.

She tottered on her stiletto heels out to the parking lot, overly large designer shades just sitting there precariously on her face.

I thought to myself  “Lady.  Spend some money.  Leave the Kmart bargain bins alone when you’re buying scent.”

I’m not stupid.  I didn’t say any of this aloud.  She had enormous fists and I have a delicate face.

And an even more delicate nose.

I’m just glad I didn’t have to work in the same office as her.  I could feel the headache coming on, just from those few moments of exposure.   The aura of “L’Eau de Backed Up Toilet” competed heavily with the garbage truck outside.   The perfume laughed in derision, pummeling the garbage truck odour into a quick submission, and finishing it with a round-house kick, right to the gonads.

The garbage truck was down.   And the people in the stands trampled each other as they left the stadium in panic.  Perfume glared around, just daring anyone else to challenge it.

Fortunately for me, just then, the elevator doors closed.

Appointment With A Dead Doc

Posted: April 18, 2010 in ADHD, humor, Life
Tags: , , ,
26

My motto at the top of this blog is “Awake, Aware and In Constant Movement”

Well tonight’s the “awake” part.  It’s 2:06 a.m. and I’m just so jazzed to be so vibrantly awake right now.

In earlier blogs I mentioned that I’m getting assessed for ADD.  I just learned tonight that the doctor who was going to do the assessment has died.  I don’t know if I should keep the appointment anyway.  I doubt he’ll be able to shed much light on my situation.

Doesn’t matter.  I can talk better with him dead anyway.  For one thing, he’ll have a hard time interrupting me.

Dead people make such great listeners.  And they hardly ever complain about your hygiene or what you’re wearing either.  I can wear age-inappropriate leather pants with rips and coloured beads and I can wear a t-shirt that says “FUCK  WHAT WAS I THINKING WHEN I BOUGHT THIS SHIRT” and it won’t matter.

His hygiene might be a problem though.  I can always take off my t-shirt and wrap it around my head so that my nose is covered.   Won’t matter if I’m topless.  My words will be muffled that way but then again – it’s not like he’ll complain.

I’m worried he might nod off though.  Nod off and fall to the floor.

Are dead people shatter-proof or do they just fall apart at the slightest provocation?

He’ll probably just lay there, looking stupid and lifeless.

(No, that’s not what my last girlfriend said about me.  And anyway I was drinking)

(Like I am now)

Roses are red

My doctor is toast

I had an appointment

But doc’s done gone and give up the ghost

Inappropriate

Posted: April 15, 2010 in humor, Life
Tags: ,
28

I swear to God – Mom brought us up properly.

We learned to say “please” and “thank you” and how to keep silent when People Who Mattered were speaking.  (“Shh.  People Are Talking”)

I don’t blame her.  There were six of us kids, after all.

We learned to be Super Canadians:  polite to a fault, and always wary of the accidental social infraction.

I remember slamming my hand between the door frame of a car, and the door itself.  I remember yelling the word most appropriate for such an occasion (shit) and I remember Mom berating me most furiously.  I remember hanging my head in shame.  With my hand still trapped in the door.

Mom was a hard ass.

I don’t know when my social skills started going sour, or what precipitated it.  I just knew that I was starting to have fun.

Fun is addictive.  The more you have, the more you want.

As you know, I’m not a fan of The Beast.  That’s old news.   But, um, well people at work don’t know this, nor do they know my history with him.

Some of it peeks through though sometimes, and I can’t help it – it’s fun to see the look of shock on some of their faces when it does.

Take last week for example.

Someone complimented me on my good looks.  I never know how to handle this (and I’m not convinced that I’m all that hot, and no, that’s not an invitation to correct me with more compliments).  I usually respond with “well thanks”.  Or I’ll say “I know.  I’m AWESOME, aren’t I?”.

Last week we were talking about heredity and my haircutter guy said “you look good.”   I said “I know.  I think I got it from my Dad.  He was good-looking- ” and I swear I was going to say “all of his life” but for some reason it came out “he was good looking for a long time.  He’s not looking so good now though.  On account of he’s dead.”

The barber didn’t want to grin, but he couldn’t help himself.

It’s funny, watching hilarity and guilt fight for facial dominance.

I’ve used my worm-eaten dad on other occasions too.   Like the time when a group of girls at the office were talking about a funny story.   I popped by near the end of the story and added “I know what my dad would say about that.  Well, he wouldn’t say anything today though.  Other than ‘MMMPH MMPH'”)   This time there was just shock as they glanced at each other.

I loved it.

They asked me to be the M.C. for a large tech workers conference a few years ago.   I had to make an opening statement, for about five minutes, before introducing the first speaker.  Probably not the best idea on their part.   I did a lot of thinking about it before hand.  And some ideas occurred that just seemed wrong.  Unfortunately, I had gotten used to doing improvisational comedy and the first thing you learn there is to never say “no” to an idea.  Saying “no” to some of the ideas I had for this opening statement just seemed to go against the grain, and I wanted to go with my own flow.   So that’s what happened.

I can’t recall everything I said, but I do know I started it off with something like this:

“So I was sitting at my kitchen table last week, masticating furiously on my sandwich”.    I looked at someone in the audience and said “that means ‘chewing’.   Why?  What did you think it meant?”

And I said a bunch of other stuff, and then finished with something that went like this:

“You know, when you have a client who is simply too demanding, and she says wants an answer to her computer problem NOW, and that she has waited for like fifteen days for someone to respond and she’s had this happen a zillion times before and she wants to know what’s wrong, and why can’t you fix it once and for all and what’s wrong with you anyway?  You know who I’m talking about, right?  And you know that sometimes you just don’t have an answer because you haven’t investigated yet, but she wants an answer now.  You know what you should do, right?

“You should employ the MBP solution.

“Here’s how it works:  you can tell her that there’s something wrong with the server’s Phase Converter Array (and then you look at her closely to make sure she’s not familiar with the Back to the Future reference and if you’re satisfied you continue on).  You tell her that there’s a weight problem that affects the array and that it comes from emails and Word documents that use too many full colons.  You then tell her that she should avoid the use of colons in her writing altogether, and that if she feels she really needs to use one, she should use a semi-colon instead, as the weight will only be half that of a full colon.  And you do this with a straight face and you wait for her to nod knowingly.

“And that, my friends is the successful application of the MBP solution.”

“Oh, and what does MPB stand for?  I’m glad you asked.  Your solution is strong, right?  What you might even say ‘mighty’.   And it’s big too.  The bigger the lie, the more believable it will be.  So that’s the ‘B”.  So ‘M’ is for ‘Mighty’ and ‘B’ is for ‘Big”.”

I looked around the room.  “But really, what we’ve offered her is just a bunch of crap, right?

“So the ‘P’ is for ‘Poop'”.

There was a lot of shocked laughter.  One of the directors came up to me afterward and said (while grinning) “so and so wasn’t too happy with your choice of illustrations.  She thought it was inappropriate”.   (So and so was a highly placed and very proper executive)

For some strange reason, this made me happy, and it just reinforced my desire to be as fucking inappropriate as possible whenever the occasion presented itself.

Also I find myself relating well to others who’ve discovered the beauty of inappropriateness.  It’s possible to be inappropriate without being a dick, though it’s a fine line for some.

Check out some of the blog writers to the right of this blog, on the blogroll lists.   Some of the most inappropriate and funny people I know.

I-seminar

Posted: April 14, 2010 in Life, writing
Tags: , ,
17

Today kids we’re trying something quite different.

We’re blogging by iPhone.

When you have fat fingers (well, like most men I imagine. Except for the unfortunate girly men with their teeny-tiny delicate hand extensions that they mistakenly call fingers).

Wait. Where was I?

Right. Having fat fingers means you’re going to be making a LOT of mistakes when using the iPhone. And that means a lot of editing-as-you-go.

The iPhone technology tries to be helpful of course and it will prompt you with words that it thinks you really wanted to use and not the szxxqe word that you actually typed. You type “fuck” and it’ll come back with “duck”.

Ducking iPhone.

So I’m typing this from the back row at a Microsoft seminar. (Check the tweets at the right of this blog). I’ve noticed a few things here:

1) Many are as bored out of their minds. Which means I’m in great company.
2) It’s amazing how many fellow techies have their iPhones out right now. Like me. At a Microsoft seminar.

Has the iPhone become so ingrained into our culture that no one gives it a second thought? Do we forget that it’s an Apple product? Will it become like Kleenix – a structural pillar in our collective lexicon? Do we care?

I’m hearing the presenter at the front talk about Informational Manager, XML, alerts and resolutions and all I’m hearing is “blah blah blah”. Really wish they had a girl in a bikini making the presentation up there. At least I’d pay more attention.

So why did I come here?

1) Free stuff. Sometimes Microsoft gives out free software like Windows 7 or Office 2007 as a way of getting techies familiar with their products.
2) A day away from my boring job.

Results:
1) So far I’m not sure it’s worth it
2) Yeah. Out of the frying pan…

Right now the guy is talking about clones. Cool.

Wait. Damn it. Not those kinds of clones. Technical clones. Not the zombie types.

“Mmmm. BraAains”

Speaking of eating – they fed us some cold lunch today.

Tasted *just* like brains.

I learned from one of the other guys at our table that he hasn’t personally used Microsoft products in years. This puts an exclamation point on my observation that the majority of my fellow work techies either have an Apple computer or are planning to buy one.

Man if they don’t hand out free stuff at the end of this torture I’m going to be pissed.

Right now though – my iPhone battery is too low and I have to close this off. So after this is posted I’m going to get out my sunglasses and try to find a chair near the corner of the room. Find some place to place my head. And I’ll pretend to play rapt attention to the dynamic speaker at the front.

Please God – don’t let me snore.

Money

Posted: April 12, 2010 in Life
Tags: , , ,
16

I don’t know why it is – maybe it’s because of last year’s market slowdown, or maybe it’s because our Canadian dollar has been all over the map in the last few years – but lately I’ve taken a keen interest in the economy, and regularly read the Financial Post, and I watch the currencies market.

Anyway, last week I found myself attending a meeting after work that I would normally never even think about.  It was my credit union’s annual general meeting (known as AGMs).  It was, as you can expect, pretty f**king boring, really.  They talked about balancing the books and they bragged about how they managed to tread water while banks in the U.S. were losing their shirts and running to the government for bailouts.  Seems to me their bragging was well-earned, even though the entire banking structure in Canada is fairly conservative to begin with, and so wasn’t subject to the same risks to which the banks in the U.S. were exposed.

I went, primarily because I’m still keenly interested in the technology side.  The idea of having phones that you can use as banking swipe cards seems slightly orgasmic to me.  I’m in love with the idea of a reduction in the steps it takes to purchase something.  I look forward to the day when lineups anywhere – banks, movie theatres, cashier lineups – will be a thing of the past.  Something that our children’s children will look back at and say “gee Grandpa – you mean you had to actually *wait* to pay for something?”

How ironic is it that I have a problem holding on to money?   And the fact that my discretionary spending is spent on technology?

And how further ironic is it that one of my most prized technological possessions – my $500 Shure earphones – was lost while attending this banking meeting?

Yet still, this fascination with the economy continues to maintain my ADD interest.  Along with technology, women, movies, and whatever else crosses the home plate of my wayward consciousness every day.  

Not cars though.  Automobiles may look nice but, in a busy city like Toronto (which the transit system covers like a close-meshed spiderweb, with frequent service to pretty much any place you want to go) that’s their only appeal.  I’ve checked it out a few times:  the time it takes to travel by car from my place to the furthest southern spot in Toronto is far greater than the same route taken by overground and underground transit.  With the car, you’re paying for: the car itself,  maintenance, parking, insurance and of course you can’t go anywhere without gas.  All of that amounts to about a zillion dollars a month.  A monthly transit pass: $100.00.  Seems a no-brainer, and I haven’t owned a car for years.

There’s just simply no advantage to having a car, that I can see.  It just costs too much.

Outside of the city, it’s a different story.  There are always car rental places.

It’s amazing to me that I can be so wise when it comes to cars, but so foolish sometimes when it comes to other high-priced items.   Is it really necessary to pay $300.00 per month to my cable company?   Granted, there’s a lot of coverage with that (which includes internet and my iPhone plan) but really, do I watch more than three channels per month?  Answer: no.

Plus I’ve got technology out the ying-yang.   Even so, I still find myself checking out Macbook Pro laptops and even Macbook Air, while there is contemplation of the new iPads that will come to Canada very soon.

Maybe there’s a lack of balance going on here.  A need for focus that can’t come except by external means.   Maybe I need an engineer to devise a mini-taser device that zaps me if I drag out my wallet for anything other than true necessities.

 There are no excuses.  Not really.  Doesn’t mean I won’t dream some up.

“Well it’s Ok that I use money on technology.  Some people drink or gamble their paycheques away.”

Which is true, but it doesn’t mean there’s carte blanche just to spend like there’s no tomorrow. 

“It’s probably depression.  Some people shop, you know.  Isn’t that what you’re doing?.”

There’s merit to that too.  I do feel better for a little while after buying something.  Yesterday I purchased a $300 Bose speaker system for my computer.  The sound is amazing.  The dearth of cash is not.   How long this good feeling will last is anyone’s guess.  My best guess:  not long.

Maybe if  I took a course on economics.  That would tie up some time so I couldn’t go out spending money.

Which reminds me:  it’s late afternoon and I haven’t been out for my coffee break yet.   Time to head to Starbucks.  I’m sure there’s change around here somewhere that I can use to buy a nice little $5.00 coffee…..

Decision Night

Posted: April 11, 2010 in Life
Tags: , , ,
9

Technophiles have a difficult time prioritizing properly. If I’m any kind of indication anyway.

I’m always on the hunt for new gadgets.  Like the iPhone, and now the iPad.

Last week I lost my $500 Shure earphones – probably on the subway system.  Although that same evening I was at a bank annual general meeting and may have lost them there.  It truly was a heartbreaker, and so I opted to purchase a replacement set next week.  In the meantime I would use some backup “Plan B” earphones.

That was the decision, until tonight.

I had finally prioritized my Saturday evening and had intended to visit a kind of unique place in Toronto called The Drake Hotel.  It really is a hotel but it’s also an entertainment venue, often featuring up and coming musical artists in its underground auditorium.  I’ve seen some truly great bands there, and some mediocre ones too.  So tonight I went, only to discover that it was closed to the public – they had a private event going on.

Talk about feeling ripped off.

I went upstairs and grabbed a glass of wine and watched the mating dance of the desperate.  That got too depressing so I left.

Next stop: my favourite bar at the corner of Bay and Bloor in the centre of downtown Toronto.  There, I ordered up a bunch of glasses of Chardonnay wine (really should have ordered up a bottle and did it right) while I read my ebook.  Funny thing:  the more you drink the more you have to go back and re-read the same passages over and over again.

Once again I got to watch a few examples of people with low expectations hooking up with other people of low expectations.  What a drag.

There was a guy feigning intense interest in whatever it was a woman was telling him.  It was so patently obvious, and I’m sure she wasn’t stupid and could see it too.  However it was getting late, and I have to think she didn’t want to go home alone anymore than he did.  They eventually left together, just as I was re-reading that same chapter for the fourth time.

I gave up reading, got my bill and staggered walked sedately to the subway.

It wasn’t until I got home with the strains of The Tragically Hip pounding in my ears that I realized it was WAY too early to call it quits for the night.  I wanted desperately to party.  To be around other people and just have a wild time.

It hit me:  that only happens when I’m with the gang from my comedy improv group.   I had previously made a half-hearted commitment to look the improv school up and take a few more courses.

Tonight I realized it was time to put it at the top of the priority list.  The new earphones can wait.  This can’t.

Besides – improv experiences provides all *kinds* of blogging material.  Trust me on this.

The best is yet to come.

Music

Posted: April 9, 2010 in Life
Tags: , , ,
17

As I woke up after the dream I even had the title for the resulting blog all picked out.  Too bad I fell back to sleep before getting a chance to write it down.  It was a good title.  You would have loved it.

David Duchovny was in the dream.  He plays a character named Hank Moody on the awesome show “Californication”, and I think that’s the character he was playing in the dream.   (Ok before we go any further I want to go completely on record here.  I’m straight.  As straight as an arrow.  Straighter than your redneck farmer, the one with the double barrel shotgun, and the gorgeous daughter.  Straighter than a shot of Johnny Walker.   Not a gay bone in my body.  The only bone that was ever near my mouth was a spare rib.  Barbequed and delicious.  Hell I don’t even eat bananas.  What would the neighbours think?  So the fact that I dreamt about David Duchovny means nothing sexually.  Ok?  Got it?  Can we carry on now?  Good.)

I think he was playing a piano or something.  And singing.  And I believe the music was a tango.  I’ve never heard of anyone putting lyrics to a tango but then, I don’t get out much.  Anyway, he had created this piece of music and had just finished when I walked up.

“That’s pretty good.”

He looked at me.  “Makes you want to do me, doesn’t it?”

I didn’t even smile.  “Yeah, not that good.”

He snickered.  “Let’s go.”

With that, he got up from the piano and we headed outside to his car.  He threw me the keys.  “You drive.”

I got in.

I forgot where we drove, frankly.   It was a long drive, that’s what I remember.  We talked about a lot of things.  (Man, I *wish* I’d written it all down as soon as I woke up).   I’m guessing the topic of women was in there.  I’ve yet to be with a buddy where that topic didn’t come up.  It seems to be the one subject that we all have in common, the one item of interest that will capture our attention.   Makes sense, when you think about it.  If it’s true that we think about sex every seven seconds.  I’m not sure it’s true, but I do know we think about it.  A lot.

During the drive I noticed that his brakes were pretty spongy, and that I had to pretty much stand on the brake pedal before it would come to a complete stop.   We pulled into a crowded parking lot, and I managed to find a spot and park without hitting anything.  I remember feeling relieved.

After I turned the car off, we just sat there, still talking.  The subject got around to what’s important in life.

“I love my car” he said.  “I love everything about it.  The way it shines, the curves, the sound of the engine when I’m leaving some other motherfucker in the dust behind me.”

I didn’t share his love for his car.  Not a bit.   The thing would go all right.  It just didn’t care too much for stopping.   When it did stop, it did so reluctantly, and you could feel the engine wanting to pull away.

We sat there quietly, lost in thought.  I considered everything.  I thought about my family, my friends, my music.  Didn’t even give one thought to my job though.

“Music”, I said.

“What about music?”

I thought for a second.  “If I lost the use of my arms and legs, and if I couldn’t see or hear, I’d still have music”  I pointed to my head.  “That’s the one thing I couldn’t live without.”

He nodded.  I didn’t need to elaborate.  We both knew exactly what I was talking about.

I considered some of the dates I’ve been on recently.  Some people will tell you that if their date doesn’t like dogs, or cats, then they know they haven’t found a match.  I suppose I think  the same way too.   But one of my dates (a year ago) also said she doesn’t listen to music.   She could take it or leave it.   I realized then that we would probably not get along too well.  Music is too much a vital part of the core of who I am.  It’s like a language that I use to converse with people, with my environment.  I’m always looking around to add to my music vocabulary.  Take music away and I feel like I’ve lost a limb.

Yeah.  Gotta love music if you’re going to play with me.

Duchovny  looked over me.  “Let’s get out of here.”

Swallowing nervously, I started the car up and looked around carefully before attempting to back out of the crowded parking spot.  I have no idea why we even parked there in the first place if we had no intention of leaving the car.  As we backed out, I heard the slightest sound of metal on metal.  I glanced at him and then looked back, trying to find an opening.

I remember finally seeing the opening and putting the car back into drive again and moving out of the parking lot.  I wondered if he would want us to stop so we could survey the damage.

Fortunately, it was just then that I woke up.

Resonance

Posted: April 8, 2010 in Life, romance
Tags: ,
15

It’s a rare thing, to hit up on a subject and find yourself unworthy to tackle it, whether in conversation or blog.  Rarer still (for me) to write a blog and have already found a title for the blog.  I’m too used to just writing and deciding after the fact what the subject was.   It’s like when you give birth (for those of you who have the reproductive organs necessary to do so, that is) and only after the tiny wrinkled miscreant has made his entrance, do you look at him and say “well he looks like a Joseph.”  Or an Ethan.  While your other partner (the one without the requisite reproductive organs necessary for giving birth) looks at that same parasite and says “well he looks like a bloody prune to me, but whatever”.

(Yes, I said “parasite”.  If it’s good enough for Dr. House, it’s good enough for me.)

The word “resonance” is that wrinkled bloody prune to me.  Well, except I look at it and there’s nothing wrinkled or prunish about it.  There *is* such a thing as taking a metaphor too far, which evidently is certainly the case here, isn’t it?

Resonance is that final *click* of the puzzle piece.  That loud *snap* you hear, sometimes only internally, when someone says something that you just *know* is the key to the entire argument;  it’s the final argument to the jury, the one you know paints the full picture for all to see.  And you see this confirmed by the hanging head of the prosecutor, who finally realizes just how badly he’s been beaten.

Dissonance is what we live with from day-to-day.  We get so used to its presence that eventually it starts to feel normal to us.  It gets lost in the camouflage of our lives that we can only really see it when resonance makes its loud presence on the stage of our life.

Sometimes resonance comes to us when we hear a particular song, when you realize that the combination of notes and lyrics *perfectly* describes your longed-for hopes.  The dreams you’d thought you’d forgotten.

By now of course, I realize that all of this sounds horribly ephemeral.  You can’t easily chew on this topic.

You can’t swallow what you can’t chew.

(My God I’m so deep)

I look at the guy in the mirror, as he’s getting ready for yet another day at the grind, and inwardly, I cringe, thinking that I’m the world’s worst sellout.  If I’m not doing the thing that drives me, what the freaking hell am I doing?

Yes, I’m building a base for the following of my dream.  Logic raises its hand, demanding to be acknowledged.   “Fine, Logic – I get it.  You fresh-faced ass-kisser.”

Date after date seems an exercise in frustration.  She’s too needy.  Or this one’s too into the picket fence scene.  This other one is certain that she’s stupid/ugly/too fat/whatever and having been married to someone with low self-esteem you are loath to play the psychologist anymore.

Once in a while though – you see an old couple in their 80’s.  You watch as they hold hands and finish each other’s sentences. And it hits you.

Resonance.

Such examples serve as proof of the validity of your dreams.  Not just about a mate, but about pretty much everything.  You understand that others have gone before you, fighting the futility of The Machine, against all odds, against The Beasts of their youth, and they’ve achieved what you long for.

That realization resounds deep in your soul.  It drowns out gibbering and clattering masses of deadlines, expectations, monotony.

You’ll be damned if you’ll hold back.    You don’t care what your friends think, or what the daily job demands of you.  It doesn’t fucking matter, in the end.  You’ll pursue that spark.  Maybe in the doing, you’ll find the playful mate you’ve been searching for.    That’s not the goal though.  The goal is one thing, and one thing only.

Resonance.

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