Archive for the ‘Life’ Category

Earphones

Posted: April 6, 2010 in ADHD, Life
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24

Apparently, business travellers are prone to deviant behaviour.

I attended a film yesterday, and the above was the explanation offered by the film’s police desk sergeant to a woman whose husband was killed in a hotel room after he apparently made raging sexual advances to a female police officer.

That was only one of a number of unintentionally funny comments made by straight-faced actors in this supposed drama. I wish I could tell you the name of the film but it escapes me. I’m a business traveller on occasion. The only really deviant behaviour happens in my head, where thoughts fuck each other like bunnies, and produce crowds and crowds of little baby bunny thoughts. The curse (or blessing) of the ADD afflicted exploding mushroom brain. But that happens when I’m at home just as much as when I’m on the road.

It happens at work too.

“Sir, I’ve noticed that you have your earphones plugged in all the time. Is that your way of keeping other people at bay?”

I took out my earphones. “Excuse me?”

The security guard repeated his question.

I laughed. “Oh dear God no! I like people! I really do.” I thought for a moment. “This is just my way of keeping all the marauding thoughts in my head from overwhelming me.”

He looked at me, one eyebrow raised. (I could never master that. I’ve tried, but each time I’m only able to raise both eyebrows at once, like a sexually suggestive creepy circus performer.)

I elaborated. “Are you familiar with ADD or ADHD?” He indicated he had. “Well, listening to music is a way of letting parts of my mind focus, while another part can concentrate better on the work.” The attempt at explaining the dynamic was valiant, if flawed.

Still, it sufficed. He said “oh. I understand.” Which is more than I can say for myself. Kudos to him.

And why is it that people see these honking in-ear earphones rocking in your ears and still think you can hear them?

Especially bums people of the street. Maybe it’s because they feel they’re predictable and you should know what they want without actually having to hear their words. You scoffing entitled asshole moneyed class, you with your brand new K-Mart sneakers and your oh-so-proud flashy Cubic Zirconium rings, with your “I’ve got a job and you don’t” Cheshire Cat smile.

Don’t know what it is. Maybe I’ve lived in the big city too long. I rarely give money to anyone who outright asks for it. If someone is doing street performance however – I feel grateful for their entertainment and so I’ll throw them a dollar or two. The ones who ask for money though – well, they mouth the words (which I can understand, despite the enticing strains of One Eskimo’s “Kandi” playing in my ears) and I’ll give my customary negative head shake. Some of them respond with “God bless you” which I suppose is better than “fucking asshole”. The thinly disguised attempted guilt-provoking sarcastic response has no hook on me. I’m a red-sun Superman charity giver walking down the street of a largely impotent yellow-sun world.

Maybe some of the people living on the street are there legitimately. Maybe they just wouldn’t make it in the working world. Clearly, some of them would make lousy salesmen. Especially those who come up with a long-winded setup to enhance their begging agenda.

“Sir, I live in Shitsville, Florida, and I’ve lost my passport and wallet to thieves. My wife kicked me out and I came up here to start a new life but now without my wallet I can’t even get to the next city over for a job interview tomorrow so I wonder if….”

“You would like some money.”

“Yes, sir, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Sorry”.

He looks so disgruntled as he turns away to try his story on someone else. He hasn’t learned the salesman’s most important lesson: know your audience. He should have picked an openly pleasant smiling naïve person, not me. I’ve gotten so good at deflecting these stories that if I don’t hear what this stranger wants within the first seven words I’ll cut him off and say “look, what do you want?” It’s disconcerting and it interrupts the flow of their carefully crafted con, but it works for me.

I’m trying not to say “sorry” but it’s hard. “Sorry” is a Canadian trait, you understand. It’s in our DNA. We offer it at the slightest provocation, at the mere wisp of a glancing touch. We don’t *want* to say it, but we’re often helpless. It’s not politeness. It’s a reflex.

A blonde jogger was standing at the condiment station at a Starbucks when I was putting cream in my coffee. She wanted a napkin so she reached over me and said “sorry”. Recognizing the impulse I smiled and said “no you’re not.” She grinned. “No, I suppose I”m not”. I cocked my head (which is easier to do than you’d think) and replied “funny how we always do that”. She stirred her coffee, before taking a sip. “Yes. Don’t know why though.” I shrugged. “We’re Canadian”. She nodded, smiling.

Maybe saying sorry to a street person is a form of anticipatory proactive safety. If you say what you really think (“fuck off! I’m tired of people like you asking for some of the money I made working every day, while you get welfare and free meals whenever you want, and I know you just want it for your extras, like booze and drugs. You made a choice, bub, not like the beggars in India who have no choice but to sit out there on the street with their missing limbs and missing teeth. Hey, here’s a thought – gain some credibility – saw off an arm or a leg. You might find people will give you more. I tried giving one of you a meal voucher the other day and he told me to go fuck myself, so now I’m telling you do to the same, aiight?”), you might be asking for trouble. Really, is it worth it getting into a fist fight with a stranger because you don’t want to give him a dollar?

No, it’s not worth it. “Sorry” is better.

I’m not though.

Other people accost me on the street while I’m wearing these obvious noise-cancelling earphones. (Seriously these Shure earphones stick way out of my ears. They’re obvious, like a pair of muddy work boots sitting on an otherwise pristine dining room table is obvious.) Invariably, someone who is new to the city will avoid other walkers and make his way to me, the ONLY person wearing earphones, to ask for directions.

I don’t mind, not at all. But I am curious. Why me? Maybe this is God’s way of tilting the world game so that the only rolling quester can’t help but bump into me.

Sometimes the constant earphones work against me too. Like when I see the gorgeous woman on the subway and we exchange smiles, and I can’t get the earphones out fast enough without looking desperate. By the time I’ve maintained my cool by taking them out gradually, she’s gone. (Don’t ask me how to take out earphones gradually. It’s just possible. Take my word for it.)

Still, I love my music and my earphones. I love how it stills some of the chaos-storm in my head.

Anticip………..ation

Posted: April 1, 2010 in ADHD, humor, Life
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28

I woke up this morning, startled.

I could see daylight, and that never happens.   Blearily, I squinted at the clock, which wavered back and forth, like a bad 3D movie.  The damned thing wouldn’t stay still.

“Stand still”

“Um, no.”

I pushed my knuckles into my eyelids, massaging the eyeballs, trying to coax them awake.  I opened my eyes again.

Oh dear lord.  It was worse.

Finally I dragged myself out of my warm – oh so warm, and comfy – bed and staggered over to the clock, which finally relented and maintained a constant pose.

“Oh good.  It’s only 7:00”

Wait.  7:00?  That means I only had………and I tried hard to compute the sleep hours I had tucked into my consciousness.  And failed.   Whatever it was, it wasn’t enough.

Stumbling into the hallway on my way to the bathroom I noticed a smell.  I stopped, sniffing.

Then I realized it was coming from me.   The smell was familiar too.  It was like a long-lost philandering cousin.  It wrapped me in its embrace.  And that’s when I realized what it was.

I was bleeding alcohol through the pores of my skin.

Ew.

Strangely, I didn’t have a headache, or exhibited any other signs of being hung over from last night.

I remembered last night and I smiled.   Such a great night.  I haven’t had such a full night like that in a long time.  One thing that happened though:  my companion and I closed the bar.  One of us noticed one of the servers sweeping up and suggested we leave.  It seemed like a good idea, so we did.

As I staggered to the sink, and closed my eyes for a few seconds, realization dawned.  There was a good reason as to why I had no hangover.

I wasn’t quite done being drunk.

That truth brought a grin to my face.   There was time to get on top of this thing, and that’s what I did.  I made a beeline for the water cooler and started loading up, in an attempt to stave off dehydration.

Work of course was a complete write-off.  I tried.  My eyes rebelled though.  Bad enough that they were red and watery.  Asking them to look at a computer screen was too much.  I brought a newspaper to work with me too, and was just as successful getting through that.

Finally, after lunch, I put my feet up on my desk, and thought “just a couple of minutes of shut-eye should do it.”  In theory, it’s supposed to work.  I nodded, and jerked awake, only to hear the ongoing sounds of productive work being done by my colleagues.   Figuring it was safe, and no one could see me, I closed my eyes once again.

And woke up startled once again.  This time, there were no sounds around me.  I’m not positive, because I was unconscious at the time, but there’s a 95%  chance I snored out loud.   No one was that uncouth as to ask about the state of my consciousness.  For that, I was grateful.  Had they done so though, I would have laughed.  What are you doing to do?

It’s not as if I regularly close down bars and try to work the next day.  A family member suggested I “work” from home.  In retrospect – that was a damned good idea.

I gave up trying to nap.  It wasn’t working and I was still pretty much dragged out.  Placing my feet back on the floor, I pulled my chair over to the computer, only to hear my cell phone ring.

“Sir?  We have an appointment for you.”

I was stunned.  I’d been waiting for this phone call for four weeks.  It was the doctor’s office, letting me know I have an appointment to be assessed for ADHD/ADD.  I had been calling them once a week, looking for that appointment, and they hadn’t gotten back to me.

Until now.

I was elated!   Finally – a time and date.   She gave me the details and we hung up.

It’s like you have this limp all of your life, which prevents you from full-out running.   You think everyone has this limp; that it’s normal, and that you’re just not trying hard enough to run, because you see other people around you running just fine.   And then someone comes to you one day and says “you realize that there’s a group of people who limp the same way you do, and that they’re born with this limp, and that there are ways to get around it, so that you can run like the rest.”

The elation only lasted for a while though – I still had the lack of sleep and the after-effects of the full-on drunkfest to deal with.  So I returned to earth, a little regretfully, but happy just the same, both with the memory of last night, and this news percolating gently on my brain.

It’s in the beginning of July.  Closer than I thought but still pretty far away.

Still – I can’t wait.

Act Your Age

Posted: March 29, 2010 in humor, Life
Tags: , , ,
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I saw a gorgeous woman today.  She had to be in her 50’s but…she had a gorgeous presence about her.  An elegance and wonderful shine to her that wouldn’t quit.  Right away I surprised myself by giving into an impulse – to check her left hand for a ring.

It wasn’t just that she was svelte, or that she took such great and obvious care of her physique, her clothing and her hair.  I mean, that was all part of the package, but…she had a body language that spoke of confidence, of girlishness without compromise, regret or apology. 

I saw all of that within ten seconds.  She was on a mission somewhere and so was I.   We’ll likely never meet again.

Later on, I saw a comment on a friend’s Facebook wall, written by a stranger:  “the only thing worse than someone dressing their age is someone dressing as if they were still the age you want them to be.  Look in your closets people!  We all grow old…”

What utter shit!  There’s so much wrong with that statement, and I don’t mean just the grammar.  Basically what that’s telling me, is that when I get to be age 60, I should be prepared to put on a pair of old man’s pants, hike them up to my nipples and therefore be prepared in case of an ad hoc flood or two.

And women should just dye their hair blue, find the most baggy Mrs. Roper outfit they can find, and sit around blinking their Betty Davis eyes in constant surprise.  That is, when they’re not out playing bingo with their troll dolls.

Don’t get me wrong – I have an idea of what the guy was talking about.  I’ve seen all kinds of people wearing spandex, when they really really really shouldn’t.  I just think he took his point about a mile too far.

Someone once said that every time they look in the mirror, they’re shocked.  They expect to see a 20-something person looking back at them and can’t understand why a 40-something face is staring at them.    No worries, folk – you won’t read me saying something as abhorrent as “you’re only as old as you feel” or “she’s 953 years young”.  Nope.  You won’t read that here.

The fact is though – in our society we have a tendency to hurry the process.   Why does a 31-year old girl feel the need to wear dowdy clothing, and sport a coiffure worthy of Phyllis Diller?   It happens.  It really does.  It’s so disappointing and sad.   She obviously feels this is how she should look.  Someone fed her a line of bullshit and she scooped it up with a spoon.

I’m convinced it starts when we’re young, when some well-meaning but exasperated parent says “act your age!”.   When they say that, we have no point of reference, do we?  We hear that and we process it as “act older”.   And once we start down that road, we don’t know when to stop.   So many of us end up interpreting it as “stop growing, start aging already.”

Prepare yourself.  There’s a wide open grave with your name on it.   Get ready to jump.  Got your will in order?  Do you have any money in the bank to leave for the kids?  We’re going to give you a warning signal, so that you can get a running start.  When I say the word “retirement”, then…GO!!!  Run as fast to the cemetary as your wrinkled feet will go.  Smell the flowers?  FUCK the flowers!  That headstone won’t wait forever.

Fellow bloggers and readers, let me tell you something.  Indulge me, OK?  This won’t take long.

When a friend of mine talked me into taking improvisational comedy courses, she had no idea what it would do to me.   Performing in front of others was OK as long as it was scripted.   But this wasn’t scripted.  We were told to use our imagination.  Play.  Pretend we were someone else.  Build a history, and work within that character to create a scene with one or two or bunch of other people. 

“But….what if I don’t have any ideas?”

“Well.  Let’s see. Were you ever a kid?  I mean, ever in your life – did you at any time arrive at the age of five, seven or nine?”

Nod.

“Remember what you did back then?  Remember how you formed characters and situations and you played them with your friends with all seriousness, as if your character was real?  Remember how much fun that was?”

“Yes.”

“It’s just like that.  Children just let go.  They have no social filters.   They adopt and drop characters like crazy, just doing whatever comes into their minds.  Their main purpose is to have fun.  That’s what you have to do.  Become a kid again.”

You know what?  *smiling*  It worked.  I mean, sure we – I – looked as goofy as hell.  I began not to care though – this was too much fun.  I had learned what it meant to be a kid again.  And now I can’t shut it off, even if I wanted to.   I’ll blurt stuff out in serious meetings sometimes.  Others will look at me as if I’ve lost my marbles (and heck – maybe I have).   That stunned silence lasts for a few seconds until the laughter starts.   Fun.  So much fun.

The second thing:  my most favourite book ever is a small novel called “Jitterbug Perfume”.  I recommend it to anyone and everyone (and have mentioned even here in these blogs at least a couple of times).   I don’t know if the author intended this or not, but the book has acted as elixir of youth, not just for me but for countless people who have eyes to read.   I’m not spoiling it too much when telling you that the main character – a king named Alobar – makes a decision that he’s not going to age. 

It’s a decision anyone can make, when you get right down to it.   It flies in the face of science, and more importantly, of tradition.  Who said tradition was the be-all and end-all arbiter of our progress anyway?  Scientists will tell you that not everything that can be known is known.  They do know we only use about 10% of our brains. 

So why the rush to the grave anyway?  Who do we accommodate when we do this?  Not ourselves, certainly, and not our families either.  Something to consider. 

If I decide I’m going to dress up in wide-cuff bell bottoms, dye my hair purple and green, and put some piercings in my face, just because I want and need to express myself that way, who is anyone to tell me I’m not socially acceptable? 

If you decide to do something outlandish, like the 80-year old woman who had never sky-dived and had suddenly decided this was something she needed to do, who is ANYONE to tell her to act her age?

Aging is for lazy wimps.  It’s for other people.  Not you.  Not me.

TV Gem

Posted: March 26, 2010 in Life
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35

There’s a unique sitcom TV show currently playing, called “Modern Family”.

I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising that the show is an amazing success, given that one of the creators is Christopher Lloyd.  Still, it surprised me.

Each week, we follow at least different story threads, burped across our screens by the patriarch and his robbed-cradle bride (and her son from a previous marriage); his gay son and his very large lover (the latter of whom wears his overly large heart on his sleeve – you can’t help but appreciate him); and his daughter, her goofy husband and their three kids.  There things I like about it, are: 1) that it tries very hard to avoid clichés; and 2) that it beautifully portrays the heart and soul of a truly loving extended family.   The guys in the crowd who are reading this need not run away at this point:  this is no chick flick.  There’s enough comedy to keep everyone happy, but the thing is:  there are no cynical conclusions being reached here, as is the case with so many TV shows and movies.

The impulse to write this blog tonight, and specifically about this program, comes from a PVR viewing of the show this evening.  Fortunately, there is a variety of TV shows which, because of their exceptional quality, have found a place on my permanent-record list, and this – Modern Family – is one of them.  I say “fortunate” because I’ve been on a work trip to Ottawa this week and so wasn’t around to enjoy these shows.    So I watched some tonight.

This particular episode of Modern Family had one story thread that riveted my wayward attention to the screen for the duration:  it concerned the goofy father and his equally scattered young son.   One of his daughters – the very bright one, named Alex – mentioned in passing that perhaps Luke – the son – might have ADHD.   Luke objects “I do not!  What’s ADHD?”

Alex replies “I’d tell you but….” and at that point Luke wanders away, and she finishes with “you’d leave before I got to the ‘H'”

The more I saw of this story thread, the more I realized a couple of things.  First, that it got the symptoms of ADHD down exactly right.  They didn’t use Alex just to preach to us what those were; instead we got to see it acted out by the father and son, each oblivious to the typical ADHD actions of the other.   The mother was exasperated and was at her wit’s end with her son’s complete lack of focus, so we saw the father attempt to oversee his son as he worked on a school project that was due the next day.

The father had to go down to the garage to get something (I honestly forget what it was, and attribute that lack of detail to my own problems with focus), and as he stepped into the room, he got distracted by an overhead light that was flickering.  So he got up and opened up the light fixture to see what was wrong with the bulb, when he realized, from that new height, that he had found his sunglasses, which were dangerously perched on the top of a shelf.  As we see him lose the focus for the flickering light and latch on to the sunglasses, we hear Alex talking through some of the ADHD symptoms with her mother while the father acts them out.  And we see the light of realization dawn in the mother’s eyes at the same time.  Alex mentions that one of the symptoms involve ADHD folk getting into accidents, while we see Phil (the husband) put a bench down and put a chair on top of it, just so that he can climb up to get the sunglasses on the top of the shelf.  Then we see him fall, just as Alex finishes listing the ADHD symptoms.  Clair (the mother) rushes out to the garage to see if he’s OK (he is).

I was simply amazed at all of this.  Which brings me to the second realization:  I have done all of this!  All of it.  I’ve put myself in danger to fulfill an immediate impulse like fixing something high up and using precariously-placed chairs and tables to do so.  I have had immediate goals, only to have them immediately supplanted with new goals as other items come into focus, with the end result being that I’ll end up at the end of the day doing something completely divorced and disconnected from my original goal.  Many of the goals I hit upon during that day never actually get completed.

I can go into the bedroom for a pair of socks and end up being late for an appointment because I got involved with a photo album I hadn’t seen in ages.

This frustrates others in my life to a high degree.  People who think I’m just being rude or inconsiderate. One friend read me the riot act, because she was so hurt that I was always late whenever we decided to get together.  She told me that from here on in, if I didn’t arrive on time when we were to get together, she would leave.   To be fair, she had a problem with others in her life who did the same thing and she was certain they just didn’t value her enough.

It’s not that I’m inconsiderate or wrapped up in myself.  Let me tell you what it is though:

These baubles, these shiny thoughts and interruptions hit people like me with their immediacy.  Knowing my propensity for losing focus has meant that I worry that some important things won’t get done.  Hence, the habit of putting myself in physical danger in order to fulfill the impulse *now*, before it has a chance to run away from me.

I also talk very fast sometimes, and people have to tell me to slow down.  I now realize:  it’s because of the thunderous crowd of thoughts that I want to make sure and touch on, and I’m worried I’ll lose them before getting a chance to say them.

Some of us use lists to make sure stuff gets done.  I use my iPhone and make sure everything that is critical gets scheduled.  This works to a degree because each important item is attached to multiple alarms.  And really, what better way to gain focus on the important stuff than to have a jingly little bell taking your focus and forcefully and repeatedly reminding you?

“Ding! Ding”  (Oh.  Time to get ready for the next meeting.   Wait.   There’s that email I was looking for.  And there it is right there – he *did* say he would take on that responsibility.  Maybe I’d better send it to him just to remind him.  And….wait.  Is that the new meeting notice I’ve been waiting for?  Wow.  I wondered——)

“I said DING DING, BITCH!”  (Right.  Get to the meeting)

(Ok that was a joke, but maybe I should design an actual ring tone that says that.  Maybe I can find one that’s already on the net somewhere…and….)

*waves single finger in front of my eyes*  FOOOOCUS.

Right.

Maybe you have these symptoms.  Or maybe there’s someone in your life who drives you just to the edge of insane, and you know if he or she misses one more appointment, or falls and hurts him or herself one more time, you’ll go over the edge.

Anyway – it’s something to think about.

(I hope that TV show wins an award or something)

NightWolf

Posted: March 22, 2010 in Life
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22

Some things are designed to fail.

Right away you’re thinking of that car or gadget you own, that has a one-year warranty, and you’re recalling how, one or two days after the warranty ran out, the ass end of whatever it is you’re thinking about fell off.

While that’s funny (if you’re not the one who owns the thing) this isn’t what I wanted to talk about.  You can, though.  Down there in the comments.

I was thinking about how you can be your own worst enemy, and that sometimes, failure can be a good thing.

Ever since I was a youngster I’ve been more alive at night.  I have no idea why this is, but I’ve grown to accept it.  Some of the best ideas come at night, and some of the best passions present themselves in the late night/early morning hours.  There’s just a clarity there, a shining sharp-edged knowledge that you can’t ignore or pretend isn’t there.

Lately, having come to terms with what I think might be an ADD issue, there has been acceptance of the fact that when my mind gets going – usually in the early morning hours – it’s pointless to stay in bed, tossing and turning.   Sometimes it’s possible to fool myself:  I’ll pretend that someone has come into the bedroom, someone I don’t want to talk to, and I’ll just lay there mimicking sleep.  The mimicking part is what does it:  time after time, the pretend-sleep has turned into real sleep.   (Man, I’m so happy when that happens).

Lately though, it hasn’t been working.

And sometimes I stay up long past the time when I should be dozing off.   Take this past weekend for example.

I knew full well that the limousine would be arriving at 7:15 a.m. Monday to take me to the airport.  I knew this, yet made the choice to stay up very late on Saturday night.  In fact, I didn’t hit the sack until 4:00 a.m. Sunday morning.  (What?  I was thinking, and writing and having a blast)

So of course I made a point of going to bed on Sunday night at 10:00, figuring I’d get up at 5:00 a.m., thus allowing a seven hour sleep.

Yeah, right.

10:00 came and went, and I hadn’t gotten around to crawling into bed.  I forced myself to go to bed at 11:30.  I thought “Ok so that’s five and a half hour’s sleep.  Not so bad.”    Something inside told me that wasn’t enough, so I set the alarm for 5:30.  That should provide enough time to pack and be ready for the 7:00 a.m. ride.

Well, wouldn’t you know it?  The bed was uncomfortable.  I scrunched up and made sure the pillow was big enough and sitting just right under my neck.

Then I had to turn over, and do the same thing again.

“Wait” I though.  “It’s too noisy in here.  Damn it.”  I forgot to wear my ear plugs.  (Have to keep the window open because the apartment is too warm.  This allows some fresh air in.  The street noises all gang up and saunter in that same window and set up a party in my room.)

I threw the covers off, and went looking for the ear plugs.  Ew.  I had used those ones too often.  Seemed like a good idea to get some new ones.  So off I went into the kitchen and found a fresh pair.

“There” I thought.  “Much better.”  And once again I situated myself under the sheets.

I thought about the next day, about meeting my new boss, and what I would tell him.  I wondered if he would understand some of the pressures our virtual team would face, and what I could do or say to help him understand.  I played around with different approaches, imagined his reactions, thought about how others would factor in, and what new ideas they would bring.  And….

“DAMN IT”  I threw the covers off.  It was hopeless.  I wandered out to the living room and started to watch the last half of Desperate Housewives.  (What?  Are you kidding me?  It’s got Teri Hatcher and Eva Longoria Parker – two of the hottest babes on TV these days.  Not to mention Julie Benz, of Dexter fame, who recently joined the cast.)

I shut the TV off and went to my bedroom, a little sleepier than before.  Then I got on the computer, made sure all the comments on my blogs were answered, then checked MySpace and Facebook to make sure everything was answered there too.  And then checked out all the MySpace blogs to make sure I read and commented on them.

Finally, at 2:30 I fell back into bed.

Today I’m dragging.   Clearly, normal human hours aren’t for me.  A rock star’s schedule seems more fitting.

May have to do something about that.

Oh, and P.S. – if you have an ADD thing and you’ve had no sleep at all I can tell you that the very worst thing in the world is to get a seat on an airplane right next to a wide-awake guy with apparent ADD.  He showed all the symptoms and none of the restraint:  his leg wouldn’t stop jumping up and down and oh dear Lord he was LOUD.   Like ALL THE TIME.  He had no filter either – whatever he thought about came out his wide open mouth.    So there was no sleep on the plane either.

I blame myself.

Passion

Posted: March 21, 2010 in Life
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Someone asked me tonight what my passion was.

I had to think what my answer would be.

And then I had to think about the question itself.

When I think about how many years I let slip by, just coasting and getting along with folk in this western world of almost unlimited freedom, I’m a little ashamed.   We can do what we want, within the means given to us (and let’s face it – we have a lot going for us, no matter how poor we may be), and yet we squander it away.  *I* squander it away – watching TV and relaxing at the end of the day.

(Protests that there’s nothing wrong with relaxing after a busy day are going to be ignored.  We all know that’s true but it’s beside the point.  You know what I mean.)

Day after day, TV program after TV program can slowly swallow your days.  You can be the frog in the cold water, just sitting there – *relaxing* – while The Man turns up the burner on the stove.

Fuck that.

I tried to remember what it was that made my blood boil; what it was that got my wandering attention; what…thing….hammered a nail in my hand.

“Life.  I’m passionate about living.”

“Total cop-out.  Everyone can say that.  What gets you passionate?”

Even though what I just said was true, I thought some more.

“Art”.

“Not specific enough.  Try again.”

It’s true, as far as it goes.  When I left the assembly line to the computer keyboard, I was amazed at technology and what it could do.  Still am.  It excites me, gets my ADD thoughts twirling around in colliding bits of wonder.

Eventually though the coloured lights diminish, like mental snow globe flakes settling to the bottom.   Sooner or later you come to the limits of what’s possible and available now in technology and boredom pokes its head in the door, sniffing at your discontent.  The distracted prey might not be aware when it makes its way fully in, depositing a big steaming pile of anguished disgruntlement.   One remedy for boredom:  TV.   Books.    Those have always worked for me.

Abe (see blogroll – Word of Abe) painted a picture of one of his motorcycle trips, and a moment that put everything in crystal clarity for him.   I’ve had moments like those.  They’re usually so rare and they go by so fast that it’s hard to hang on to them.

I remembered attending an Anglican cathedral night gathering, with the glow of warm lights only appearing at the altar end of the massive pillared place.  The outer edges and walls were lost in darkness.   The uniquely beautiful and decidedly untraditional music notes produced by a variety of wind, brass and electrical instruments, combined with harmonious voices wafted throughout that place, curling around pillars and up into the darkness of the invisible stone ceiling, making the heart swell with joy.  You couldn’t escape it.  I didn’t recognize any of the music or knew the words, but I remember just standing there, bathing in it, hoping it would never end.   None of the songs ever ended abruptly.  The instruments would cease, and the voices would slowly collapse into a fading harmonious hum.

In school, I joined the band and played various percussive instruments:  drums, timpani, bells and the xylophone.   Collectively our band never achieved the same joy of that Anglican church gathering, but – we created our own joy, just different.  Not every song was dynamic, and some were downright hideous really.   Occasionally our band leader would pick a song and I knew – just *knew* – it was right.  It would make the heart thump hard, and you could almost visibly see a change in the musicians as we did our level best to perfect the song.

The piano lessons I had taken since I was small kid had culminated in the achievement of the passing of the Grade Nine Royal Conservatory exam.   I was proud but it didn’t move me that much.  I figured piano wasn’t my deal.  I stopped playing, I thought, for good.

Until I took it up again when I played at the front of our church with an absolutely awesome and gifted guitarist.   His exhibited an intent and energy to move out of the shallow waters and into the deep dark waters of creativity.   This drove me until I finally found a pure joy in a creativity of my own.   We sparked off of each other, there at the front of that little church.  There were other singers there and a drummer as well but on so many Sundays it was him and me, going off into riffs of music that were never in the original scores of the music we played.  John created some of his own songs, and we worked them out with abandon and delight.   We would extend a three-minute song into fifteen minutes, just improvising and playing back and forth.  First, he would take the lead and I would provide a backdrop of musical harmonious noise; then, he would drop back and provide rhythm while I walked up and down those keys, trying different things and riffing as if no one else was in the room.

I remember smiling.  I remember looking at the congregation and seeing them with their eyes closed.

Passion.

There’s a scene in a movie called Rock Star, where Mark Wahlberg (who plays the rock star “Izzy”) is standing next to Jennifer Aniston with a group of people, and he throws his head back and bursts out in the raunchiest of singing notes.   I remember sitting in the theater and feeling shivers go up and down my spine in focused empathy.

Passion.

I revised my answer:  “Music”

“Listening or playing?”

I considered the question.  Then, “both”.

“There you go.”

I really want to play again.  I don’t have a piano.

That can and will be remedied.

The seduction of the couch continues to beckon me, as it does so many other people.   The impulse to relax and do nothing, except complain on occasion, needs to be fought with rushing blood, from the depth of bone.

I have fallen into the trap of minute concerns, the constant frustration of attempting to sweep up inconsequential marbles:   what will I do on Friday night, time to pay some bills, get my dry cleaning, should I hire a housekeeper, hope there’s time to read the newspaper before heading to work, will I gain weight if I put some cheese on my salad.

The noise of minutiae drowns out the howling wolf who just needs to *run*.

Passion.

I wonder:  if we’re not pursuing passion, are we just putting in time?

What passion have you let slide?

Skinny

Posted: March 19, 2010 in humor, Life
Tags: , ,
23

One of the highlights of each week involves crawling out of bed on Saturday morning, getting washed and dressed, avoiding breakfast, and heading on over to the local Jenny Craig outlet, there to visit with some of the city’s most beautiful women.  Getting weighed in is an added bonus.

This has been a routine for about five years now, I think.

In a previous incarnation (read: before five years ago), I was over 300 pounds.  I don’t know by how much, on account of I stopped checking once I hit the 300 mark.   I don’t think I ever managed to attain Beast level, which is 350 pounds.  I probably got pretty close though.

It’s a funny thing – when you’re not self-aware, you can miss so much.  Like the fact that I was not only fat, but my life was in danger.  I didn’t know I was fat.  I know that just as sure as I know that the last sentence doesn’t make any kind of logical sense.  In my mind’s eye, I was still the teenage boy who couldn’t get over 128 pounds.  Ever.  I remember looking in the mirror back then, breathing in, and being able to count my ribs.   I suppose semi-starvation will do that to you.

One day some nasty evil family member took a side photo of me, sitting at the dining room table with my family.   That wasn’t nice of them at all.  And then, to add insult to horror, they showed it to me.

And that’s when I knew I was fat.   I wasn’t overweight, stout, big-boned or obese.  I was friggin’ FAT.

I had to do something about it.

In looking around, I saw other friends who had become overweight.  I saw them start various starvation diets, and fad diets, lose weight and gain it all back again.

Then, when I was doing improvisational comedy, I met this beautiful blue-eyed blonde girl.  She saw my shyness and something clicked for her, so she made it a point to draw me into her crowd and we became friends.

I only learned about six months later that she had once been overweight too, and had gone to Jenny Craig.   When we met up for the first time, she had been out of the Jenny Craig program for two years, and had – obviously – kept the weight off.

That was good enough for me.   I joined.  I lost.  And lost, and am still losing.

Yes, it’s been five years, and I’ve gained a little back now and then but for the most part, the slide has been a very very slow slide downward.  They say that’s the best way to lose.  If you lose it gradually (just as you gained it gradually) you have a better chance of keeping it off.  I agree.

My Jenny Craig counselor is a gorgeous laughing brunette named Maria.     Every week she weighs me in, and then we sit down and talk about the previous week.

“What’s the plastic bag for?” she asked me.

“Um, well that’s something to have so that I can empty my pockets before getting weighed in.”  I then proceeded to put in my wallet, keys, change, iPhone, ebook reader, and everything else you can think of into it.

“Oh” she said, thinking.  “So that’s kind of like your purse, huh?”  Her blue eyes were twinkling, even though she kept a straight face.

I looked at her.   And then I smirked.   “No.  Get it right.  It’s not a purse.  It’s a murse.   A man-purse.”

She laughed.

One of the things we talk about is technology.  She is severely behind the times when it comes to the latest gadget, even though she thinks the iPhone is pretty neat.   I have counseled her about it, advising her when to buy, and what to get in terms of a data plan.

Last week as we sat in her office she said “guess what?  You’ll never guess what I got.”

I looked at her.  “An iPhone?”

She grinned.  “No.  An iPod thingy.”

I chuckled.  “You mean an iPod Touch?”

“YES!  That’s it!  An iPod Touch!”

I shook my head in disbelief.  “Maria, Maria.”

“What?”

“An iPod Touch?  Really?  Why didn’t you go all the way and get an iPhone?”

“Well I…”

“And what size did you get?  Tell me you got a 32-Gig model”

“No. I got a 16-Gig.  Why?”

I grinned.  “You know what this is like?  This is like you going on The Price is Right and having Bob Barker announce that you’ve just won a brand-new 2010 Chevy….windshield wiper”

She laughed.  “No.  I want to get an iPhone someday but the guy at the shop told me the timing is wrong.”

[Note: when she read this blog, she corrected me.  She actually got an 8-Gig iPod Touch.  I’m shaking my head sadly in shame over here]

We talked some more and then she weighed me in.   I had lost another pound.

When I lose weight, Maria likes to put a sticky on my record.  After doing the customary male pride rejection of that idea – and after she persisted anyway – I gave in (really, I didn’t have a chance – her and her idea were just both too cute).   Every time I lose weight now, she drags out that sticker book and announces that I’m getting another one.   It makes me smile every time.

When she got out the sticker book last week, I thought about our iPod Touch conversation.  “Hey can I pick out the sticker this week?”

She gave me the book.  “Sure!  Go ahead.”

I hunted around for a good one, struggled to get it out, and then, instead of placing it on my record I grabbed her arm and affixed it to the back of her hand.  “There.  That’s your prize for getting an iPod Touch.”

She laughed.

And you wonder why I like Saturdays so much.

*********

Hope you have a great weekend!

Skin

Posted: March 18, 2010 in dating, Life
Tags: , , ,
12

The Beast had the blackest hair of anyone I ever knew.  And his skin was dark.   Mom was whiter than snow.  You can see how they were attracted to each other.

I kind of imagine him as a the evil fairy stepfather.  “Mirror mirror on the wall, who’s got the most awesomest black hair, like EVER, man?”

Mirror:  “You used to reign o’er all the rest of course…..but your second-born child’s head will be blacker than yours…”

(Ok he was not my stepfather.  He was my father.)

(Artistic license)

Oh, and I was the first born.  The second-born (out of a total of six) was my sister.

We never gave any thought to our colouring – hair or skin – until later on in life, when the fact of our native heritage came up.  We are Mohawks.   Indians.  People of the First Nations.

We grew up, however, in a pure Caucasian society: school, Catholic Church, white picket fence neighbourhood.  We never suffered any of the stereotypical put-downs that other native kids put up with – the idea that all natives are drunks, for example, or that we give gifts only to take them back immediately (Indian-givers).    Mostly because the majority of the kids didn’t look native.  I sure as hell don’t (check my profile pic).  And my youngest sister has blonde hair and blue-green eyes.  So there you go.

Still, we are all true Mohawks, and we have our government-issued status cards as proof.   Some of that heritage has shown up in different ways.   One of my sisters makes dream-catchers, which she sells.  Another has delved deeply into Mohawk culture (as has a cousin of mine); she joined a Mohawk association and even attempted to learn the language.

I think it has shown up in my life with respect to The Wolf.  I don’t talk about it very much (and hardly ever in real life) yet some people have picked up on it.  If you were to come into my home, you’d see a number of wolf pictures on the walls and a wolf calendar in the kitchen.  I wrote a blog here, called “Wolf” which better explains it.

Skin colour generally hasn’t been very high on my radar when it comes to friends or dating.  Don’t know why, really – it’s not like I’m an advocate of political correctness or anything.  Teenage lust knows no barriers – or at least that’s my thinking.  I dated dark-skinned girls as well as light.  As long as we both agreed that I rocked, there wasn’t much more to consider.

A few years ago, when I was going full-steam as an actor (largely underpaid, if at all), I was part of a group of Canadian actors on a forum.   We met in person a few times a year for dinner and drinks.   At one such gathering, I found myself surrounded with gorgeous women, some of whom – to my *thank God* appreciation – were single.

One of them – a very short, dark-haired little Persian girl – noticed me, but evidently (she complained later) I didn’t notice her.   I explained that it wasn’t that I didn’t notice her – I did. It was that she was way too pretty, and probably out of my league.  So I saw her, and dismissed her.  Like that.

After dinner was done, and a bunch of us decided to go bar-hopping, she hung around and came with us.   Eventually we got to talking, and flirting.  Eventually there were just three of us: her, another woman (who I could tell wanted to pursue something with me) and me.   The dynamic was awkward.  I wanted to be with the cute little thing, and wasn’t attracted at all to the other girl (oh dear Lord – listen to this – two women interested in me, and I’m complaining that it’s awkward.  And that my uncle left me way too much money).

So there we were – all three of us – out on the dance floor, dancing together.    At one point, the other girl – let’s call her Blondie – left to get more drinks, while the cute little thing – let’s call her Cutie – and I continued to dance.   Our eyes caught, and she smiled.  I could feel myself smiling too, and we started to dance toward each other.   I couldn’t believe it, frankly.  When we were close enough, she reached up (waaaay up), placed her hands around my neck while I placed mine around her body and we pulled each other in close for the most passionate kiss I have ever had.   God it was hot.   We just stood there, giving each other the most x-rated kiss ever,  while the rest of the room danced around us.

We kept checking for Blondie, and when she got back to us, we broke away quickly.   Of course, now that we knew the score – Cutie and I – things got even more awkward.  I can’t recall how we managed to dissolve the triangle but we did.

As the two of us walked later on that night (well early morning actually) she said “I have never kissed a boy like that!”

I said ” same here.”

A while later, I added “I have never kissed a boy like that either.”

She laughed and punched me in the arm.

All that time – when we walked together, or made other people in the street or on the bus uncomfortable with our non-stop amorous and oh-so-public displays of affection, our skin colour was just never an issue.  It never came up.

Except once.    We were holding hands, and just sitting quietly together.  Both of us were looking at our joined hands – hers was so very dark, and mine was snow-white.   And we both laughed, right at the same time.

“Wow” she said.

“Yeah”.

We grinned at each other.

There really was nothing else to say.

Guilty Pleasures

Posted: March 17, 2010 in humor, Life
Tags: , , , ,
35

“So, what do you do in your spare time?”

The question was number 583 of the typical first date question list.  I knew this one by heart by now.

“I like to read a lot.” 

(My subconscious whispered “when I’m not killing aliens on my Playstation 3”.   My subconscious does that a lot.  Provides the inappropriate answer when I’m talking.  Sometimes it blurts it, actually.  And sometimes my mouth gangs up with my subconscious and some of the alarming stuff make it to the open air.  I like it when that happens.  Sort of.)

“Me too.  What do you read?  The classics?” she asked.

“Um, no.  I read espionage thrillers.”

“Oh.  Spy novels.”  Her disappointment was acute and embarrassing.  Evidently I was definitely not the super-intellectual she had mistaken me for. 

(“As evidenced by the placement of the preposition you decided belongs at the end of  the last sentence.”) 

(Note to subconscious: Ok shut up.  Shut up now.)

I’m pretty sure that was the turning point in our date.   She was not impressed, and I wasn’t impressed with her either.  Ah well.  Let’s see if date number 241.5 works out. 

(“Why the .5?  You didn’t date any midgets did you?”) 

(Subconscious:  they’re not called midgets.  They’re little people.  And no.  And once again: shut up)

So yes, I read spy novels.  Notably: books by Brad Thor, Alex Berenson, Daniel Silva, James Patterson, Vince Flynn and Barry Eisler.  I’m sure there are others out there – I just need to find them. 

(“Tell them why you read these”.)  

(Dude, seriously – you’re distracting me.  I’ll get to it.)

I read them, partly because my brain just loves shiny things – action, constant movement, attracts my attention and keeps me somewhat focussed.  Focus is a problem, so reading stuff like this, where the conflict and tension keeps rising is like a soothing balm to my psyche.   

I also read them because they satisfy, to a degree, the side of me that longs for justice.  

(“You’re not going there.  You’re not getting serious are you?”) 

(Yes.  Yes I am.  But only for a moment or two, aiight?)

Post-911, it seems that western society at large wants to have a freaking dialogue with terrorists.  The images of those towers falling and people falling or jumping from them remains a permanent fixture  in my memory.  A good friend of mine – a doctor, who lived in the U.S. but has since moved to Panama – told me right after 9/11 “just you watch:  this will all fade from American thought within two to three years, and people will go back to wanting to ‘just talk’ with Muslim extremists”.   To my horror and outrage, he was right.   Oh dear Lord, I could write a monstrous treatise on all of this and about how wrong-headed we are, but that would be another blog, and THIS one isn’t about foreign relations or terrorism or politics.   There will be one though, so you’ve been warned. 

‘K?

So anyway, my guilty pleasure is that I read these books for the fiction-based sense of justice they bring – where the good guys *know* (because they’ve investigated and found evidence) that the bad guys want to blow up stuff.  And, knowing that American politicians want to see the terrorists tried in open court and then jailed if found guilty, only to be let free to terrorize again eventually, the good guys take care of business.  I know it’s juvenile, and I’m OK with it. 

There were other guilty pleasures.  Like chocolate – the Achilles’ Heel to my Jenny Craig protocol. 

(“See?  You’re not a stumblebum: you used an ancient reference.”) 

(Yeah, I wasn’t worried.  You, on the other hand – well you said ‘stumblebum’ didn’t you?)

(“BLEAH”) 

(Oh that’s ugly.  Put your tongue back in your mouth.)

Also wine.  There was a time I drank wine every day.  I liked it so much that I worried about liking it so much, and so I stopped just to make sure I could.  Didn’t drink it for a month.  Satisfied myself that I wasn’t dependant on it.

Oh and let’s not forget gadgets.  I LOVE my gadgets:  it started off with my PalmPilot…..

(“*snicker*”)

(What?)

Anyway, then I purchased anything and everything that was electronic, computerized and new.  When the iPhone came to Canada I was the first in line at my local store to buy one.  And the next year when the iPhone 3G came out, once again I was first in line.   There’s a rumour that there’s a new one this year too, and I plan to be first in line.  Plus, I plan to buy an iPad, which will replace the Sony PRS-600 ebook reader I bought just a few months ago.

(“Why you aren’t fending the babes off, I’ll never know”)

(It’s not the gadgets, dude.  It’s the fact that you’re talking to me.)

(“Yes, and that you’re answering me”)

………

(Touché)

So…there you have it.  My guilty pleasures:  gadgets and reading.

I’m certain YOU have some guilty pleasures.   Mind telling me what they are?

The anti-religionist

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

In the thirty-minute walk from my home to work, I had a blog idea all sketched out.  And then when I got here, and used WordPress.com’s Tag Surfer to skim interesting blogs, I came across one that kind of twisted my head halfway off.

It was written by a young woman who appears to be slowly turning jaded by the comments and actions of people  in her church.

Ever have an itch you just can’t scratch?  That was my feeling as I read through her heart-felt disenchantment on religion in general.  You are not supposed to say that you hate anyone.  Especially when you’re in church.

I suppose I sympathize with her to a degree – it’s tough when the carefully assembled collage of dogma, built upon the warmth of your fellow believers, starts to turn an unpleasant shade of yellow.

It’s not that it has changed colours, actually.  It’s that you have.

Man. I was *not* ready to talk about this.

A girl I was out with recently (no, not the Russian beauty – another one), remarked in frustration that it’s now fashionable to be atheist.  We talked about that a bit.  I agreed with her, and wondered out loud if people in general had just become more realistic, more sophisticated.   There are those who are so disgusted by “Christian” talk, that they want to throw the baby out with the bath water.   The equation goes something like this:  if these people represent what God is supposed to be like (including Fred Phelps of “God Hates Fags” fame), and they’re so frigging hypocritical, then maybe God doesn’t exist.

It’s a dumb equation, built more upon emotion.  Of course science comes along with incontrovertible truths, and some use that to bolster their argument.   But the core is still the same: I have yet to find an atheist (although I’m certain some exist) who at their core aren’t emotional about their atheism.   

Agnostics have more credibility, at least for me:  most that I’ve known will acknowledge that you can’t know whether there’s a God or not.  You can only guess or you can have faith.  I respect that, because I think it’s honest.

Getting back to our disenchanted woman:  I suppose if she and I were to chat I would tell her that I believe in God but absolutely have no belief or trust in religion.   I see religion as a social system, with built-in safeguards and fail-safes, much of which involves circular reasoning.   “The Bible is true. How do we know?  Because it says it is.”

You just can’t break into that “logic”.  Don’t get me wrong – I’m using this as a typical example.  I have no problem with the Bible, none whatsoever.  I arrived at my faith because of it.

The mindset that came up with that reasoning is – to use a Star Trek reference – kind of like the Borg:  it’s composed of multiple people over many centuries, is self-defining, entirely interlaced and hence unbreakable.  My experience leads me to conclude that to get some clear thinking, you need to break away from it. 

Breaking away from (what they call) “the church” is a scary experience.   Fear is a great motivator.  “You’ll be lost, without hope, if you go away from the church”.   What they don’t say, but what everyone understands is that you’ll be a backslider, to be avoided – unless to invite you back to the fold.

I stopped going, and began to realize that my love of God wasn’t threatened in the least.  It provided an opportunity to *think* – using the magical God-given organ – my brain.    I thought about what it means to be someone who was made “in the image of God”.   Logically, it doesn’t make sense that we’re talking the physical necessarily, and really – is our physicality the sum total of who we are?  

In my opinion, not likely:  the amazing amassing of intelligence and science, the industries built upon emotion (like the entertainment industry for example), the undeniable genius of our medical and space advances means that we are more than likely not just wandering meat-bags.  Anyway, it’s logical.

So.  What’s the relevance of the Bible and religion?   I would guess it’s a good starting point, particularly for those who need some sort of system to put every piece of the puzzle in place.   But grown men and women should probably think about acting as men and women and not children, who need to be told what to do every step of the way.  We like our religion, and our dogma and the company of other religionists:  it keeps us comfortable and more importantly – we feel safer with the safeguard of “the church” in place.

If God exists, and if we are built in His image, then our creativity, our ability to reason and think, all reflect Him.   And if that’s true, then we are obligated to remove our religious diapers and start walking on our own, making our own decisions, revelling in living life (and not just tolerating our existence until we get Our Reward in the afterlife).   Oh, and those who think sex is wrong:  well God made that too.  Time we stopped blushing at the idea of it.

Yes, I did not mean to talk about this today.  Our regularly scheduled program was preempted. It’s not my fault.  I wanted to talk about guilty pleasures.

Maybe tomorrow.

Bar

Posted: March 15, 2010 in Life, writing
Tags: , , ,
14

It was too early to go home.   The bar seemed to beckon me, with its warm lights and light jazz music. 

I mean, I’m not normally a jazz guy.  You’ll never catch me playing lounge music on the piano, with that sickening salesman grin.

Still though, there was something compelling about the whole thing.    Maybe it was that the one wall looked out over the busy street outside.  Maybe it was the mix of clientele: some were couples, and there was a mix of single people, from various walks of life, who were clearly just enjoying a drink on their own.  As I would shortly do.

I made my way in and sat down at a small table, next to a wooden pillar.  A short-haired blonde waitress came to the table and smiled.   “What can I get you honey?”

They always seem to call you honey.  Or maybe just the good ones do.  I don’t know.

“What do you have in a Chardonnay?” I asked.

“Well, we have Lindemann’s.”  She looked at the wine list that I hadn’t realized was there.  “Oh, and we have one from Argentina.  It’s new.”

I took the wine list from her and took a look.  The wine she had suggested was a little more expensive.  And has any true wine connoisseur will tell you: the only way to know whether a particular wine is good is to see if it costs more than the rest.    “I’ll have that.”

She smiled, and took the wine list.   “Ok honey.  Coming right up.”

There it was again.  Honey.  I could get used to that.

Maybe.  

I once went to a Keg Steakhouse restaurant and the guy serving drinks there called me honey too.  It just wasn’t the same, you know?

I took out my ebook reader and turned it on.  For the uninitiated, that’s an electronic device that holds a number of books on it, which you can read at your leisure.  It’s not the same as a real book, but for those who like to devour as much reading at one sitting as they can, it’s a godsend.

The waitress breathlessly came back with the glass of wine and plunked it down.   She started to scramble off but then stopped and turned.  “What’s that – if you don’t mind my asking?”

I looked up and smiled.  “Not at all.  It’s an ebook reader.”  I explained to her how it works.

“I don’t know.  I read a lot of books.  I don’t know if I could stand to have one of those.”  She looked away, clearly needing to go to her next table.  She looked back.  “Can I take a look?”

I handed it to her.   Her eyes lit up as she pressed various parts of the screen, looking through my collection of books.  I realized I hadn’t bookmarked my place and would need to take some time to find the page again.  It didn’t matter. 

She handed it back.   “There you go honey.  Thanks.  I’ll come back later and we’ll chat some more OK?”

“Sure” I said.

She never came back.  She was too busy. 

In the warmth of those lights, with the music playing, it didn’t matter.   The wine went down so smoothly, and I could feel the edges of reality start to blur, just a little bit.   I stayed for a few hours more, just reading and sipping wine, while the light jazz played unobtrusively in the background.  The outer edges of the restaurant were dark, and there were fewer cars rumbling outside on the street when I was finally ready to pay my tab and leave.

I exited out into the breezy Toronto night, aware that I’d experienced a genuine pleasure.  One of life’s little such pleasures, it seemed.

Subway

Posted: March 14, 2010 in Life
Tags: , , ,
16

It was late.  I had seen two movies and had decided to drop in to Future Shop to see what was up.

Big mistake.

I started looking at printers, as mine was an inkjet that was continually out of ink.  (Well, specifically, it kept drying up on me before I had a chance to use it).   Didn’t see anything I liked so I wandered around the store a bit.

Finally talked myself into buying a big-ass 27″ monitor and a software package as well.  Actually I had some help from the buzzing salesman whose greedy little eyes kept burning a hole in my ass, right where my wallet was.

Still, it wasn’t his fault.  I own that shit.  It was totally on me.

After they fashioned a handle for me (made of a plastic bag and about three yards of scotch tape), which they attached to the honking big box, I strained myself out of the store and down the escalator to the subway system, there to face about a forty-five minute ride home.

About three stops later, a tall very much overweight man waddled in, and plunked his track-panted ass down on a seat.  I watched him out of the corner of my eye.  You couldn’t help it – he was talking to himself, as so many  Torontonian subway riders tend to do.  I figure they’re just lonely in the big city, and since they don’t have anyone to go home to, they entertain themselves with what must pass for witty banter.  Every so often I pray to God that I never get to that point.  I mean, who knows?  You don’t know what tiny screw has been loosening in your head all of these years, and when it might just come out completely.

The disturbing thing about this man was the look in his eyes.  Like he was up to something mischievous, that only he and one other secret friend (himself) knew about.  As the train screeched along the tracks, I watched him wringing his hands, and grinning as he stared with blue eyes straight ahead through his long bangs and laughingly talked to himself quietly.

A couple of stops later, he got off, and I felt the muscles in my back and shoulders begin to relax.

It was a long ride, and I had an expensive piece of equipment in that large box, so I was disinclined to plug in my iPhone.   Some crackhead may have looked over and realized I had way too much technology in hand for one man to consume alone.   And let’s not even talk about the ebook reader I had stuffed in my upper inside leather coat pocket either.

So I sat there.  We sat there, really – all thirty of us or so, bored and alone, every one of us.   It’s a weird anomaly watching so many people looking at the subway advertisement, or at their feet – anywhere except at each other.  Scientists of the future will view this as the weirdest of social behaviours.   I’m certain of it.

My wandering eyes landed on another very large gentleman, who had his head up against the wall of the train, with his eyes closed.  He seemed to be a twin of the disturbing guy who just left, yet …. he was less disturbing.   Probably because he was asleep.   And he was wearing tan pants, not track pants.   I don’t know why that should make a difference.  Maybe it doesn’t.

Someone at the far end of the training noticed another guy wearing a hockey jersey.   “MATS SUNDIN!!   YO!!!   WOOOO!!!”   The jersey guy pumped his fist in the air and wooo’d back.   The large man opened his eyes and began looking around.

Right away I could tell that he wasn’t what the rest of us would call normal either.   He wasn’t disturbing though.  His face had a childlike innocence about it.   His gaze wandered over to the monitor box at my feet and then he looked at me and gave me the biggest smile.

I looked at him, and nodded in acknowledgement.   Mr. Cool.

Then I looked away, a little disconcerted and uncomfortable.    I paid close attention to some of the subway advertisements and pretended interest in them.   And as the guilt of my ignoring him settled softly on my shoulders, I wondered at my reaction.  Was I too cool, too macho to engage him?  Clearly he was too far away to talk, yet he seemed to be looking for attention.

I snuck a glance at him, and noticed he was looking down.  He seemed forlorn and sad.  The guilt on my shoulders pressed deeper and I realized how stupid I was being.

Still, my attention wandered around the subway car, the guy with the jersey, the hooter chorus, and finally back to him.  He was staring right at me and grinning again.  I held his gaze.  He pointed at the box, lifted his hands in the air, and mimicked someone typing.   I smiled back and nodded.

He continued smiling, and moved his right hand over and mimicked a mouse click.   I grinned and mouthed  “yup.  Computer”.

He kept typing away and clicking on the imaginary mouse, and I couldn’t help smiling.   Other people began looking over at him and then at me, entertained perhaps.  I don’t know.  I didn’t care.   I’ll be honest:  I still felt uncomfortable.  But who cares?

In a city of coldness, it seemed that one childlike man, unaware of the established and accepted social filters, was blithely carrying on, living life as best he knew how.   Made me wonder who really are the ones confined in their heads.

Not him.  That’s for sure.

Wanderer

Posted: March 12, 2010 in humor, humour, Life
Tags: , , ,
17

It all started when my friend Abe (you’ll see him in my blogroll) asked a question I had asked myself so many times before.  I don’t think he’ll mind my sharing it here, as I’m sure many of you have asked the same thing too.

Which is:  is there a way to email a blog that you read to someone’s email account? 

I started to reply to him and then thought “hey maybe I should take a good look” and so that’s what I did. 

Or started to do.

I went to wordpress.com’s personal dashboard, which is basically a menu system that allows you to customize the crap out of your blog.   Everything from general appearance to widgets (that’s those things you see along the side of this blog, like stats, and twitter comments and the like), to how many nested comments are allowed.  (I set mine at the max, by the way, which is ten.  Apparently that’s still not nearly enough).

And then I discovered a menu item called “domains”.  

“Hmm” I thought.  “Maybe there’s something in there.”

I’m an IT guy, so I know damned well there would be nothing in there having to do with emailing blogs elsewhere.   Still, my ears were up and so I went sniffing around.

“Interesting!” I thought.  This was clearly an item that, when accessed, would allow you to provide your own domain for your blogs.  I didn’t have a domain though.

“Hmmm.   I wonder if anyone’s chosen wolfshades.com yet”  (Those of you who’ve looked at your address bar at the top of your browser now might have an idea where this is going.)

So…I went to godaddy.com.  Bear in mind: I still hadn’t replied back to Abe’s email yet.

Nope.  wolfshades.com was available.   For only $7.99 or something.  Such a deal.  I thought I should go for it.

So I decided to buy the domain.

The sign up area wanted an email address, and not one of those throw-away free ones either.   The website indicated that a godaddy.com email address would work.

“How do I get one of those?” I wondered.  “Maybe I should click on ‘new account’ and I’ll get one that way.”  The website wasn’t clear.

I set up my new account, but it was still wanted an email address, so I gave it the one I’m using.

“There” I thought.  “Done.”

But wait.  Where’s the godaddy.com email?

So I spent another fifteen minutes looking around for that option, clicking on various links.  And then finally I found it.  And yes, it costs money.

“Well screw that” I thought, disgusted.  “I already pay enough for my current Apple email account”

So…I went back and purchased my wolfshades.com domain.  And I also bought the Canadian version – wolfshades.ca – just to keep it safe and out of other people’s hands.

Then came the add-ons.

“Do you want five email accounts with 2 Gigs of storage?”

“Or maybe ten email accounts with unlimited storage?”

“Or do you want the Deluxe package?”  (Ten email accounts, unlimited storage and I think a yearly vacation in the Bahamas and they come take your ex mother-in-law away, never to be seen again.  I could have that last one wrong though.)

I started to sign up for the middle option so that I could have unlimited storage.  Then I thought “what in heck am I going to do with ten email accounts?  That’s just stupid.  And do I need storage?  No.  Absolutely not.”

“In fact, I don’t even need one email account.”  And with that, I clicked on “remove”.

“Do you want to protect your domain?”   From what?  Raiding invaders?  Gingivitis?   I read a bit further.  Apparently there are people who will park themselves, just waiting for your account to lapse just so that they can scoop the domain.  Yup.  Need to protect myself.  So I clicked on “buy”.

“What about privacy?  Do you want your real name, address and email blasted across the internet, whenever someone does a WHOIS on wolfshades.com?”  (Not in those words of course.)   Absolutely not.   I’ve got stalkers out there (long story, and another blog).  I figured I’d better buy my privacy too.

“We’re assuming you want two years on this account right?”   I looked at the bottom line.  We were into about $120.00 by now, so I changed that to one year.

“Do you want people to know your website is safe?”   Kind of like “stampsies” I suppose, where you slam your foot to the ground and say “HOMEFREE!”   Yes, I suppose I want people ot know my site is safe.  Buy.

Are we freaking done yet?

Nope.  “Time to pay sucker sir.  How do you want to do this?  Credit card?  PayPal?  Two goats and a pig?  Staring contest?”

I made my chose and, just before I click on “buy” I noticed that there was a little field called “coupon code”.

SCORE!  That must mean I can get this a bit cheaper.

So I googled “coupon code for godaddy”.  Found a site immediately, and plugged in a coupon code. 

The page refreshed.   The cost hadn’t gone down.   Damn.

I went back to the coupon page and chose another one and plugged that one in.

The page refreshed, and there it was.  $10.00 cheaper.

Man do I rock.

So.  Are we done NOW?

Not quite, as it turned out.   It took a bunch of verification mechanisms, including one phone call to my cell phone, before godaddy confirmed my purchase of the two domains.   Time to plug that sucker into WordPress.

I tried. I clicked on Domains and then entered wolfshades.com.

“Sorry dude.  We can’t even see you ever here.  Did you enter it correctly?  Did you wiggle the mouse?”

I had.  But I did it again, because as everyone knows it takes a least two tries at doing the same exact thing before it works.  Right?

Wrong.  It didn’t work.  WordPress suggested that I needed to add their name servers (it’s a long story.  If you’re in IT you’ll understand but if you’re not, don’t worry your pretty little head about it, ‘k?).   Anyway, I went back to godaddy.com and entered wordpress’ name servers.    Then I went back to WordPress and tried it again.

It worked.  But we weren’t quite done.  WordPress wanted its slice of the pie too.  “That’s gonna cost ya, buddy.”   It sure did.  $7.99 per annum.

I paid, and now finally, it worked.

But wait.  What was I trying to do in the first place?

Oh right.  Figure out if it’s possible to email a blog to someone.   I spent another five minutes looking around and googling.

Nope.

And so finally, two and half hours after Abe sent me the message, I finally replied back to him.    

Sorry, Abe.   I just lost focus again.  I would tell you that it won’t happen again but …. I’d be lying.

Who knew a simple email would cost me $62.00?   

Got any more questions for me, buddy?  :)

Wolf

Posted: March 11, 2010 in Life
Tags: , ,
17

In the hurling, frantic speed of society, there almost seems to be no oasis of sanity, of soberness.  Sometimes you don’t want that.  Occasionally, you need to feel the pounding heartbeat of the edge of the cliff.  In between all of that is the never-ceasing search for identity.  To whom, to what do you belong?

It’s hard to even know the question has been asked.  When you grow up in a fear-soaked household, ever vigilant, ever aware and on guard against any actions or discussion which will set off The Beast, the thought of who you really are never occurs to you.  You’re too busy surviving, hoping against hope that *this* weekend The Beast won’t be drinking again, and won’t hurt members of your family.   So you stay in your room, busy with your comics, your books, with one ear hyper-aware of every noise in your three-story house.

And you’re hungry.  So very hungry.  You had a sandwich at lunch time, but it wasn’t enough.  You’re a teenager, for Pete’s sake.  Teenagers need more than two slices of bread covered in sugar.  You wonder if Mom, who’s doing her best, will score some hotdogs or something.  Something you can *bite*.   You know it’s hard for her to feed six children on the pitiful amount The Beast deigns to give her (the rest of his money going to feed the bookie’s children, and the beer store owners’ families).

Add to that the fact that you’ve just found out that the Sheriff (yes, there really is such a thing, in this day and age) has warned your parents that he intends to kick you out of your house if the mortgage back payments aren’t paid.  And you, with the money from your pitiful part-time library job can’t hope to help out.

Food, a home, and the ever-angry three hundred and fifty pound drunken Beast – the man you just avoid to survive.  You’d fight him if you could, but at a hundred and twenty-eight pounds, you know the most you could bruise would be his fist.  With your face.

It’s too much. 

And yet, you’re resilient.  These survival things you’re learning – they will make you into the man you’ll one day become. 

For one thing:  your hyper-awareness of the Beast has translated into an ability that allows you to be aware of people.  You can tell a lot about them before they say a word to you.  At first, in your youth, you think maybe you’re just prejudging people unfairly.   Except, you slowly build up a history of accuracy after the fact.  You know, when you make an inward judgement which you keep to yourself until their actions simply enforce what you thought.  

You begin to trust that.  That trait becomes part of you, and you accept it.

One day, in your late teens, when The Beast is on one of his usual tirades (and you haven’t gained an ounce of weight since you were thirteen), you take your life in your hands.   He stands there, overly large face as red as it can get, fists clenched, wild black greasy hair standing on end, massive shirtless gut hanging over his dark pants.  And you look at him square in the eye and you tell him “you’ve never been a father to me.”

You can’t believe you said it.  You expect that to be the last thing you ever say in your life.

To your surprise, The Beast halts in his tirade and looks at you.  And he sees you.  Finally.   He says nothing, but …. he turns away, seemingly in self-disgust. 

And this too becomes a part of you.  This ability to speak clarity and truth, regardless of danger, fully appreciative of consequences.

As the years progress and The Beast gives up the bottle and tries, too late, to make amends, you can look back at all this through the fog of time, and realize he had issues that he never told anyone about.  Likely (you think) issues of sexuality.  Maybe it was better not to know.

And so you learn compassion.

One night, you have a dream, perhaps.  A dream of wolves.  You watch them in awe and wonder, as they protect their own.  You see how delightedly they explore, ever curious and in tune with all that is.  They are no man’s slave.  They own their actions, and their progress is enticing and deliberate.  

You see how they love their environment.   They take care of themselves as much as they take care of their pups, their mates.   You learn that they are monogamous.  That’s their choice.

And, despite all the Disney movies to the contrary, you realize that they have one thing you’ve striven your entire life for.  They have a certain joy.

The Wolf resonates in your heart and soul.  You love life.  Those early harsh experiences have shaped you, certainly, not to repeat your environment but to create new environments, where acceptance and laughter reign true.

Finally, one day you look in a mirror.   And looking back at you is a Wolf.

German Girl

Posted: March 10, 2010 in dating, Life, romance
Tags: , ,
24

As long as I can remember, I’ve been a little awkward around girls. 

You’d think, when you have four sisters, a grandmother and a mother all living under the same roof as yourself, that you’d have an easier time with the opposite sex.  Wouldn’t you?  

The first girl who ever called me her boyfriend thought I was hot stuff.  I had no point of reference (I had four sisters, you see, all of whom felt the opposite of their older sibling), so didn’t really know what that meant.  It felt good, hearing her say it though.  The first time we were together, we had stayed late in the library after school.  I was fourteen and she was thirteen.

The librarian didn’t know we were there, so he shut off the lights and went out of the locked door, leaving us alone among the bookshelves.  I even remember the book we were looking at.  It had something to do with Hippocrates.  Neither of us was that interested in the book, even though we had decided to sit down on the floor with our backs to the wall and read it together.  It gave us an excuse to be close.  We were both aware we were doing something wrong, just by being in that place without adult supervision.  I suppose it added to our excitement.

We knew we liked each other but…..at that age, I have to tell you, we were pretty damned innocent about everything.

We walked home, holding hands, and we didn’t do anything else.  I mean, nothing else.  At all.

I wanted to go all the way home with her but she stopped and looked at me.

“I’m not allowed to have boyfriends until I’m at least sixteen” she said.

I frowned, and she smiled.  “But you can walk me this far, at least.”

“Ok” I said, pleased that she wanted me to do that.

“So, OK” she said.

“Ok.”  I looked down at my running shoes.  “See you later, I guess.”

“See you.”

The tension between us was electric.   Amazing, isn’t it, how so much can be said, even with few words.

The next day, I walked her part way home at lunch hour.  We stopped at the designated stopping area (as defined by her) and she looked at me in exasperation.  Then, to my shock, she stood on her toes and kissed me.

It was a completely chaste, closed-mouth kiss.  But man!  It was a *kiss*.

I was blown away for the rest of the day.  My emotional cheese slid completely off of my cracker.  And like *that* my worldview changed.  We became an item.

We found excuses to be with each other, whether at band practice, or at church.  Often we sat at the front of the church sanctuary, both of us at the piano.  We’d play some music, or I’d play and she would sing.  And then we would sit on the piano bench, me facing the piano and her facing the pews, and we would just kiss.  In church.  How God must have been horrified at this use of His Sanctuary.   Doesn’t matter that they continued to be chaste kisses – I’m certain He was scandalized.  To this day I don’t know why He didn’t just reach down and slap us both with a mild lightning bolt or two. 

I remember standing at my locker when she was in the classroom nearby, talking with her friends.

“So what is with him anyway?” someone asked her.  “On a scale of one to ten, how do you rate him?”

“Eleven”

One night, we were out walking in the rain, just after church.  We walked as close to each other as we could get, our arms wrapped around each other beneath her see-through umbrella with the yellow trim.  We got to the designated stopping area, and once again, we gave each other the longest chaste kiss there is on record.  (To be fair, we had seen open-mouthed kisses on TV but we didn’t know how it worked.  We tried it once, and we were both freaked out by it, and dissolved into laughter).   I remember her perfume – it had a lemony scent to it. 

Years later, when walking down the street, sometimes someone will go by, wearing that same scent, and it brings me right back to that night in the rain, kissing my first girlfriend.

I’ll be right back ma – I’m going out to go find myself

Posted: March 9, 2010 in Life
Tags: ,
20

Finding yourself.

Apparently that’s a throwback phrase from the 1960’s.   People used to use it as an excuse for dropping out, leaving their jobs, their spouses, their responsibilities.  Eventually the phrase drew the collective scorn of society, and rightly so.  Seems we’re always looking for reasons to procrastinate, to not take care of business.

Lost in all the scorn was the fact that there are people who truly are unaware of themselves and surely need to find themselves.  Some of them get married way too early, not understanding who they are and what they really want in life.   Sometimes there’s a perfect storm of opportunity, as they marry someone who is equally unaware.    The resulting years of angst, built on a bedrock of ignorance of self and corresponding ignorance of the other guy, is painful to watch.

There’s a bald thin man in my apartment complex who wanders the local neighborhood and building.   About six feet tall, he tends to stoop and peer at you from the tops of his eyes, as if looking at you over a pair of glasses.   His skin is an unhealthy pallor of white and he is usually unshaven.   When he gets on the elevator in his wife-beater shirt, plaid shorts, socks and sandals, he emits a fetid unwashed odour. 

He never smiles, never says “hello”.

This man is God’s gift to the postal girl.   The poor woman comes in every morning to distribute the mail in our lobby mail bins.   And every morning Sallow Man (that’s what we’ll call him) comes down in all his sweaty smelly glory to try to charm her.   It’s fascinating to watch. 

“How are you today?” he’ll say.

“I’m fine.”  Then, with a barely concealed painful expression she’ll offer up the obligatory “and you?”

“Oh I”m fine.  I’m fine.”

He’ll check his watch.  “Bit early today, huh?  Guess it’s too nice out to …uh…..”  And with that he’ll lose his point.

She’ll respond.  “Uh huh.”

“So did you watch the hockey game last night?  Toronto lost again.”

“Um, no.”  She’ll move as fast as she can, dropping the mail in their respective bins.

“I used to play hockey.  Used to play defense.”

“Uh huh.”

“I was never that good though.  They never passed me the puck.”

“Uh huh.”

“Did you ever play hockey?”

“No”

“Oh.  That’s too bad.  It’s a great game.”

Silence.

“So watcha doing after you finish work?”

“Oh I don’t know.  Probably go home to my boyfriend I guess.”

You would think the mention of a boyfriend would kill his efforts.   You would be wrong though.  You see, this routine, with slight variation, repeats itself every day.  

You have to imagine that no one can wander around as he does, without someone saying something at some point.   You don’t get to be his age without having someone telling you what they think of you, in some way or another.   His superior frown is telling:  if at any time anyone complained about him, or told him off, he would take such criticism as a personal attack on his character.  The world doesn’t understand him.  Therefore the world is wrong.

The man has no self-awareness.

He’s not alone though.  He’s just the extreme.  Sallow Man can probably exist like this for the rest of his life, which frankly I find is sad. He may very well be a brilliant person, but we’ll never know. 

There are so many people in my life – friends, family and work mates – who will do what they do because it’s expected of them.  They play the roles society has established for them, and so willingly.  It’s safe; it’s predictable and no one will criticize them.  They’re buying their house and raising a family.  They’ll go to their nine to five jobs and follow a fairly rigid routine.  Safety.  

And then sometimes, something catastrophic will happen.  One of the Stepford spouses will cheat.  They won’t quite be able to tell their spouse why they wandered.  They knew it felt good but have no idea why they did it.  If they’re lucky they’ll get counselling and that will open the door to self-awareness.  The unlucky ones will pretend nothing’s really wrong, and will buckle down harder to go back to that routine.

A little girl will grow up watching her father beat her mother.   Then, when she gets older, she’ll gravitate to abusive men and she won’t be able to tell you or any of her friends why this is so.  What she doesn’t realize or won’t acknowledge is that the abusive boyfriend or husband feels normal to her.  Normal, ironically, equates to safety.

And so there we are again: being safe.  Safety.

I think safety, and normalcy and routine are all over-rated.

Sometimes you’re the fly swatter

Posted: March 7, 2010 in dating, Life, romance
Tags: , ,
19

I debated whether to write this or not and suddenly realized I had to write it.

You look at her, and you can plainly see that she adores you.  She isn’t needy, and you know she can stand on her own without you, but she’s chosen you, just the same.

Neither of you have done anything wrong.   It’s not like she’s a bad person, or that you are.  It’s just ….you can’t make it work.  You’ve both had a sense that might be the case, despite the fairy-tale beginning to your romance.   Certain logical inconsistencies were there, which you both chose to ignore.  The fact that you are planning to move away, for example.  You both knew this going into the romance, but you pretended that plan was over the horizon, unreachable, and out of sight.

What you can’t see, doesn’t exist.  Right?

Eventually, the winds of change came; those winds that you can’t see but still affect you just the same, and you both had to face up to it.  She was still in denial, I suppose.  She hoped, because she hadn’t met anyone in a long while who “got” her the way you do.   Frankly, you had hoped, too.  You can’t explain it, but for some reason you’re the one with the more realistic outlook.  No way is this going to work  And so you have to tell her.

It’s quite obvious that it was hard for her to hear, even as she nodded in logical agreement.

********

Yes, sometimes, that’s the way it happens.  You happen to be the desperately gentle fly swatter.

And sometimes, like today, you’re the fly.

********

The Girl and I are not an item.  We have different much different agendas.  Something I refused to acknowledge.   Go figure.  Hope springs eternal and all of that.

Fortunately, the romance was only in the beginning stages so there was no time for any roots to grow deep.   I’m not exaggerating when I say I’ve never met anyone like her before.   She’s not a keeper though, and I’m moving on.

On a scale of one to ten, the suckage quotient, especially given the fact that I’ve been on the giving end of this kind of scenario before, is about a four.

Good thing it’s sunny out, and warm.  Time to go for a walk.

Cheers, kids!

Benefit of the Doubt

Posted: March 5, 2010 in Life
Tags: , , ,
20

You know something?  I have no idea where the phrase “benefit of the doubt” originated.  Yet, we all know what it means.

Being a laid back person often means others think that you’re casual about everything.  So they get a little surprised when they find out that you have no tolerance for anything other than the “benefit of the doubt” when they’re dealing with you.  

“Why did you let the door hit me in the face?”

I looked at my colleague. “Why do you assume I saw you following me?”

It’s like that.  I make a point of assuming the best of others.  Maybe this is clause #415 of the Golden Rule, section B.   Or maybe it’s just a good idea.   Everyone reading this blog has found themselves on the wrong end of the pooping elephant of misunderstanding, right?  You can think of times when you did something and a loved one or friend misinterpreted you, or assumed the worst.  (Tell me about it in your comments!)

Anyway – it sucks, doesn’t it?

Only makes sense not to make the same mistake with them, right?  Like, when that server at the restaurant forgets to bring you your drink not once, but three times.  Well, he or she’s just lazy and stupid right?   I grew up with that mindset.   Until, I had a bad day and people assumed I was stupid and lazy.   It’s not fair when it happens to me.

Maybe the server was up all night with a sick kid, and so was just unfocused.  Maybe he or she is a single parent, too.

It doesn’t make it any easier for you when you’re just trying to have a good night out and the server has forgotten you.  It happens.   It’s life.  You have options:  you can make a big deal about it and complain to the manager, or you can leave a penny tip, or you can assume the best of motives, leave your normal tip and carry on.   Really, when you think about it – how many people truly have nefarious evil motives?  

Well other than politicians and teenagers, I mean.  

And plumbers who insist on not tightening their belts enough to avoid the dreaded butt cleavage.  

And the upstairs neighbour who has his music turned up so loud you can’t get any sleep.  Doesn’t he *know* you need to get up at 5:00?   What?  You didn’t talk with him? Uh huh.

When I met a girl six years ago, I thought she was amazing.  Cute, tiny actually – maybe 5’0″ or so.  Like The Girl I’m with now, this one was Russian too.  (In fact, The Girl and I talked about her).    We went out for about six months, off and on.

There were a few things about her though that I found odd.

She never invited me up to her place.  Ever.

She often lapsed into a brooding silence when we were together.  I had no idea why.

She wanted to talk about me, but we hardly ever talked about her.

I assumed the best.  Maybe she had a horrible past and just didn’t want to think about it or talk about it.  I didn’t push.

One day though, we were at a restaurant, and I had enough.   There we sat, our meals done, and the bill paid.  She was brooding again.

I looked at her.  “What are you thinking about?”

She looked back at me, then down, saying nothing.

I decided to push.  “You look as if you are married with six kids or something.”   To this day, I have no idea where that thought came from.  It just popped out. 

She looked back at me in alarm.  Her face drained of all colour.

“I don’t have six kids…..” she began.  Then stopped.

It was too surreal.  I had assumed the best of this woman and she had dropped this bombshell.   In a split second, the trust that was her default when we started out was suddenly ripped to shreds.   She was married, and she hadn’t bothered to tell me.

I looked at my glass of water, thinking.   Then I stood up.

“Bye.”

————————

This changed nothing about me, though.  My positive presumptions remain the same with almost anyone I meet.  

Better to trust and be betrayed, I think,  than to assume the worst and be alone.

Life in the Artistic Lane

Posted: March 4, 2010 in dating, humor, humour, Life, romance
6

The title of this blog is a bit ironic, since art really doesn’t follow a line, or a lane for that matter.  It tends to wander over the terrain of possibility, poking its nose in normally closed, otherwise unremarkable places.  The successful artist knows that his work will hit each observer differently.  That dynamic, the doing and the observing – whether we’re talking about painting, interpretative dance, acting or music, is part of the artistic process.  The artist who insists the observer see his work in only a determined fashion is likely not a true artist.   (That’s my opinion, not fact, and I’m sticking with it)

The Girl and I went to see a stage show, based upon improvisational comedy, at Second City in Toronto.  Fortunately, we were early and so managed to grab some seats right at the front of the place.    It was a treat to hear her musical laugh all the way through.

After, we got to talking. 

She shook her head. “I could never do that”.

“Oh I don’t know.  I’ll bet you could.  I used to be fairly shy on stage but once you get into it, it’s a lot of fun.  And there are so many other benefits too.”

“Like what?”

This took me back about five years ago, when I started taking improv classes.  For those who don’t know what improv is, think about that show “Whose Line Is It Anyway?” with Drew Carey.   The four member cast at the front would take suggestions from the audience and then build stories that they would act out.  For example, they would ask the audience about an object that they might find in the trunk of their car.   “An old doll!”

“OK, and what kind of room can think of that would only hold four people?”

“A closet!”

“A bathroom!”

“A sausage factory!”

“A sausage factory?  Wow.  You’re weird. I want to talk to you afterward.  I think we’ll go with the bathroom.  So, right.  We’re talking about an old doll in a bathroom.  And…..SCENE!”

With that, the actors would act out a story using those two elements.  It remained for them to figure out the relationship between the four people.

It sounds difficult but really, it’s about going back to your childhood.  Any of you reading this can probably remember playing with your friends at a very young age, and making up stories and relationships, right?  It’s about letting go of your dignity long enough to be a child again.

When you take the improv course, there are two important rules:  one, everyone participates; and two, no one is allowed to say “no” to any suggestions being made.  Since everyone in the classroom has to participate, it’s pretty difficult to feel shy or centered out.  The risk belongs to everyone, not just one single person.

I frankly can’t think of another adult group activity that was ever so much fun.  You got to be as creative as you like.  You could learn different personalities and act them out.  And once you did it in class for a few years, as I did, going up on stage wasn’t that big a deal.  It kind of made it more exciting.

I once played an old man who was married to a gold-digging wife who was seeing a doctor on the side.  Her and the doctor decided they wanted me dead, so he prescribed an experimental drug on me, which had the unfortunate side effect of causing a permanent erection.  For that, we developed a prop which I wore under my medical gown, creating a larger than life tent, which I used to bump into things and people and knocking things over.  A little low-brow perhaps, but you couldn’t argue with the audience, all of whom were laughing in disbelief.

In one of our classes, the instructor was teaching us about the weight of our imaginary set.  In this case, he wanted us to imagine a heavy heavy door, and he wanted us to build a scene where we had to open and close that door with great difficulty.  Anyone could go up, and so we did.  The first guy walked about to the door, took out an imaginary heavy set of keys, stuck it in the lock, fooled around with it for a while trying to get it to work.  Once unlocked, he had to put all of his body weight into opening it, and then again when he had to pull it shut.   The next guy went through the same routine, entered the room and began to have some low chatter with the first guy.  A few more went up, using different variations.

Until that point, we didn’t know what this door was, or what room it opened into.  So I went up.  Like the others, I had difficulty opening this imaginary door.  Once I got inside though, I looked around in disgust at them.  “Hey, how many of you guys here? ”  I began counting.  “One, two, five. Ok you’re all here.  So let me ask:  WHO THE HELL IS OUT THERE GUARDING THE PRISONERS????”   With that, they all scurried back out of the door.

The side benefits? 

Well, hanging out with all of these vibrant creatives types after the show was just magical.  So many summer nights when we tried out different late night restaurants, or went to one or the other’s house, where we’d end up drinking and talking until the wee hours of the morning.  Our discussions turned serious sometimes, and we got into some heavy topics.  We also got into a lot of “what if” topics – perhaps a by-product of the improv creative process.

We learned to practice our improv art in real life situations too.  One night, three of us talked about what we wanted to do for Hallowe’en.

“I know!” said our host.  “Why don’ t we go as priest and nun?”

The girl in our little group looked at me.  “You can go as an altar boy.”

Our host grinned.  “And I can put of those S&M dog studded collars on your neck and we can walk down Yonge St., just to see the reactions.”

I both loved and was horrified by the idea.   We never got around to doing it, of course, because by the time Hallowe’en rolled around we were all off doing our own thing.

My friends and I had such a good time, being on stage and then hanging out afterward, that I kind of took it for granted. 

This, for me, represents the artist lifestyle.  Being with people who by virtue of their own fertile imaginations, allow and provoke creativity in your own mind.  It, along with Tom Robbins’ book – Jitterbug Perfume –  provided a sort of life epiphany for me. 

“Epiphany” murmured The Girl, in her sweet Russian accent.

“Right.  A sudden insight, usually brilliant, which can cause a change in your thinking and actions.”  That was the best I could come up with.

She smiled.  “I’m adding that one to my vocabulary.”

Compensating for the Shiny Objects

Posted: March 2, 2010 in Life
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As long as I can remember, I’ve been a thoughtful guy.  So thoughtful that my dad once yelled at me in frustration for being in my head.

He had no idea what was going on up there, and couldn’t figure out why I couldn’t be more outward and expressive.  I shrugged and carried on with my thoughts –  which was easy to do, as I was up on the roof, painting the eaves trough at the time, and he, at 350 pounds, was just too big and wobbly to climb up the ladder after me.

Sometimes you can go your whole life being a certain way, and not truly understand that you’re different from a lot of other people.  The way your mind works feels normal to you, so why would you question it?   And then when life turns a corner on you and you fail at something, well you go along with whatever society tells you is your problem.  Your “issue”.

Failing badly at history in Grade 13?  History?  HISTORY?  Your favourite subject?  Well the answer is obvious isn’t it?  It had to be a matter of being stupid.

What about the time your best friend sat there silently in the grass with you in his backyard when you were thirteen?  So silent that you began asking him what was wrong.   And when you finally guessed it, that he felt you spoke too much, he finally grunted “yeah”?   Well, obviously you’re just too flighty or something.

So you learned to keep your thoughts to yourself.  Instead of blurting them out all over the place, your thoughts flew around in your head, the rabid seagulls of your brain, banging up against each other incessantly.  This is how you learned to cope.

Or in later years, when your workplace decided to send you on a few technical courses to better enable you to be a better Information Technology guy, you found you couldn’t absorb half of the stuff they tried to teach you.   At the time you weren’t that self-aware (unlike now), and you didn’t realize that your mind actually found more interesting things to think about and consider.  No, you only knew you weren’t doing well at the course – and thank GOD they didn’t require an exam at the end – and you chalked it up to stupidity.  Even though you knew somewhere deep inside that you were as intelligent as the next guy.

You found yourself attracted to fast-moving stories.  Stuff where there is something happening all the time.  Video games where there’s lots of action.  Action-packed thriller detective and espionage and fantasy novels.

Without even meaning to, you found yourself shaping your writing to accommodate the easily distracted (like yourself).  That is, short paragraphs and lots of dialogue.  You were pretty sure that style made your writing more interesting.  (And you still think you’re right).

You gravitated to others who saw life the same way.  People who could follow and enjoy the flights of your thoughts as you both glided from topic to topic to topic, hitting all up and downdrafts of thought, all within the span of thirty seconds.   You didn’t worry about those who were thoroughly disgusted and annoyed by your conversational style.  You found their reactions amusing.

While you found things that annoyed you too – without ever stopping to consider why.   Like people – friends, loved ones – who phoned you up on the phone.  You thought you hated phones.  You didn’t.  You just couldn’t stand the slow-moving pace of polite conversation.   Not over the phone.  In person, such conversations were more tolerable because you knew you could read body language *really* well.  It was almost a subconscious process for you:  you could read people so well you often knew as much about them from what they didn’t say as from what they said.

You amazed people.  Like the girl you were with one day when you both visited a photography store, and she met a fellow classmate there.  Unthinking, you watched her friend’s reaction, and you later told the girl “she doesn’t like you.  At all.”   You smile as you remembered the girl looking at you in disbelief.

“How do you know?”

“I watched her when you first said hello.  She looked you up and down and there was a look of scorn in her face.  Right before she smiled and hugged you.”

“What? I didn’t see that!”

“No, it happened very fast.”

You thought afterward how quickly that had taken place.  Then you realized it happened in a fraction of a second.  Interesting.

Somewhere along the line you realize you truly aren’t stupid.  Just different.  Your quickness of mind shows itself in different, more interesting ways.  (Well, interesting to you anyway.  Annoying to others, obviously).

There’s a downside though.  You feel like you’re barely pulling your weight at work.  Big projects which demand lots of thought, planning and time are just beyond you.  You can’t sit at the computer for more than two minutes without moving through five or more different activities.  If you’re unlucky enough to find that one of those activities include getting on the web, then you’ll eat up two hours before you realize you haven’t made a start on the stuff you’re supposed to do.  Oh, and those five or more different activities?  Yeah – you don’t actually complete them.  So you find a way to make note of them so that you can give it another go the next day.

Weeks go by before you actually get around to completing one or more of them.

You put your earphones on and listen to music and you find that part of your mind can process the truly great music while the rest of your mind allows you to work away at those projects that are urgently waving their white-gloved hands at you in nauseous anxiety.   You’ve found a coping mechanism.  Music is your bitch.

And it’s only when you come to the end of a blog that you realized you’ve written about this before.   And you swear to yourself (damn it!).

That’s when you decide to make an appointment.  To get assessed for ADD/ADHD.

Have to admit though:   my life is *fun*.

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