Obstinate Ignorance

Posted: May 5, 2010 in Life
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I guess all of us at one point exercise this trait about something or other.    How many times have you picked up a TV remote that refused to work, likely because the battery was dead, and kept pressing buttons harder and harder in an effort to squeeze that last bit of juice out of it?  (Raises hand)

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

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

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

Take this one:

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

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

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

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

Or there’s this one:

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

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

This last one however really gets my heart racing:

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

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

So what do these conspiracy theories have in common?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

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

Thus the lies grow.

Grateful

Posted: May 4, 2010 in Life
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When you’re doing something you’re not supposed to be doing, they’re the last people you want to see.

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

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

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

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

“Do you boys know why I stopped you?”

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

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

We just looked at him.  As adolescents do.

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

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

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

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

Mike, my buddy, said “no”.

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

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

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

He could tell we weren’t buying it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now we were silent.  But the tension was terrific.

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

“Yessir!”

“Are you going to go there ever again?”

Mike and I both shook our heads.

“What?”

“No sir!”

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

“Yes sir!”

And that was that.

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

This time another cop picked us up.

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

At that point, we cut our adventure short.

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

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

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

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

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

Paranoia

Posted: May 3, 2010 in Life
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A school principal in New Jersey sent a note home to parents, asking them to ban their children from social networking sites like MySpace and Facebook, noting “there is absolutely, positively no reason for any middle school student to be a part of a social networking site!  None!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like:  “I bought a new laptop computer.” 

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

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

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

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

I think he’s right to be paranoid.

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

Night

Posted: April 26, 2010 in ADHD, Life
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“Night time…is the right time….to be….with the one you love…..”

That Ray Charles song resonates.

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

Night time.

Even the words amaze me.

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

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

That should have told me something.

So many nights I became alive and alert.

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

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

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

The street was – and is – *alive*.

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

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

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

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

It was the night-time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time, I’ll do it at night.

I can’t wait.

Broken

Posted: April 23, 2010 in Life
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Apparently you can break your leg and walk forever for three days, and even on occasion run just a little bit.

I know this, having done so myself.

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

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

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

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

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

What?

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

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

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

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

I grinned.  “Yeah, it is isn’t it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was stunned.   “Really?”

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

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

“No, you need crutches.”

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

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

I agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He laughed.  “Too right we do.”

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

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

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

Ownership

Posted: April 21, 2010 in Life
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“Can I talk with you a minute?   Privately?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My jeans?”

“They’re too tight.”

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

“What do you mean?”

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

I started to laugh.  “What?”

“Well, they can see your, ah….”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Plus, I fight like a girl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

“Oh here we go” I thought to myself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was brought up wrong.”

“I came from an abusive family.”

“I came from a poor household.”

“I came from a single parent household.”

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

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

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

“She was wearing provocative clothing.”

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

The list is endless.

We need to own our own shit.  Bottom line.

Nasal Warfare

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

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

*RRRR*

I glanced at the clock.   6:30.

Six-freaking-thirty.

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

Evidently I do.

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

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

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

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

I thought back.  “Fuck off, brain”

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

I thought “sleep”

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

I opened one eye.

“What if you get your washing done?”

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

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

I rolled onto my back.  Brain had a point.

Fucking brain.

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

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

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

Ew.

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

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

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

Double ew.

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

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

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

And an even more delicate nose.

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

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

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

Appointment With A Dead Doc

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Like I am now)

Roses are red

My doctor is toast

I had an appointment

But doc’s done gone and give up the ghost

Inappropriate

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

I swear to God – Mom brought us up properly.

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

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

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

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

Mom was a hard ass.

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

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

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

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

Take last week for example.

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

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

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

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

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

I loved it.

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

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

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

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

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

“You should employ the MBP solution.

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

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

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

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

“So the ‘P’ is for ‘Poop'”.

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

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

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

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

I-seminar

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

Today kids we’re trying something quite different.

We’re blogging by iPhone.

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

Wait. Where was I?

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

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

Ducking iPhone.

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

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

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

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

So why did I come here?

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

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

Right now the guy is talking about clones. Cool.

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

“Mmmm. BraAains”

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

Tasted *just* like brains.

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

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

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

Please God – don’t let me snore.

Things you think about when bored

Posted: April 13, 2010 in writing
Tags: ,
33

9:00-10:00

The man smiled at the brunette, raising one eyebrow above his black sunglasses.  He pulled his arm from her shoulder and reached into his jacket pocket, to pull out the world’s largest stogie.  He clipped it, wet it and plunged it into his mouth.

He managed to mouth out “darlin’, light me, would you?”

The blonde on the other side of him was quicker.  She flicked her lighter at the end of the cigar.  Soon, a pungent smell enveloped the room.

The clean-cut man at the other side of the room covered his nose.   “Do you really have to smoke that?”

He looked at him, smiling around his cigar.  “Why?”  He wiped some non-existent dust from his jacket.  “Does it offend your sensibilities?”

Jack grimaced.  “I’m just worried about your health.  Wouldn’t want to see you choke to death.”

The man with the receding hairline took out  his cigar, laughing and ultimately choking.  Wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve he said  “don’t worry about me.  If I were you, I’d be more concerned about your, ah, state of health Jack.”  Grinning, he placed the stogie back in place.

Jack looked at him.  “What do you mean?”

The man snickered.  “Well, my boys are kind of anxious to try out their new toys.”

Jack looked at the ugly thugs scattered around the bar, who in turn were all looking at him, bored stares on their faces.  Two of them were playing with their Glock 18 machine gun pistols.

“Besides” added the man.  “You’ve been up for what, twenty-three hours now, running around the city, right?”

“So?”

“So are you Superman or something?  You’re bleeding from the gut and – here’s what really gets me – you haven’t been to the washroom even once.”

Jack’s face turned red.  He was right.  He hadn’t even thought about it, and now that he had, it was *all* he could think about.

“What’s the matter Jack?  Do you have to be somewhere?”   The man grinned and looked around at his men expectantly.  The men all gave half-hearted snickers in response.

“Uh…”

“Oh go ahead Jack.  It’s right back there at the other end of the room.  It’s the one with the picture of the little sheep with the tophat.  Honest to God, I don’t know who thinks up this shit for the can.”  He looked at the thug next to him. “Really Rocky – why not MEN?”   Rocky shook his head.   The man pulled out a gun and shot him.   He spat on him, then looked around.  “The next time I ask you assholes a question, I kind of expect an answer.  You know?”  He looked at the next thug, who stood straight.

“Got it, boss”

“Good. ”  He looked over at Jack.  “You still here?  Go ahead.  I won’t shoot you.”  He looked at yet another thug, who was racking some balls at the pool table.  “Pete – you go with him.”

Pete put the rack down and answered “Ok boss.”

As soon as they were in the washroom, Jack turned around and pretended to nod at someone behind Pete.  Pete whipped around, and Jack stepped up and grabbed him in a sleeper hold.  Pete struggled briefly, while Jack lowered him gently to the floor.

After grabbing the thug’s gun he walked over to the small window, opened it and took his penlight out and flicked it twice, signalling the Task Force to breach the premises.

Ten seconds later the three doors to the bar burst open, and shots flew back and forth across the bar. 

“Clear!”

“Clear!”

“Clear!”

Jack walked out of the washroom, scanning the room with his gun.

He walked over to the man, who was bleeding from the mouth, struggling to breathe.   He crouched down,  grabbed his head with both hands and shouted at him.  “WHERE IS IT?  WHERE??”

The man gurgled “my….back..pock..”  And with that he slumped down.

Jack felt for his pulse.  Nothing.  So he flipped him over and grabbed the iPhone from his back pocket.  “Fucker.”

The chief of police walked up to him.  “Geeze, you’re a hard ass, Jack.”  The chief stared at all of the dead bodies, then looked back at Jack.  “What was on it anyway?  Some national secret or something?”

Jack pocketed the iPhone.  “It had my Celine Dion collection.”

“Oh.”

Money

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Decision Night

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

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

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

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

That was the decision, until tonight.

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

Talk about feeling ripped off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The best is yet to come.

Music

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

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

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

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

“That’s pretty good.”

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

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

He snickered.  “Let’s go.”

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

I got in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Music”, I said.

“What about music?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fortunately, it was just then that I woke up.

Resonance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(My God I’m so deep)

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

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

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

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

Resonance.

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

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

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

Resonance.

Earphones

Posted: April 6, 2010 in ADHD, Life
Tags: , , , ,
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
Tags: , , ,
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: , , ,
20

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
Tags: , , , ,
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)

Fierce Sheep

Posted: March 25, 2010 in humor
Tags: , , ,
8

Good morning ladies and gents.

I’ve been out-of-town for most of the week, hence my lack of participation here.  That will change starting this weekend when everything gets back to normal.  (Just had a thought:  it’s a good thing my real name doesn’t show up here, considering that I’ve just announced to the world that my apartment has a dearth of occupants and is therefore ripe for the picking)

Anyway, one of my readers – a talented cartoonist named Dan Roth – has published a cartoon based upon *wolfshades*.   I’ve been a fan of his for quite some time, and his comic strip is in my blogroll – Sheep Laughs.

Anyway, I invite you to check out his latest strip, which can be found here:   http://sheeplaughs.wordpress.com/2010/03/24/fierce-sheep-part-ii

Once you’ve seen that one, take a look through his archives.  It’s a fun trip!

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