Posts Tagged ‘Life’

Obstinate Ignorance

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

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

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

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

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

Take this one:

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

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

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

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

Or there’s this one:

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

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

This last one however really gets my heart racing:

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

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

So what do these conspiracy theories have in common?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

******

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

Thus the lies grow.

Grateful

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you boys know why I stopped you?”

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

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

We just looked at him.  As adolescents do.

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

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

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

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

Mike, my buddy, said “no”.

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

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

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

He could tell we weren’t buying it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now we were silent.  But the tension was terrific.

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

“Yessir!”

“Are you going to go there ever again?”

Mike and I both shook our heads.

“What?”

“No sir!”

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

“Yes sir!”

And that was that.

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

This time another cop picked us up.

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

At that point, we cut our adventure short.

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

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

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

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

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

Paranoia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like:  “I bought a new laptop computer.” 

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

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

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

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

I think he’s right to be paranoid.

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

Night

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

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

That Ray Charles song resonates.

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

Night time.

Even the words amaze me.

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

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

That should have told me something.

So many nights I became alive and alert.

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

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

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

The street was – and is – *alive*.

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

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

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

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

It was the night-time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time, I’ll do it at night.

I can’t wait.

Broken

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

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

I know this, having done so myself.

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

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

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

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

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

What?

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

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

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

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

I grinned.  “Yeah, it is isn’t it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was stunned.   “Really?”

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

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

“No, you need crutches.”

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

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

I agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He laughed.  “Too right we do.”

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

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

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

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

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.

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)

Passion

Posted: March 21, 2010 in Life
Tags: , ,
32

Someone asked me tonight what my passion was.

I had to think what my answer would be.

And then I had to think about the question itself.

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

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

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

Fuck that.

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

“Life.  I’m passionate about living.”

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

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

“Art”.

“Not specific enough.  Try again.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Passion.

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

Passion.

I revised my answer:  “Music”

“Listening or playing?”

I considered the question.  Then, “both”.

“There you go.”

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

That can and will be remedied.

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

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

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

Passion.

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

What passion have you let slide?

Skinny

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I had to do something about it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She laughed.

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

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

I looked at her.  “An iPhone?”

She grinned.  “No.  An iPod thingy.”

I chuckled.  “You mean an iPod Touch?”

“YES!  That’s it!  An iPod Touch!”

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

“What?”

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

“Well I…”

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

“No. I got a 16-Gig.  Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She laughed.

And you wonder why I like Saturdays so much.

*********

Hope you have a great weekend!

Skin

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

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

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

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

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

(Artistic license)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I said ” same here.”

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

She laughed and punched me in the arm.

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

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

“Wow” she said.

“Yeah”.

We grinned at each other.

There really was nothing else to say.

The anti-religionist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe tomorrow.

Bar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure” I said.

She never came back.  She was too busy. 

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

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

Wanderer

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

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

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

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

Or started to do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I decided to buy the domain.

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

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

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

“There” I thought.  “Done.”

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

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

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

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

Then came the add-ons.

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

“Or maybe ten email accounts with unlimited storage?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Are we freaking done yet?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Man do I rock.

So.  Are we done NOW?

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

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

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

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

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

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

I paid, and now finally, it worked.

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

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

Nope.

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

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

Who knew a simple email would cost me $62.00?   

Got any more questions for me, buddy?  :)

Wolf

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s too much. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so you learn compassion.

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

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

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

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

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

German Girl

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, OK” she said.

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

“See you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eleven”

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

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

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

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

Finding yourself.

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

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

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

He never smiles, never says “hello”.

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

“How are you today?” he’ll say.

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

“Oh I”m fine.  I’m fine.”

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

She’ll respond.  “Uh huh.”

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

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

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

“Uh huh.”

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

“Uh huh.”

“Did you ever play hockey?”

“No”

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

Silence.

“So watcha doing after you finish work?”

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

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

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

The man has no self-awareness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes you’re the fly swatter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

********

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

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

********

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

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

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

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

Cheers, kids!

Older Entries
Newer Entries