Feliz Navidad, my fellow blogomaniacs!
That Blogging Bastard is here after taking a hiatus that was both as long as it was inexcusable. Apparently, I was so hard at work pouring drinks for the ultra rich at the Royal York that I didn't realize that nearly TWO months passed since my last entry. What the shit?!? It feels like only yesterday I was promising Girls Pt.2 and a more regular blogging schedule. Where did all the time go? Why, the answer is simple my friends.
Time is a relative concept conceived by the human mind. With constant distraction its confines become elastic like a bag made of rubber. Without concentrating on the NOW, we tend to let time move at a more rapid pace, for we are not taking stock in the events that are transpiring right before our eyes. Through a stronger understanding and observation of the NOW, by staying PRESENT in the given moment, we can fully appreciate times constant flow and thus have a greater awareness of where we sit in the grand scheme of things.
I'm sorry. Ever since I became a follower of Depak Chopra on Twitter, I have a tendency to fall into philosophical musings that are so opaque that only I can decipher them. And even then, I've got to make my mind elastic with drugs to fully make sense of it. Go ahead, smoke a joint and re-read what I just wrote. Still nothing? How good is your pot? Well, whatever. I'm still publishing it in a book and selling it for $24.99. I'm sure with some nice illustrations of flowers and a couple computer-generated psychedelic images, it will sit nicely on a Starbucks counter next to Cd's of Annie Lennox and Paul McCartney. Perhaps they will even offer it in a combo package with a bag of dark roast or a box of Cranium. This encapsulates the extraordinary vision I have for my future.
Regardless of my theories on time, I am back and I am blogging. Being laid off until March will probably make regular entries a whole lot easier, and I promise to keep reference to my crushing poverty to an absolute minimum.
I type this as I sit at my grandmothers computer in Buffalo, New York which if I recall correctly was the seventh stage of hell as told by Dante's Inferno. I am happy to announce that I am now the proud owner of a Buffalo Bills leather jacket, given to me simply because it did not fit my grandfather. No, I have no intention of wearing it, but I suspect strongly that in a few years time when the Bills move permanently to Toronto it will be something I will want to rock, it being a throwback to a time when NFL football was still bringing joy to this tiny slum town. (I'm a sucker for brandishing clothes that contain images of things that no longer exist) Either that or I'll put it on whenever I am in need of making myself instantly unattractive to woman. I do however worry that if I am ever caught wearing it while holding a Toronto Sun, I'll be mistaken for a supporter of Rob Ford. You know what, it's best I just burn it upon completing this blog entry.
Now you no doubt wonder what would ever bring me to Buffalo, New York in the first place. Well first of all, its the hometown of my mother and still contains a gaggle of my favorite family members. And it's CHRISTMAS! Well at least it was Christmas. Now its just boxing day. But for me, who worked on Christmas (gak), it's as close as I'm going to get to something resembling holly jolly. Yes my sexy readers, the holidays are upon us like a hungry pack of jackals, showering us with corny music, excessive feasts and panicked days of shopping. Even now, I write this with a stomach sick of sugar and the Sound of Music playing in the background which, if I was to hold someone hostage ,would be the soundtrack I'd put on while trying to ply them for information on the holding place of the ancient gems I seek. "These Are a Few of My Favorite Things" would be an excellent song to have playing while revealing instruments of torture and "Goodbye, Farewell" would prove very intimidating before threatening death.
(I always contended I would make a really a great Bond villain. I love stroking cats, I have very bushy eyebrows and I pre-set my muscial selections before sessions of torture. Of course, this is all a pipe dream now as I work towards being a featured artist at Starbucks. Best I let my book of philosophical musings and Annie Lennox's vocals do the torturing.)
Where was I?
Oh yes! CHRISTMAS! Oh glorious of days! Oh happiest of festivals! Oh great economic stimulant! Oh happy holy harvest of hope! Can you imagine if Jesus had a
Facebook profile? You think you have a lot of bday wishes on your wall? That guys shit would crash the site. Jesus wouldn't be blamed for his popularity though, he's a pretty swell guy. They'd probably end up blaming it on hackers who did it because they are pissed off about wiki leaks being muzzled. (Spoiler Alert! America is engaged in dirty politics. Now you know.)
So it's Christmas, I'm in Buffalo and I have a deeper understanding of time and space due to my passing electronic acquaintance with Depak Chopra. All in all it could be worse. My Christmas haul was a little light this year, which is fine by me, as I have enough crap clogging up my apartment as it is. My father got me a sweater, a Secret Wars T-shirt, a He-Man DVD and THREE action figures of Wolverine. One of them was a give away from Burger King, the other two were molds of Hugh Jackman, one in standard 6" and the other deluxe sized. Ironically, flashback to Christmas two decades ago and you'd find my father buying me very similar gifts (minus Hugh Jackman). I need to start acting my age I guess. Or maybe I've gone back in time due to a Temporal Paradox, a tear in the fabric of space/time! Let me explain:
You see, time is a continuum that is best visualized as a looping string where we are located on two separate axises....whoa whoa whoa! I just realized if I continue explaining time and space, you aren't going to buy my book.
Nice try, you cheap bastards! Go pick up a Venti Pumpkin Spice Latte if you want enlightenment!
My mother did me a solid and decided to give me cold, hard cash. This is my favorite gift, since it allows me the ability to buy my own crap that I don't need. Crap you don't need is always better when you are the architect of its purchase. My mom did keep the tradition of stuffing me a stocking though and I am now the proud owner of a slinky, socks and enough Lindt Chocolate to kill a diabetic child. Not that I would ever do that. I prefer healthy children, its more sporting. (anything to get those gems! Bwahahaha!)
Geez, I just reread this entry. Ok, serious time.
Christmas is here and even with all the warm wishes and a brand new slinky, I was suffering earlier from a severe and gnawing loneliness. It started on Christmas eve upon returning home from my uncle's annual holiday gathering. I sat by the window alone listening to Flying Lotus and looked down at the empty streets and for some reason felt like I was an extension of those streets. That night was spent lying very awake as I wondered why I was feeling so tense. Upon reflection, I can say that much of that nights malaise was brought on by the extreme indigestion cause by a shrimp ring, hot wings, pizza, a smattering of cheese, wine, beer, courvoisier, chocolate, coffee, pineapple and pistachio nuts. Even listing that gives me gas.
Then Christmas came proper. I woke up alone in my house and realized that it had been a great many years since I woke up on Christmas day excited. And why was I ever excited in the first place? It wasn't Jesus's Bday, or seeing family, or eating a Germany's worth of chocolate; it was a ravenous desire for gifts. Now that I am aware of economic realities, I just feel guilty. Guilty that I can never afford good gifts for the people I love, and guilty that the people I love spend money on me when I know they can't afford it either. And so from there I went to work and sat in the back of the Imperial room, making Shirley Temples for rambunctious children. The shift was super boring, and outside of the occasional "Merry Christmas", nothing made the day seem any different from any other day. The same people, the same tired looking eyes, the same platters of cheese and fruit. As boredom seeped uniformly from the top of my skull to the tips of my toes, I decided to see what was happening inside the Christmas buffet. Stepping out into the grand ballroom, I watched children squeal with delight as a man in a Santa Suit made animal balloons and carols played on the overhead speakers. It was in this moment that I realized that Christmas was no longer for me specifically, but about creating myths and joy in our children, reminding the people we love that we still care and reflecting on the end of another year gone by. I think a part of me always wished to recall that excitement I felt as a child, and that being impossible, continued to get disappointed in my inability to capture that feeling again. But the time has come to let that go. It's up to me now to spread that excitement in others, to remind people that I love them and to start focusing on what was gained and lost in passing year.
And so with great excitement I anticipated travelling with my mother to Buffalo, hugging my grandparents and focusing on being there for the people I love.
Which brings us back to the PRESENT that you'll discover , if you buy my book, is something that we should all be focusing on. Because if you don't focus on the NOW, you might find yourself on your grandmother's computer scratching your head wondering how two months went by without a single blog entry. Time is elastic you see.
But I digress. Just buy the fucking book.
Happy Holidays Everyone.
That Blogging Bastard
P.S. I swear to God that I will write Girls Pt. 2 next. If I don't, you can have my Hugh Jackman deluxe action figure. Its ok, I have two more.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Here is where I stand
Sometimes its nice to stop and take in your surroundings. Dig your feet into the soil, wiggle your toes in the mud. Rub your heel into the scruff of the carpet, or feel the bite of cold tile as you tiptoe to the bathroom. Some days it pays to consider your feet, where they stand and for whom they are standing.
Yesterday as I was getting ready to leave work, an older employee who works in the rank dungeons of the hotel was also leaving. He was donned in his trademark grey bomber and corduroy cap. I nodded a casual farewell to him but he was too lost in his glassy stare to take notice. He just trudged past oblivious, like a tortoise passing through the edge of a forest trail. I realized right then that this man was probably coming off an 8 hour shift, his fifth in a row. And for twenty days of the month he stood unhappily hosing grime off of green recycling bins. And for two hundred and forty days of each year marched through the sunless depths of the hotel walking on the same dingy red tile surrounded by the same greasy yellow walls. And for the last twenty years he followed that same path, pushing those same bins until the punch clock stamped off his shift and he could stumble home with a blank and broken stare.
This was where this man stood, his life passing with each banquet function and out-of-town check-in. This was his life as it was mine. And in the infested basement of a hotel is where we stood together.
I am now sitting in the living room of my apartment. The sun is shining and there is a distinct sense of play in the air. As I type, motors push across Queen Street and I can hear children laughing, the product of too much sugar and skipped fourth period classes. I wonder why I sit here of all places, staring out a window in Toronto, watching pedestrians cross the street with purpose in their legs.
It would appear that everyone in Toronto has somewhere to be. Judging by the look of serious intent in their eyes and aggressive foot work through the lagging throngs, it appears critical that this somewhere be reached immediately. I sometimes imagine being similarly busy. A day stuffed with appointments, coffee dates and late night parties. With agendas and meetings and team building exercises. With midday Caesars and BBM conferences. I'm not sure why that feels so impossible, it seems easy enough.
My average day consists of sitting in coffee shops writing or reading or both. I enjoy walking through busy streets, watching people and taking in the bustle. Sometimes I'll take a notebook and jot observations while sitting in a park. On the odd day, I'll show potential renters my theatre space or go audition for a Crispy Wheat Thins commercial. Otherwise, I'm at a hotel stacking glassware while serving Chardonnay to Blue Hairs attending tea galas.
Perhaps I lack a certain ambition. Or maybe I haven't thought enough about the feet in my shoes and where they tread.
I've never known a place other than Toronto. My travels have never taken me off the Continent, and even within the Continent I've seen very little. The most exotic locale I've been to was Florida and I was only there because I won a drinking contest at System Soundbar. (a tale for another time). I do visit Montreal, by all measures a truly wonderful and magical place,but although it draws me to it, my pitiful french language skills keeps me from committing to it as a permanent residence. Halifax too proved gorgeous, but it was a little too quaint and charming for someone like me.
And so, Toronto, by default, has always been my home. It's where I've forged an existence and developed relationships with its many locales. I have favorite everything: martini bars, dance floors, doctors offices, vintage shops, smoking spots, makeout benches, disc golf courses, and ice cream cafes. I have three jobs. I have a gaggle of friends, and even more acquaintances. Family is right around the corner whenever I need support. I am embedded. I love it here, I truly do.
But I wonder if I'm like the man at the hotel and ubiquitous with my surroundings. This great Ontarian gem has been my only home and I'm not sure how to separate myself from it.
How much do you suppose we are a product of our surroundings? Am I a reflection of the shiny glass towers, concrete roads, dingy orange rubber pylons dotting the torn up streets? Does my eyes speak of Starbucks, my smile of billboards and condominiums? When I talk do I carry Toronto inflections? Do I have mannerisms and styles of my own or is it all simply borrowed from the city's hipster underclass to whom I'm constantly exposed? How much of me is the product of this place I've lived for almost thirty years?
Like most, I am painfully unaware of myself. And until now, I've never thought to think of my feet, and why they choose to walk where they walk. I have grown into my geography and I unwittingly carry its full cultural impact on me where ever I go.
My mother is an American citizen. She has recently acquired the documentation that would allow me to be a dual citizenship with the United States. I am a Canadian through and through and the prospect of living among the great gun slinging folk of the South scares me.
But then again....
I have started dreaming of sitting in a New York park overlooking the Manhattan skyline. I envision drinking in a Chicago Pub, the Bears having just lost another critical game. I imagine the rush of wearing my Blue Jays gear in a tide of black and white at Yankee Stadium. I picture taking in live music and not knowing where I am or who is even playing on stage. I wonder who I'd be when pressed against new backdrops full of different accents moving at a different pace. In short, to see how I stack up outside my comfort zone.
Perhaps what you are witnessing is the birth of a burgeoning sense of adventure. And it all began by looking at my feet and taking the time to look at where I stood. And knowing that wherever I wish to be is where I am.
Thanks for reading.
That Blogging Bastard
p.s. Girls part 2 is coming up next. Bring a hanky and a nice bottle of brandy. Enjoy yourself.
Yesterday as I was getting ready to leave work, an older employee who works in the rank dungeons of the hotel was also leaving. He was donned in his trademark grey bomber and corduroy cap. I nodded a casual farewell to him but he was too lost in his glassy stare to take notice. He just trudged past oblivious, like a tortoise passing through the edge of a forest trail. I realized right then that this man was probably coming off an 8 hour shift, his fifth in a row. And for twenty days of the month he stood unhappily hosing grime off of green recycling bins. And for two hundred and forty days of each year marched through the sunless depths of the hotel walking on the same dingy red tile surrounded by the same greasy yellow walls. And for the last twenty years he followed that same path, pushing those same bins until the punch clock stamped off his shift and he could stumble home with a blank and broken stare.
This was where this man stood, his life passing with each banquet function and out-of-town check-in. This was his life as it was mine. And in the infested basement of a hotel is where we stood together.
I am now sitting in the living room of my apartment. The sun is shining and there is a distinct sense of play in the air. As I type, motors push across Queen Street and I can hear children laughing, the product of too much sugar and skipped fourth period classes. I wonder why I sit here of all places, staring out a window in Toronto, watching pedestrians cross the street with purpose in their legs.
It would appear that everyone in Toronto has somewhere to be. Judging by the look of serious intent in their eyes and aggressive foot work through the lagging throngs, it appears critical that this somewhere be reached immediately. I sometimes imagine being similarly busy. A day stuffed with appointments, coffee dates and late night parties. With agendas and meetings and team building exercises. With midday Caesars and BBM conferences. I'm not sure why that feels so impossible, it seems easy enough.
My average day consists of sitting in coffee shops writing or reading or both. I enjoy walking through busy streets, watching people and taking in the bustle. Sometimes I'll take a notebook and jot observations while sitting in a park. On the odd day, I'll show potential renters my theatre space or go audition for a Crispy Wheat Thins commercial. Otherwise, I'm at a hotel stacking glassware while serving Chardonnay to Blue Hairs attending tea galas.
Perhaps I lack a certain ambition. Or maybe I haven't thought enough about the feet in my shoes and where they tread.
I've never known a place other than Toronto. My travels have never taken me off the Continent, and even within the Continent I've seen very little. The most exotic locale I've been to was Florida and I was only there because I won a drinking contest at System Soundbar. (a tale for another time). I do visit Montreal, by all measures a truly wonderful and magical place,but although it draws me to it, my pitiful french language skills keeps me from committing to it as a permanent residence. Halifax too proved gorgeous, but it was a little too quaint and charming for someone like me.
And so, Toronto, by default, has always been my home. It's where I've forged an existence and developed relationships with its many locales. I have favorite everything: martini bars, dance floors, doctors offices, vintage shops, smoking spots, makeout benches, disc golf courses, and ice cream cafes. I have three jobs. I have a gaggle of friends, and even more acquaintances. Family is right around the corner whenever I need support. I am embedded. I love it here, I truly do.
But I wonder if I'm like the man at the hotel and ubiquitous with my surroundings. This great Ontarian gem has been my only home and I'm not sure how to separate myself from it.
How much do you suppose we are a product of our surroundings? Am I a reflection of the shiny glass towers, concrete roads, dingy orange rubber pylons dotting the torn up streets? Does my eyes speak of Starbucks, my smile of billboards and condominiums? When I talk do I carry Toronto inflections? Do I have mannerisms and styles of my own or is it all simply borrowed from the city's hipster underclass to whom I'm constantly exposed? How much of me is the product of this place I've lived for almost thirty years?
Like most, I am painfully unaware of myself. And until now, I've never thought to think of my feet, and why they choose to walk where they walk. I have grown into my geography and I unwittingly carry its full cultural impact on me where ever I go.
My mother is an American citizen. She has recently acquired the documentation that would allow me to be a dual citizenship with the United States. I am a Canadian through and through and the prospect of living among the great gun slinging folk of the South scares me.
But then again....
I have started dreaming of sitting in a New York park overlooking the Manhattan skyline. I envision drinking in a Chicago Pub, the Bears having just lost another critical game. I imagine the rush of wearing my Blue Jays gear in a tide of black and white at Yankee Stadium. I picture taking in live music and not knowing where I am or who is even playing on stage. I wonder who I'd be when pressed against new backdrops full of different accents moving at a different pace. In short, to see how I stack up outside my comfort zone.
Perhaps what you are witnessing is the birth of a burgeoning sense of adventure. And it all began by looking at my feet and taking the time to look at where I stood. And knowing that wherever I wish to be is where I am.
Thanks for reading.
That Blogging Bastard
p.s. Girls part 2 is coming up next. Bring a hanky and a nice bottle of brandy. Enjoy yourself.
Monday, October 18, 2010
GIRLS. Pt. 1: The early years
Hey my peoples!
It's that Blogging Bastard here. I am undergoing a health scare right now. My chest is a flaming ball of death right now and being very resistant to medical treatment, I thought I'd channel my fears into a brand new blog entry.
The reason I've been away so long is that I no longer have a computer and sitting next to the 300 pound grease balls playing Call of Duty at the local Internet cafe is too distracting to get any real writing done. My roommate keeps his computer by the bed, so as I write this I am lying flat on my belly and the position is already giving me a wrist cramp.
The year is 2010 folks and I can't seem to get technology to work in my favour no matter how hard I try. At last count: I've been through at least fifty cell phones, my last one being so buggy and unusable that I actually punched it until it shattered. I'm on my third Ipod, having lost around 3000 songs with the last one and my current one only emits sound out of the left ear bud. My PS3 hard drive is corrupted and has erased all my saved game files not once but twice in the last week. I have no computer, no smart phone, my laptop has a half burned out screen, my stereo is crapping out, my sound equipment at my theatre studio is missing, my stove only has two working burners, my washing machine dances across the room when running and my nintendo DS has stopped reading my game cards unless I jiggle them for twenty minutes. So it is only fitting that my body would stop working now as well.
The only thing that fucks up more frequently then technology in my life is my relationships with women. For me there is no topic more confounding, no mystery more intriguing then that of the opposite sex. I have a long history of miscues, misunderstandings and horror stories that have left me with some serious issues that I would like to share with you. In recent times, I have been described by many a women as being a "man whore". While there is a certain smirky charm to this title, I think its time for the women in my life to understand that the events which have shaped me into what I currently am (not that I'm confirming these rumours or agree with this assessment mind you) have been long and traumatic. The subject of girls, being a long and varied topic, I've decided to split it into a six part series (a blogging bastard first!). Today we talk about the early years.
It all began when I was in grade one. For some reason or another, during reading time, girls in my class had chosen me as someone that they felt comfortable laying their heads on. Literally every time our teacher read a chapter from Charlotte's Web or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, some girl would put a pillow on my crossed legs and lay on me. Even though I couldn't identify why, I FUCKING LOVED IT. Soon, I had the nickname "pillow" which I'm glad didn't carry into my adulthood as it would probably have a very different meaning now, particularly if I ever found myself in a jail. One girl, a freckly ginger lass named Lee-Anne, was a frequent rester of mine and decided that she didn't want to share my leg space with the others. This was surprising. Not but a few weeks before we were playing Pippy Longstocking (she was a big fan, most likely because she looked exactly like Pippy), and we were pretending to eat pancakes. As I was scooping the fake flapjacks into my mouth I accidentally punched her in the face. She burst into tears and as she did a huge blood bubble came out of her nose. It was pretty gross, but as I recall it now, I can't help but laugh...I really clocked her good. I was sent to the principles office where I was told that hitting girls, even accidentally and lost in my imagination was wrong. (only later would I realize that most of my life would be spent in my imagination, so this was sound advice indeed). So, yeah, I was pretty surprised that she wanted to "go steady". So we did what all first graders do when they're ready to commit: we got married. I can still remember the ceremony, the entire class stood around and someone read from a book and people threw leaves and twigs at us as we walked down the aisle. I felt so special and valid, we were the talk of the class. This all happened right before summer hit, so I only had a few classes to enjoy the married life: holding hands, closed mouth kisses, access to hanging out with the girls at recess, all very exciting stuff.
That summer, all I could think about was my wife. I was thrilled at the thought of going into second grade, getting my kiss on, having her sweet smelling red hair on my leg as we learned about dinosaurs. Unfortunately, upon my return to school I was informed immediately that we had been divorced. No explanation was given, nor was I asked to sign anything. Apparently, our marriage had been annulled. This shattered me. How fickle the world was. And that my friends was my first recorded memory of heartbreak. Oh, but it was FAR from the last.
Let's flash forward to grade four. I was an early pubescent, having gotten my first pubic fibres around this time. That alone was challenging enough. Once, while getting naked for a shower at the Toronto Island School, a developmentally challenged student caught me changing by my bunk bed and saw that I possessed naughty hairs crying out, "LUIS HAS A HAIRY WIENER! LUIS HAS A HAIRY WIENER!" Suddenly, I had become a circus oddity, with all my mates asking to see my dick and laughing at me while making crude jokes. This may be politically incorrect but its a very humbling experience when all the developmental kids join the other kids in making fun of you...I mean, they were our go to scapegoats. To have them make fun of me...well, irony is fun on a hipster tee shirt but when applied to real life situations, stinks of high tragedy.
This trauma aside, I was also plagued with lingering confusion about girls. I thought about them constantly but I had no idea why. What they wore. What they smelled like. How they talked. How they wrote with sparkly pens, saved eraser clippings, made interesting paper things that told you your fortune, knew the words to many songs, always had elaborate candies. Girls were fucking cool. Back in those days, I had more in common with them then the guys. The guys were too busy playing sports, or showing off. Girls TALKED. They sat and talked to each other, usually about things like who was cute or who wasn't cool. Real insight. Guys were always busy engaging in contests, contests I was never equipped to win. So unskilled in certain sports was I that the other kids would make me the "referee". Then when I would make a call during the game, they would ignore it, thus proving the uselessness of my being there. To this day when the refs are booed at a hockey game I shed tears.
My first "girlfriend" was my next door neighbor Jenny. She was a tom boy who loved to play board games and wasn't afraid to punch me in the stomach whenever I got lippy. Often, we would play in my back yard and when no one was around we'd smooch. Without fail, whenever we did, we'd get caught and I'd get a lecture about how that was wrong. It was confusing to say the least. What was wrong with it? I saw my parents kiss. Isn't that what people did? One time, we were playing outside while my dad built a book shelf. Jenny had to use the washroom. I asked my dad if she could use ours. He said, "yeah, take her upstairs." Alone with her in the house? Unprecedented! As we walked up the stairs, Jenny turned to me and asked the age old question that many kids curiously ask one another, "If you show me yours I'll show you mine." I was petrified, I had never purposefully shown anyone my naughty bits and they were hairy and weird at that. I insisted she go first. Now mind you, I didn't have any conception at this point of the vagina, so my expectation was that it would be similar to the penis, it being the only object between a persons legs I had ever witnessed. (my dad routinely walked around in the nude...is this common?) So when she pulled down her pants to reveal nothing but a bare mound, I was underwhelmed. Where was her doodle? Now it was my turn and I felt gyped. I hadn't really seen anything and frankly, she was about to get alot more bang for her buck. So I pulled down my pants....and showed her my belly button. As to why I thought this would even work, well, my bellybutton had a lot more in common with her junk then my dick did. And even though she was young and impressionable, she didn't buy my ruse. "Show me yours!", she bellowed, hands clenched ready to sock me. I reached to pull my down my pants....and couldn't do it. I got two punches for my insolence but she never did see my dick.
Grade 5 is when the real shit hit the fan. It was at this age that I met Micha, a comely blond girl that wore her hair in a side ponytail with over sized pastel sweaters. Even thinking about her now, I have to say she was pretty hot...is that creepy? Bah. Anyways, Micha was one of those attractive ladies who knew she was attractive and pranced around with an assured air about her; the type of girl who could huck a spit ball at the black board when no one looked and could rest assured SHE wouldn't be blamed. Anyways, I liked her from afar but had nary a shred of balls to actually talk to her. In fact, whenever the chance occurred, I literally would talk in a high pitched squeal that sent our class pet rabbit Clinton running circles in his cage. Anywho, one of my good friends at the time Adrian, took it upon himself to let her know that I liked her behind my back. And so it was, I was in the school yard one day when Micha and Tara (her best friend) approached me. They had a strange way of walking in unison as if they were one single entity which unto itself was quite unsettling.
Tara: So, we heard you like Micha.
Lil' Luis: Uh, no.
Tara: That's not what Adrian said.
Lil' Luis:(shooting Adrian dagger eyes) How would he know?
Tara: Cuz.
Micha: What, you don't like me?
Lil' Luis: ........ (answer given in barely audible high pitched squeal)
Micha: What?
Tara: ANYways, if you like her so much why don't you sit in that huge puddle over there?
Lil' Luis: (contemplating while looking at huge puddle) I don't think so.
Tara: Well, Micha won't talk to you anymore unless you do.
Lil' Luis: But she doesn't talk to me....
Micha: Well I won't start.
Lil' Luis: ...... (high pitched squeal disturbs a flock of birds overhead)
Adrian: Can I talk to my friend for a second?
Now before I get back to the ensuing drama, it is important to note that Adrian was a huge Star Trek: The Next Generation fan. He was wearing his homemade Captain Picard shirt with tin foil communication device at the time....in fact, he always did. He also carried a wooden "phaser" that had an acutal LED lights built in. This guy was an uber geek. He even once had a birthday party where his new age parents created a make shift Enterprise bridge in their basement and we all enacted an actually Ferangie attack. I was given the role of Wharf. Racist bastards. Anywho....
Lil' Luis: Why did you tell her I liked her?
Adrian: Because you'd never tell her yourself.
He was right.
Lil' Luis: Well, I'm not sitting in a puddle....
Adrian: Don't you see? If you sit in the puddle, you'll show her you REALLY care.
Lil" Luis: What?
Adrian: Its a romantic gesture. Its like your willing to do anything for her.
Lil' Luis: But...
Adrian: Don't waste this opportunity.
Looking over, Micha and Tara were standing waiting. In truth, this was the most interest she had ever showed in me ever. And I really did like her....
So I fucking sat in a huge fucking puddle.
And the girls pointed, laughed and walked away, never to invest interest in me again. This was and still sort of is, one of the most humiliating experiences I have ever experienced. I sat there for a good minute with my eyes closed, I just couldn't move. When I finally got up, I went right to the school entrance where a teacher supervising asked what happened. I sarcastically remarked, "What do you think? I pissed my pants." Well apparently I had not yet mastered the art of sarcasm as the teacher took it literally and called my parents telling them that I had in fact pissed my pants. When my mother came to the school to bring me a new pair of pants, she was as embarrassed as I was. "How could a boy your age piss himself?" Sadly, I didn't have the heart to tell her the real story, proving two things: a)It is less embarrassing to say you lost control of your bladder then it is to say you did something incredibly stupid for the love a women and b) never trust a man who says, "engage number one" when entering a room.
And that takes us to Grade six, our final tale in our blog this evening.
When I was in Grade six there was one girl I wanted more then anything else: Hailey. But I never got a chance to talk to her because I was incredibly hyper-active and disruptive and was constantly being put to sit in the cloak room away from the other kids (the joke was on them though, the cloakroom desk had an apple computer with Bubble Bobble loaded on it, explaining why I am so comfortable to this day playing video games rather than socially interacting...hmmm, perhaps the joke is still firmly on me). The one time I was reintegrated with the other children I was placed at table two: right next to Hailey! What an exciting stroke of luck! Sitting there, she smiled and talked to me and for about thirty minutes I was in heaven. At this point, my high pitched whine was refined into a soft whisper...still not a manly tone but I was able to converse, a big plus. At the table with us was Anton, a big, burly blond kid who farted alot and had a kick ass mansion home at Palmerston (have you seen the houses at Palmerston and College? Geez.) Anton was a kid who would throw loonies on the ground and watch kids scramble for them in a frenzy while he laughed hysterically. Anyways, we had these little rubber made bins that contained all of our notebooks. Our teacher called for us to grab one and reaching down into my bin I unleashed a small but very audible fart of my own. I was absolutely TERRIFIED that Hailey heard it. Those days whenever an unexpected toot came out, I'd start farting with my mouth, thus creating the idea that the initial sound was just the beginning of random child noises. It actually works quite well when your ten years old but as you get older, its sometimes better to admit you've broken wind rather then create the image that your a nut job who makes uncontrollable sound effects for no reason. But in this class situation, that simply wouldn't fly. Getting up, I looked around the table. To my surprise, no one noticed....no one but Anton. He had that sadistic look in his eyes that he reserved for watching kids tear each others limbs of for petty change. "LUIS FARTED!" "DID YOU HEAR THAT HAILEY? LUIS FARTED!" I went nuts. I started screaming, "NO I DIDN'T! YOU LIAR! I DIDN'T!" annnnnnd....got sent back to the cloak room where I remained for the rest of the school year.
So no, I never got together with Hailey. But I did get some.
Shaunna was a lovely Korean girl who was a grade younger then me. With her, I didn't have to do anything, she was one of those go-getter types. She pursued me and she did it with style and substance. Basically she invited me to her bday party, where Anton and I were the only boys invited (we weren't supposed to be there, it was all girls. At one point the two of us had to hide from her dad underneath a pile of winter jackets) and we played spin the bottle and seven minutes in heaven, which is really how sex is taught. Shaunna made a point to get me in the closet and it was there that the tongue was added to my kissing repertoire. We would from then on find places to hide and make out and once, when her parents were out, we snuck into her house where she took of her shirt. Now I was suddenly entering a higher echelon of hanky panky...and I wasn't complaining. The guys could play all the football they wanted with their hairless penises, I was getting dirty.
Now this would seem like a happy ending but as most of my tales go, this one has a shitty ending. First of all, during our school talent show, Shaunna took my hand and stuck it between her legs. Now mind you, I didn't know what I was doing, I just sort of left it there. However, the teachers noticed and they took us to the office and chastised me for being a pervert. I wasn't sure why, but I quickly came to realize that although female genitalia was uneventful (oh how wrong I was) it was a not an open playground. From that moment onward, sneaking away with Shaunna became nearly impossible and our sexy kiss sessions ceased. I guess without them I was not very desirable because one day while playing Mighty Morphine Power Rangers on my Super Nintendo at home, I got a call from my friend Ian who revealed that Shaunna had invited him over to her house. I didn't believe him, so he put us on three way call (the best way back in '91 to catch a cheating lover...now we've got the Internet) and lo and behold it was all true. I was very sad as I fought with my Blue Ranger that night.
So how did I deal with that trauma? Well perhaps it had been the puddle incident not but a year earlier but I set out to destroy her. I went to school and immediately started dating Jaya, a girl I had never showed any interest in prior and proceeded to flaunt our relationship in front of Shaunna. And it worked, she was really hurt.
And it is there, on this fateful day, that my title of "man whore" can officially said to have begun. I had my first tastes of being hurt by the fairer sex and it brought me much satisfaction to finally strike back. And it would not get prettier from here on in, this I promise you.
And that my friends ends part one of this six part retrospective. Thank you for joining me in this exploration. Please join me next time for GIRLS: Pt. 2 Tweens where there are knife fights, bike chases, alley way roses and lots of heavy petting. OH its a wild one alright.
My chest is hurting a great deal. I'd get xray to check myself out, but knowing me, the damned thing wouldn't work anyway.
Engage, number one.
That Blogging Bastard
P.S. Due to my medical emergency, I'm going to forgo the usual rigorous editiing and just post this sucker. Please feel free to correct my grammar as you read. Thanks.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
nothing particularly serious
Greeting participants of the Internets!
It's that blogging bastard banging out a blog again. Bang.
August was a bit of an off month for me, as I spent much of it drinking and thinking, in about a 60-40 ratio drink to think. Being the end of summer, I always use this time as an excuse to party my ass off and as a result am only just barely able to peel my sorry ass out of bed in time for what little work I have. Blogging during these boozy summer days is nearly impossible as the back light of my screen makes me nauseous. Plus I get sorta brooding when I drink unless there is a dance floor involved. And who wants brooding? Not here cuz this blog is FUN TOWN, baby! We can't stop having fun when we're in FUN TOWN can we? Yay, FUN TOWN, oh yeah!!!
[editors note: Fun Town, the fictional hamlet in Luis' mind, was burned to the ground two days after this blog was written. A gas stove was left on in an old women's first floor kitchen and a fire broke out. The women, one Mildred Horseclap, was allegedly upstairs in her games room having too much fun instead of paying attention to the family supper she was preparing. The fire, now a raging inferno, spread to a nearby propane bottling plant where the workers, too busy having fun in a nearby stock yard, were not present to notice the creeping flames. The resulting explosions tore apart two city blocks, and Fun Town being only two and half blocks, was pretty well razed to the ground. The only two structures still standing are the public aquarium (very fun, you should visit!) and the Town Hall. Luis, having been mayor at the time of this accident, was devastated. He feels personally responsible for failing his civic duty to protect and maintain the thriving tourist destination that existed only in his mind. Please do whatever you can to refrain mentioning Fun Town to him as it will spiral him into a complete and total mental breakdown. Thanks. We will now restart this blog on a more serious note. We appreciate your readership.]
It's fall again and with it comes a crisp wind scented like burning wood. I love that smell. I have no idea where it comes from considering I'm sitting in the urban jungle, but autumn always seems to bring it no matter where you are.
I like the fall. Yes, there is something sad about falling leaves, crunchy walks underfoot and barren branches. But this change, even in a mangled world of concrete, refuses to stop its inevitable course. And in a world where we either resist change to the point of stagnation or embrace it to the point of utter confusion, it is nice to see something that always happens as it should.
Well, I guess we've delayed it with global warming... We've affected even that haven't we? Shit, I thought that was pretty well said. Well, I'm just happy that it seems to be coming when its SUPPOSED to this year. Not a very popular sentiment, I know, but I like my Septembers crisp and cool. Yes, yes, the summer sun is everyone's drug, but I'm a fall kinda guy.
For one I'm better dressed in the fall. I am no fashionista but I can look pretty good with a little effort. But the summer is just too fucking hot to look good. Sure, I could be dressed to the tits but does it really matter when you've sweat your shirt translucent? It's hard to make bodily fluid sexy...well, its hard to admit publicly that it is. Either way, bodily fluid never did me any favors. Ok, there was that one time my semen drove my mom to the airport but that doesn't count. He owed me big time....
So all I have to wear in the summer is a bunch of ironic tee shirts and shitty sports shorts. And ironic tee shirts are like quick hit jokes; funny only the first time you hear them. After the third time you're sick of it. There is a shelf life. And some of my tee shirts expired around the same time the milk in my fridge did. Oh but Fall! Suddenly there is a host of jackets, hats and scarves that come into play. When your bearded this turns you from crack bum to pretentious intellectual faster then you can say Fun Tow....never mind.
My point is I can now go back to being a pretentious intellectual, which is where I want to be. Or rather I just want to look that way as I bum around for crack.
I get very mellow in the fall. Its around this time that I feel like every element of my life needs to be held and reminded that it is loved. I guess its because fall reminds us that change is around the corner at all times, and that we should be thankful for what we have now...hey, I guess thats why Thanksgiving happens around now. Am I stupid for just realizing that now? Probably, right? Bah.
And Halloween is the shit. I'm a sucker for dressing up in a costume, drinking profusely and making out with someone dressed like a cat, only to realize it was in fact your best friends father dressed as Yogi the Bear. That was one wild Halloween, I'll tell you sir.
Clearly, I am just not capable of being serious right now.
I just like the fall. Alright? Do I have to explain everything? It's a nice time. It smells good, I have clothes, I get all heady, I can wear pants. Now I've got some random observations.
Random observation #1:
There is this older guy at the SkyDome who is one of my regular customers. He always buys a single Bud Lime Beer and chats with me pleasantly. He seems to be rather wealthy and talks with what I am guessing is a dutch accent. He calls me Jimmy. I haven't the heart to correct him. Is it weird to ignore an obvious mistake, accept it and then have it become so widely accepted for such a long period of time that to correct it now would unearth a huge lie that most likely will make him wonder why it was not corrected in the first place? Yeah, I thought so too.
Random observation #2
People stop understanding english when the TTC streetcar driver yells, "EVERYONE COULD YOU PLEASE MOVE TO THE BACK! I can not stand this. He isn't asking a question, he is making a statement. There is an entire third of the streetcar empty at the back and yet people who are waiting outside aren't admitted on because there is no room. PEOPLE, MOVE YOUR FUCKING ASS TO THE BACK OF THE FUCKING STREETCAR. This is not about human rights. There is no longer a stigma with sitting at the back of the bus. People need to get on, so move it. I swear to you, people are told this and they stand unmoving and blank faced. "Nope, I don't have to move nowhere, I'm an important person doing important things". UGH. Mark my words I will be more vocal about this in the future. If you are a friend of mine on transit with me, I am truly sorry but I am going to embarrass us.
Random Observation #3
I was coming home with my home slice Brittney in a taxi cab and we were bantering like a drunken Abbott and Costello. This somehow affected the taxi cab driver who amused and smirking asked, "Can you play cassettes?". I was unclear as to what this meant. "You mean like VHS?" "No" he replied, "Like music cassettes. Cassette tapes." Truth be told I couldn't and still can't, but smelling free offerings I replied, "Uh , yeah. " After our ride was completed he pulled out a HUGE box of cassette tapes. "Yeah, I gave them to my daughter, but she moved and made me take them back." It was solid gold baby. Everything from The Guess Who to the Dire Straits. Britt took home Motley Crue but who could blame her? Since then, I've been telling people about this find. No one cares. "Yeah, you ever heard of a computer?. You can have any song you want. Now you've got a huge box on your floor" I guess I'm a dinosaur cuz I'm loving this cosmic gift. Now if only I could find some way to play these cassettes....
ARRRRRRRGGGH!!!!
I'm sorry. Fun Town is gone. And its all my fault. They're all dead! DEAD! I just can't do this right now.
That Blogging Bastard
[editors note: Ok, who mentioned Fun Town? Seriously guys, he's gone off the deep end now. Who was it? Who the fu... Oh wait, he probably read the editors note...this is my fault. Oh God, this is all my fault. ARRRRRGGGH! I just can't do this right now. ]
[random observation #4: Absinth and blogging make for some pretty bizarre writing, no? Oh, I'm sorry? Who is writing this if Luis and his editor are gone? Hi, I'm Peter. I'm Luis friend's dad who he met dressed as Yogi the Bear. Now that was a wild Halloween, let me tell you sir....]
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Uncertainty
Hello there.
Today's blog was going to be about hip-hop music and women but for some reason, as the rain drizzles off my dusty ledges and I sip on coffee bought for me by an abandoning lover, I have no choice but to change my tune and speak on something entirely different.
Today's blog is about life.
As I get older, I can't help but question the meaning of my existence. Each and every day, I wake out of my bed, stubble blindly through my apartment with sleep in my eyes, sit on the toilet and look into the mirror. And when I look at my bearded face I realize I don't recognize myself at all. Who am I? And why do I exist? And why don't I know the answers to the most basic questions of self?
For far too long I've plowed ahead in life with the expectation that life would reward me for simply trying my best to make sense of it. I went to school. I have jobs. I have friends. I have objects. I create art. I remain bitterly opposed to all temptations to give it up, to join the corporate world, to seek a lasting partner and allow anything to deter me from what I want to do NOW. And in doing all this, by remaining staunchly individualistic, I figured a path would eventually form that I could just follow until true purpose was found. Or at the very least, an identity would materialize that I could feel proud of possessing.
But it hasn't. And with each passing day I wonder if somewhere in the tumble of life, I missed something critical because I've spent the whole of my twenties running head first into life, never asking questions, only doing the work that sat in front of me or idly partying away the nights with friends and lovers, saving the real questions for another time.
But increasingly, I wonder if the concept of tomorrow is only an excuse for not dealing with the problems of today. Without trying to seem morbid, tomorrow may never come. And unless one believes in the concept of heaven or reincarnation, there will never be another time to deal with these questions. And even if a heaven exists or the chance to see the world through a new set of eyes is possible, I will never have the opportunity to think THESE thoughts or see the world through THESE eyes again. I exist now and for a limited time only.
So if NOW is the only time we have, then why do we waste it? Or more accurately, because I don't know you or your problems, why do I waste it?
I was reading Chuck Palahniuk's PYGMY, a novel about a young terrorist infiltrating an American family in order to take down the government. As a story, it's only just OK. The narrative, told in broken English from the terrorists perspective, is kinda grating and the story itself is pretty basic and unoriginal. But one thing that did strike me was how the protagonist describes our freedom here in North America. He says:
"Making all effort resist absorption into American cult of the individual, traditional method entrenched oligarchy so maintain own power: Fracture citizen isolated into different religion, different race, different family. Label as rich culture diversity. Cleave as unique until each citizen stand alone. Until each vote invested no value. Single citizen celebrated as special-in actual, remaining no power."
In this statement, that our individuality is merely a way to separate us, to take away our power of community, I see a truth about myself. I have always maintained that I am unique and my story is special. That outside of my own story exists nothing. I am the protagonist, and my personal happiness and discovery is all that matters.
And this is how I have lived. And why shouldn't I? That is the freedom of our world. The freedom to make choices. The freedom to pursue whatever it is we wish.
But what should we pursue exactly? It seems like all we have to look forward to is more money, more objects, more excess. These things cannot enrich our souls, they simply contain the power to distract. And the things that are pure: Love, relationship, philosophy, morality, faith, these things are intangible and created solely in the voids of our minds. They exist only in theory and can be of no use in a society of price tags. We can feel them and they are real, but they are as fleeting as melting snow.
I'm not saying they are purposeless, I am saying that they are not physical and it's the physical and tangible that are society covets. I'm not saying that I don't believe in them; quite the contrary, I believe in them very much. As I've said in previous blogs, I believe Love is the most powerful force in the world. But Love requires a give and take, and needs two or more people to power it into existence. To love unconditionally with no return is to let this ever moving world get ahead of you while you remain stuck in place. To love is to make yourself vulnerable when wolves are always at the gates ready to prey. And in a world of shifting allegiance, of individuality and Capital, where everyone is made to believe their story to be the most important, how can two people find a common ground in which to facilitate love when our focus is solely on ourselves? Why should we compromise our wants when another lover is around the corner, when opportunities are endless, when our media saturated minds treat everything like a new product waiting to be bought? And why should we love aloud when others will take without giving back?
Simply put, I no longer know what is truly worth racing towards. I can no longer distinguish the difference between doing nothing and doing something when I don't know what it is I require to bring about personal satisfaction. No one respects philosophers because they sit around all day lost in thought when action could be taken. And those of action can get ahead and achieve the world, but when they sit alone with their accomplishments and wealth they can never find true contentment when there is always more to be gained. Because nothing is ever good enough; there is always more bounty waiting to be plundered.
So where to go? I've been making theatre for over ten years. It has been my life's work. But I wonder what motivates this work. If it is a true desire to express myself, to evoke thought and speak on the human condition, why choose a medium that is dying when other more direct mediums exist? And if its to make money and a career, why choose an art notorious for impoverishing its creators? And if its to feel important, why does each show close with me sitting at home wondering who I am and why I do it in the first place?
Love is grand but it doesn't pay the bills. Neither does theatre. Neither does blogging.
But this is who I am. This is what I believe. This is what I do. And I, for the life of me, can't figure out why that is.
The rain outside is clearing and the sun breaks through the clouds for the first time. As I sit alone at my computer, thoughts racing around the room like a runaway horse, I contemplate all that I am and where it is I must go next. With no one to hold, no path to walk and no God to guide me, I realize this is my trouble and my trouble alone. We are individuals, all unique as blades of grass, no two are the same. And that is where they get us. Maybe if we joined hands and walked together we could forge something new, discover something better, and figure out why we are here in the first place. But for now, I am an individual and so very, very confused.
"When I became a man, I put away childish things"
Corinthians
Thanks for reading.
That blogging bastard
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Inspiration
"Shit or get off the pot"
-Ancient North American proverb
Salutations Internet browsers! It's the blogging bastard here to bastardize blogs yet again. How goes it? Myself? PUMPED.
I'll level with you. I've been a wuss lately. A yellow belly. A bona fide grade "A" pussy. Why do you ask?
Because I've been afraid to get off my skinny ass and get down to business, that's why. I've been broke. Stagnant. Depressed. And that is no way to behave in a summer time setting.
Shortly after writing a blog about love, I realized that my optimism of late has been lacking. "I'm so poor", I cry. "I'm in love", I shudder. "I'm a whore", I pronounce.
Whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa there, grumpy bear! Since when am I so glum? (Not to say my blog about love was glum. Although I did speak at length of my melancholy which is something I experience from time to time. Like now. And yesterday. And last week after some grapefruit.)
NO MORE!
I hereby declare a new Luis, one who isn't afraid to take risks, stare uncertainty in the face and rap his big ol' mitts around Fear's lanky-ass neck and strangle that sum bitch till he's deader then a teenager's first kiss. I've got to rub the stink of defeat off my carcass and inject some much needed chutzpah into my daily diet (which now consists of coffee, a Mcdouble and 3-8 alcoholic beverages). Today is a new day and I'm kicking ass and taking names! The question is: what will I do with those names once I've got them? Publish a Baby's first names book, that's what! (genius)
Ok, I know what you're thinking, "Oh yeah right and how exactly will you improve yourself you slimy Portuguese swindler you." Well first of all, that's racist. And secondly, I made a list.
So without a moments pause for the sake of clarity and reason, I pronounce to you:
10 WAYS TO EUTHANIZE YOUR PET AT HOME!
1. Windex. Syringe. Simple.
2. Grab a cooking mallet and a Phillips head screwdriver. Then...
Wait, wait, wait. Wrong list. I apologize, I apologize. That was the list for next weeks blog. (which will be a huge money and time saver. Join me!)
Alright rewind. Let's try this again. AH-heh. Without further ado, I present to you:
10 WAYS TO IMPROVE YOUR LIFE!
1. Stop thinking about it. DO IT. I mean what's the worst that could happen? Embarrassment? Jail time? Death? PFfssssst. Whatever.
2. Laugh a lot. I don't know about you, but crying sucks. And yes, the world is a unmitigated disaster. Oil spilling in the waters. People BRAP!BRAP!ing each other with large guns. Children starving. A baseball team in the AL east with no chance of competing (I mean come on!). So what are we going to do about it? Nothing? Then shut your stinking mouth. Then open it. And then laugh. I don't know, watch Friends or something. Better yet, grab a large feather, a pal, and tickle under their arms until they are either crying with laughter or beating your ass down for getting saucy. Either way, you ain't thinking about oil spills anymore and neither are the newspapers. Hahahahahaha.
3. Make like a Courtney and Love I said it once, and I'll say it again. Love is a powerful force that even that guy with the porn stash and heart on his chest from She-Ra couldn't ruin. Love conquers all. And I don't mean just romantic love. Love for your neighbors. For your fellow (wo)man. Love for yourself. Love all the bloody time and you will receive nothing but love back. And if you don't, ask yourself, "Who the hell am I hanging out with?"
4. Don't let others tear you down People can be such pricks. Let's face it, we all could be doing "better." But those who keep a positive attitude, who believe in themselves, who smile when the sun's bright, they are the ones that get pissed on by all those negative souls feeling sorry for themselves. If you want to rock your pyjamas on the dance floor, rock em. If you're a fan of shit music, crank it. If you want to sing, sing 'til your voice croaks. Don't let anyone tell you that you don't shine. Cuz you shine, baby.
5. Don't tear people down I am guilty of this like everyone else. Hey, I'm not saying be a saint. Nothing is better than getting together with an old friend and making fun of your grade 8 math teacher. Or that girl at work with the lisp. But when you're out and about, keep your negative shit to yourself. Fear rules our lives, and we are judged by impossible standards of beauty and wealth. Do we really need to further tear the already downtrodden dreams of others? Check yourself, before you wreck yourself. It's not like you're the greatest thing that walked this planet. Because that's reserved for Kid Rock.
6. Make a plan I'm a scattered brained airhead. But what sets me apart from true uselessness is my ability to grab a pen, make a plan and implement it. You can't build without a road map. Why waste precious energy pissing your ideas into the wind? With a proper plan, you can gather that idea piss, jar it and make a mint off selling it as Allen's apple juice. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone what you did. Caution: Plans, while necessary, rarely go as drafted. Don't be afraid to improvise.
7. Believe in yourself For God's sake, could we all just have a little faith in ourselves? If you don't, no one else will because they're too busy not believing in their own selves to believe in you. So stop thinking you aren't good enough. Now refer to number 6 and then head straight to number 1. Capisce?
8. Be disciplined Alright, so you said you'd hit the gym three times a week. And you'd quit smoking. And you'd stop seeing that guy/girl who keeps punching you in the face for burning the omelettes at breakfast. But its been two months and you still haven't set foot in the gym. And you smoke 2 packs a day. And you stroke your black eye as you crack another egg. If you want shit to change, you kinda have to do something about it. And plans become a waste of time if you spend hours drafting them only to find them a year later underneath a couch cushion. Nothing worth having comes easy. It takes sleep to have a dream. It takes work to make it into a reality. Like Gang Starr says, "....put in work and watch your status escalate". If you aren't going to listen to the wisdom of hip-hop, there ain't nothing I can do for you.
9. Turn your failures into lessons So you fucked up. Again. Why did you fuck up? Identify it and then don't do that same thing again, so that the next time you try to steal a baby panda you won't fall into the enclosure and get your face dashed about. (These get rich quick schemes are starting to kill me). Obviously you can apply this to whatever zoo animal you're trying to steal. Or to any other pursuit really. My point is it's a lot easier to get back on the wagon when you look at the fall you took as a lesson. And when next you try, you'll try with some common sense, the kind of common sense that only falling on your ass can teach you.
10. Write a blog-Since doing this blog, I've really tapped into some of my thoughts and discovered some fascinating things both about myself and those who actually take the time to read this thing. In this one, for instance, I realize I have an unnatural subconscious desire to see harm come to animals. Who knew? Ultimately, I find it a great comfort to write down my feelings and thoughts. Ok, so maybe putting those ideas and thoughts on-line for everyone to read and judge isn't for you. In fact, there are probably people right now calling PETA on me. See? So instead, get out a secret book, write you feelings in them and then find a hiding spot where snooping bastards won't read and squeal. You'll be glad you did.
So there! Eat my dust, World! Armed with these ten points of discovery, we're all gonna get money, power and respect. (what you need in life) Or something wussy like peace and enlightenment. And what are you going to do about it, World? Nothing! That's what! What's that,World? You're sick and dying? Oh. I'm sorry. I was just kidding. Get better.
It's late and I've got way too much positive energy. I'm going to have a martini and simmer down. I hope that today's blog inspired you to get off that lumpy behind and get yourself sum sum. We only got this one life, I personally don't see why we'd waste a single moment of it.
Now I'm going to use this list for the self-help book I'm publishing along with the book of baby names. Sometimes it worth kicking a little ass.
Taking names (and self publishing),
That Blogging Bastard
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Love
Considering my last blog had a frank discussion about the show Blossom, I thought it time to start writing about something a bit more substantial. Today's Blog is about Love.
In the brief history of my existence, I have come to learn that love is the most complex, confusing, awe-inspiring, and powerful force in the world. The few times that I have experienced it, it has changed me fundamentally, sometimes in ways I would never have expected.
In some ways I view myself as a rock, unmovable and solid. When there is something that I want, I take it. If there is something I feel, I express it. This has always been my strength, my ability to see clearly how I feel about moments as they confront me. Love has always been the one thing that I don't see clearly, that when it worms its way into my heart and mind, I lose myself completely. For this reason I fear it because I am not in control of it.
I remember when I was in love back in University. Back in those days, I was what most people would consider a douche bag. I had no interest in women other then the drunken sex they may provide. I listened to a lot of mainstream rap back then and somehow bought into the idea of myself as a 'playa'. Bros before hoes; hoes down, G's up and all that nonsense.
There was a girl in my class, a quiet type, who kept to herself and didn't say much. Although attractive, I had never given her much consideration. One day she expressed interest in me and we went on a few dates, and something inside me started to change. I found myself thinking about her constantly. When I'd go to the bar, I wasn't interested in meeting women because I was too busy thinking about where she was. I wrote poems about her. Music reminded me of her. I was falling. Here was my perfect women, the one that would make me forget all others.
Unfortunately, she didn't see it that way. She was from BC and she was going to be gone for 5 months during the summer and didn't see much point in keeping it going. On the final day of our being together, we lay on her bed and kissed. I told her I would wait. She said she couldn't.
When her cab pulled her away, it pulled away a piece of me with it.
That summer was awful. I cried a lot. I listened to Coldplay. I counted down the days on a calendar until her return. Every conversation I had led to her until friends who lent their sympathetic ears started to lose their patience with me. Women, some of whom were quite beautiful, would become intimate with me only to see me break down and talk about her. They didn't last. I would try to call her every now and again but she never would return my calls. When she did, she was brief and cold. Being in BC, it bothered me that when I lay in bed thinking about her in the wee hours of the morning, being 3 hours behind me, she was still enjoying her evening. I had somehow convinced myself that I was the reason she didn't love me back, that I wasn't good enough. I spent four days a week in the gym, in some bizarre attempt to create a better me, so that when she came back I would be more attractive and desirable.
Of course all this was pointless. The facts remained, we were young and she was gone and it had nothing at all to do with me. Women are slow to love, because men promise themselves so frequently that they simply must proceed with caution to protect themselves. And when men experience love, being resistant to feeling anything, they embrace it so fully they make fools of themselves. Being gone for 5 months and having really just gotten to know me, she was the one being reasonable. I was the one acting like an obsessive twit.
When she came back to school in September, we eventually did go out and spent a few years in a relationship. But because of that summer, where my heart literally imploded, I carried a resentment inside myself. In any argument, I couldn't give an inch, because I felt like all my slack was expended that summer in tears and bad pop tunes. The reality was, we weren't that great together anyway and the reality of us did not live up to the idea of us.
And so we fell out of love. But love doesn't go away. It transfers and becomes something new.
I will say this: I hate falling in love. For all my logic and intelligence, I can't get over the fact that from time to time someone enters my life that turns me into a puddle on the ground. I have remarkable restraint and a clear sense of self but when love enters me, all this is dropped to the floor. Suddenly I am whisked away to a place of extreme vulnerability, all my writing becomes mushy and unreadable, and I am seemingly unable to focus on myself which, for someone as self-absorbed as I am, is extremely frustrating. I never ask to fall in love. It just happens.
Why does it do that? When I hate something, its very clear as to why. "This guy stole my girlfriend". Now I hate him. Cause and effect. "My house burned to the ground" Now I'm sad. Again, cause and effect. So what is it about love that takes you by surprise? You can meet person after person, all beautiful in their own ways, and then one day your at work and a new co-worker stands besides you and BANG. You're in love. How?
I have thought a lot about this. For one thing, love cannot be manufactured, and in not being a human construct, has a life of its own. You can't make love in a laboratory because if you could, the USA would be dropping bombs full of it as we speak. You can't will yourself to love, and you certainly can't buy it. This was a lesson I learned, as I've learned many of my life's lessons, from a comic book.
You see, there was this guy named Thanos. He was a big bad villainous bastard from outer space who was in love with death. So in love with death was he, that he searched the cosmos for the infinity gems, 5 gems of power representing the fundamental forces of the universe: Power, Time, Space, Reality and Soul. He who possessed all five of these gems would become a God, for he would have the power to alter the very fabric of existence. Long story short, Thanos travelled the cosmos and found all 5 infinity gems. Upon acquiring them, he became all-knowing and all-powerful. His first act as a God was to meet Death herself, for so powerful was he that he could conceptualize the force of Death as a women. Upon meeting her, he snapped his fingers and killed half of the life in the universe. A gift he said, for his undying love. Death stared at him and turned away, unimpressed. Next he built her a gigantic monument made of bones, a floating shrine in her honour. She rejected it. He took the planets and arranged them to spell her name. She ignored it. Every gesture, bigger then the last, fell on blind eyes and deaf ears. Thanos was confounded. Here he was, the most powerful man in the galaxy and yet he couldn't with all of his power, the very fabric of the universe his to shape, make someone love him. Oh sure he could force her to love him, snap his fingers and create a reality where Death loved him back, but that would prove hollow. She simply did not. Thanos would eventually in jealousy and anger, create his perfect mate, a creature created in his own image. But that too was empty. All he craved was the love of a women.
In the end, Earth's superheroes come, they fight and save the world. At the end of the day, the Infinity Gauntlet story of which I speak is nothing but a big, stupid comic book. But even at the tender age of 11 when I read it, I saw huge meaning in Thanos and his quest for love. Love could not be bought and all the power in the world could not artificially create it.
So looking at it in this way, one begins to realize that love is a fundamental force, greater then all other forces combined. It isn't just a feeling, it is a power beyond human understanding. And that is why it takes us by the scruff of the neck and flings us into the deep end...it's a power far out of our control.
Now I am not a religious man. Being raised Catholic, I have seen all too many times the disconnect between what one believes and how one actually behaves. And I have seen the hypocrisy of telling others to follow a path that they themselves do not follow. And I don't believe in anything that man has written, even if it's a holy text. And I can't be restricted by anything short of the lessons I've learned and the morality that has come with these lessons. So I can't say conclusively that there is a God, a higher purpose, a deeper meaning to existence. If I could, I'd probably be selling it to you in a book right now.
But here is the kicker. I BELIEVE in Love. And love, having nothing to do with anything earthly, makes me believe that perhaps there is an unseen world all around us, something greater then a world filled with automobiles, dance clubs and twitter. There are scents greater then Chanel. Tastes more glorious then Big Macs. Fabrics richer then the paper of legal tender. And it is through love that I have experienced the greatest heights of human experience. Not through drugs, not through money, not through Coldplay, but full out 'shift the very ground you walk on and knock you on your ass' LOVE. And I can't explain it, I can't quantify it and I can't express it. It's there and we are at its mercy.
I wasn't going to write this blog. These days, love is a bit of a joke word. It doesn't titillate the senses like sex and violence. No one wants to see love. When its on TV, in our magazines or on the big screen, we laugh when it happens. "Oh right" we say. "Now they live happily ever after. Puh-leeze." Seeing love sickens us. When a movie ends happily, we roll our eyes. Shouldn't they have died? Would they really have met up in the end? Is anything in life perfect?
Well, no. Life is a great deal more complicated then that. It seems whenever we love someone, they don't love us back. And when we could care less, that's when people start to get stars in their eyes. Love is difficult. And anything depicted in the media that makes it seem simple offends us. But we've gone well beyond that now. Now we have no tolerance for it at all. We would rather see a man beheaded. A persons toe cut off. Two mannequins fucking. Donald Trump wagging his finger firing people. Simon Caldwell making young girls cry. Pain, suffering, aggression. That's the stuff of entertainment.
I was afraid to write this. Love isn't a popular topic and I'm not the man you'd expect to hear it from. You Blogging Bastard is my place to be flippant about the world and air out my completely superficial grievances about being a piece of shit actor in an uncaring capitalist society. And don't worry, it will continue to be. But sometimes I've got more on my mind then how to rip off the TTC, or what's my favorite breakfast cereal.
For you see, I am in love. And it is the greatest force in the universe.
Mushy Gushy
That Blogging Bastard
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Many a random thought
Blog. blog. BLog. blOG. blog. blog. blog. blog.
BLOG.
The word blog is a strange one isn't it? Its not a very attractive word. It feels like someone was about to say something profound, but then burped while talking. It sits with booger, slag and flak as something you don't want as a last name. "Mister Blog, your table is ready". Ugh.
I promised I would write this blog on a weekly basis. But I forgot that to write something, you have to be thinking of something to actually write. My mind being a whirlwind of randomness, finding that something is actually pretty difficult. I'm sure with a proper diagnosis, there would be a pill to fix all this. But if I were to fix it, then I'd have money, a good paying job, a proper home, two kids, a minivan, a horse named Wallaby, a ranch full of cattle, a personal gyro-copter, a Blackberry, an underground bunker capable of withstanding nuclear blasts, a George Foreman grill (deluxe sized; two steaks at once baby!), a subscription to Reader's Digest, a billiards room, a flux capacitor, a butterfly menagerie, an open field of wild corn, a swimming pool and a harem of virgin women. And who wants all that?
No, I think I'll stick to being a barely functioning theatre practitioner. Drugs isn't the answer, its just a fun way to spend a Sunday afternoon.
In keeping with this, I've decided to make this weeks entry about nothing in particular. Sort of like Seinfeld, minus a cast of lovable characters, good writing and a viewership of over a million people. Think of it as the Chat Roulette of Blogs: a point by point inventory of the inane clutter sitting trapped in my walnut sized brain. Hey, size only matters in the men's change room. And in the bedroom. And in nuclear armament. And in pumpkin weighing competitions at the county fair. And....OK fine, size matters. Let's move on.
-Chat Roulette- The idea of sitting in front of my computer allowing random men to dance their penises in front of me is not appealing. As much as I love surprises, I feel they come best wrapped in paper. With Facebook, I already have a shit whack of friends who I never speak to. And with life, a bunch of good friends I never see. What' s the point of randomly inserting a man from Peru dressed in a rubber suit into my life? Other then to find true love, I mean.
-Texting-I remember in the old days I thought this concept silly. Here we have a wireless devices capable of transmitting our voices from anywhere in the world via satellites orbiting the planet, and we decide that rather then take advantage of this scientific marvel we'd prefer to go all 1806 and revert back to the written word. Why make a 30 second phone call when you can take 10 minutes sending 25 three word messages back and forth?
-you there?
-Yeah. Who is this?
-Luis.
-Hey!
-Hey.
-What's up?
-Seeing what you're saying.
- Not much. Watching t.v.
-Cool. What you watching?
-Uhh, nothing really. What you saying?
-Nothing. Looking for something to do.
-Yeah, I'm bored too.
-Yeah. Want to go see A Team?
-Naw. I got to work.
-Shitty.
-Yeah.
-Give me a shout. I'm free all week.
-Ok. Will do.
That was 18 fucking text messages! To say what? Do you want to do something? That takes 12.5 seconds in a phone call! So for me, texting was a gimmick used by little girls to pass messages in class. HOWEVER, what I didn't realize was how much people hate being responsible for themselves. Let me explain. I'm chronically late. Often, I find myself waking up with only minutes to spare and a need to inform someone somewhere that I am an irresponsible lout. But to actually SPEAK to them is a shameful experience: you can hear their annoyance with your tardiness, they can hear you stuttering while you drop your bullshit lies; the sounds of your cat mewing in the background at odds with the TTC delay you are supposedly experiencing. With text messaging, lying becomes simple. You see, talking reveals emotion, whereas writing is a premeditated action. With texting, I can tell you that you're dying of malaria without hearing the tears, that I dropped your camera in the toilet without hearing you curse my name and that I slept with your wife without hearing the cock of your shotgun. I want to INFORM you, not TALK to you. And so these days, texting is all right in my books.
-Toronto Post G20-I was leaving Sneaky Dee's at College and Bathurst last week and my friend Joe and I walked by the Scadding Court Community centre. This center holds many memories for me, as it was where my father played ball hockey, where I learned to suck at basketball and it contains the library where I picked up my very first Choose Your Own Adventure novel. You remember those, don't you? They went something like this:
You turn the corner only to find yourself pressed against a large, chain link fence. Trapped, you turn to go back the other way, only to find yourself face to face with Mel Gibson. Do you:
Rant on and on about how the Jews and Blacks are destroying our planet, hoping to befriend him? Turn to page 46
Discuss which was better punishment pornography: SAW IV or the Passion of the Christ? Turn to page 75
Ask him what it was like to work with Danny Glover on Lethal Weapon III? Turn to page 103
Hit him with a large mallet? Page 22
Turning to Page 46.....
Quickly you begin to spout incendiary comments about Jewish run Hollywood. Mel Gibson, unable to contain himself, begins to rant on and on about how they forced his girlfriend to dress provocatively while he secretly wishes to see 'those people' exterminated. Smartly, you record all this on your iPhone, send it over to TMZ and make a cool $2000 dollars for the exclusive rights to air it. YOU WIN!
Man, I miss those books. Where was I? Oh yes. So I'm walking by Scadding Court and we hear the boisterous sounds of play coming from the outdoor pool. Keep in mind it is almost 3 am at this point. Coming to the pool we realize that over 100 people, through a hole in the fence, were swimming illegally in an impromptu pool party. Without hesitation, we ripped off our clothes and with underwear as trunks, jumped in. I don't think I've had that much fun in ages. I even saw my friend Julia there and, putting her on my shoulders, engaged in the time worn Jock game of "knock the broad off my shoulders". It was a four way battle royal, and although I swallowed copious amounts of chlorinated water, I won the showdown. Normally I refuse to engage in any sort of athletic competition that could possibly embarrass me (as I often lose such competitions) but the simple pleasure of trespassing in a large group overrode my need to protect myself from feelings of inadequacy. When the cops showed up, which was inevitable, they merely made their presence known long enough for us to get up and leave. For a man left scarred from the G20 police presence, this simple act of rebellion lifted my hearts and gave me hope that Toronto had reverted back to normal.
Not so.
Flash forward a week, and we again found ourselves at the same pool. This time, I was nursing a bit of a cold and had some female attention waiting for me so I opted to skip the pool party, albeit with a heavy heart. Lucky for me I did because that night the cops were waiting. They blocked off all exits, harassed the swimmers, issued out $150 tickets for trespassing and HIT PEOPLE WITH BATONS. That's right. Somehow the innocent act of swimming at night required the use of force. But who can blame the cops? They saw a fence and immediately fell back into their role as protectors of the world's leaders. I mean they were given the right to use force only a few weeks ago, and as we all know, absolute power corrupts absolutely. At this rate, littering will be a crime worthy of capital punishment.
I think N.W.A said it best, FUCK THA POLICE. Now where are they, this homeless guy is staring at me....
-Twitter-
LUIS397
I'm walking to the bathroom
LUIS397
Im in the bathroom, trying to find a clean toilet
LUIS397
OMG, there are no clean toilets. Going to have to put down toilet paper
LUIS397
Taking a dump.
LUIS397
Wall says, "I fucked your mom" Someone wrote underneath, "Ok dad, you're drunk, time to go home"
LUIS397
LOL
LUIS397
Why do I exist?
This is stupid. I don't care what people think.
-Blossom-Does anybody remember this show? Remember? The one with the annoying girl with the big nose who always wore that weird hat? In its heyday it was as popular as The Fresh Prince of Bel Air but nobody talks about it with the same sort of nostalgic glow. Perhaps its because much like Chernobyl, the vicious scar left by Joey Lawrence still effects us to this day. Whoa.
The room where I write this blog is too bloody hot. I'm going to call this one in. Thank you for reading. I'm sorry I've got nothing better to talk about.
Join me next week when I talk about....meh. I don't know. We'll see.
Mel Gibson is crazy. Lindsey Lohan is in jail. Jamie's got a gun. God is dead. And I'm...
That Blogging Bastard.
P.S. I don't agree with Nietzsche. God isn't dead. He's just ignoring us. Probably on Twitter.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Loss and Abandonment: A G20 retrospective
Greetings from Montreal!
Today is Canada Day or as they call it here in Quebec, Thursday. I am sitting at an Internet cafe, lost in thought, unsure of why I am here and where I will be when I return.
It occurred to me after my third mug of coffee, as sweat beads down my forehead and my heart plays to the rhythm of 2Unlimited's No Limit, that after the G20 stormed our city, I was left disillusioned about my sense of freedom and control. In a sense, we were locked up and shut down with no discourse, voting or any tangible say in the matter. And while many of us have experiences during this crisis, a crisis that saw cops given sweeping power to detain, a huge fence erected in a our downtown core and municipal politicians sideswiped and left out of the matter entirely (like they would have made it better anyway), I would like to share my experience with you.
As many know I am a both a Royal York Hotel bartender and a beer hawker at the Skydome. In other words, I'm a high end booze peddler. Both my jobs can be seen on postcards at any Nicholby's location in downtown Toronto, next to the teddy bear Mountie and maple leaf emblazoned Frisbee disc. Leading up to the G20 both my work places started to get us mentally prepared (IE scared) of the oncoming summit. First, they had us sign a waver giving the summit access to our criminal records and personal information. Then we had to get our pictures taken for badges the size of small dogs that we would have to wear AT ALL TIMES, lest we be mistaken for anarchists, protesters or god forbid, regular civilians. Then the Royal York informed us of the perimeter fence, the access points, the check points, the drug sniffing dogs, the bag x-ray, the metal detectors, the laser grid and although this was never mentioned I believe it,T-1000 cyborgs capable of transforming there appearance due to a liquid metal alloy programed into their genetic makeup.
Meanwhile at the Dome, they had the common sense to just cancel that weekend, knowing that baseball was already annoying enough without being anally frisked at the door. The beer prices had already given our fans that feeling, to literally stick a finger up their asses would prove too much even for a $14 ticket. Of course, life being a series of unfair occurrences leading to suicide or marriage, the weekend that would be cancelled would be the same weekend Roy Halladay would be returning to Toronto to pitch. And of course, this Blogging Bastard would lose a boatload of money and come to Montreal with only enough loot to get him a six pack of Boreal Blonde and a smoke meat sandwich sans pickle (I still don't know how I'm paying for these coffees).
Incidentally, Doc pitched a great game blanking the Toronto Blue Jays over seven solid innings of baseball, an apt metaphor for a city that couldn't hit anything without being sent to an internment camp.
At the same time all this fun stuff was happening, I was involved in a breakup with a long term girlfriend. Now normally this blog is reserved for diatribes, jokes and generalizations, but I think including this bit of personal business will help you understand how I came to be given the unique position of seeing the G20's presence grow.
So I break up with my girlfriend and although amicable, the situation had me living with her for 2 months AFTER the breakup. In order to keep what remaining sanity I had, I began doing the couch tour of Toronto, hopping from friends couch to friends couch, hoping to find one with a softened arm rest suitable for multiple tours of duty. I quickly came to realize that the modern couch is less concerned with personal comfort than it is with looking fab next to the Ikea chesterfield. My head, neck and back aged twenty years, but I remained determined to avoid feeling sorrow at all costs.
Then magic!
A friend was moving and through a bizarre stroke of luck I was able to squat in an empty condominium located in luxurious downtown Toronto! Jacuzzi, balcony, screening room, sauna. All I needed was two hoes and a bottle of Cristal and I was Jay-Z minus the talent. Initially, this set-up was sweet even if I was sleeping on a folded duvet that aged my back and neck an additional 15 years, thus putting my spine at the ripe age of 55, older then my dads. Couple that with my 14 year old penis, and you've got one strange body type. Anywho, I was living the high life and for once I'm not talking about cannabis or a shitty beer made by Miller.
Then the Fence came.
It was deceptively slow moving but gradually, day after day, I would arrive to my "condo" and see changes. First came the construction workers, then came the trucks. And presto chango, I wake up to find I've been literally surrounded by a Guantanamo Bay style security fence. Then came the police. Just a few officers at first, smiling as you walked by. Then came the cruisers. Then motorcycles. By week two, security teams were sweeping the streets in 4 minute intervals. Suddenly, I was being questioned as I came home. "Where you coming from?"
"Do you live in the building? (which technically I didn't)" "What's in the bag?" Soon the smiles went away and you were eyed like someone sneaking a bomb across the boarder. One day I looked down at the down town strip I called home and all I saw was Bosnia. Palestine. Iraq. I saw cops in riot gear. I saw people getting stopped and checked just for walking down the street. Sipping coffee, I could see the shadows of snipers dancing on the rooftops. Notices went up telling residents of the building they would be locked down during the summit. A yuppie couple, having just walked their yipping dog, stood in the elevator with me. I turned to them, after just having my bag checked and said, "how are you liking this security?" They laughed. The man said, "I feel like a monkey at the zoo." Ironically, I had just been to the Zoo and he was wrong. I would never feel as comfortable swinging around in this situation as the Orangutan did in his enclosure. I'd take screaming kids pointing at me over sniper scopes any day of the week. But there was truth in this statement. We were caged.
"Do you live in the building? (which technically I didn't)" "What's in the bag?" Soon the smiles went away and you were eyed like someone sneaking a bomb across the boarder. One day I looked down at the down town strip I called home and all I saw was Bosnia. Palestine. Iraq. I saw cops in riot gear. I saw people getting stopped and checked just for walking down the street. Sipping coffee, I could see the shadows of snipers dancing on the rooftops. Notices went up telling residents of the building they would be locked down during the summit. A yuppie couple, having just walked their yipping dog, stood in the elevator with me. I turned to them, after just having my bag checked and said, "how are you liking this security?" They laughed. The man said, "I feel like a monkey at the zoo." Ironically, I had just been to the Zoo and he was wrong. I would never feel as comfortable swinging around in this situation as the Orangutan did in his enclosure. I'd take screaming kids pointing at me over sniper scopes any day of the week. But there was truth in this statement. We were caged.
At work, I met a security guard, some rent-a-cop given a $15 an hour job, who was only too happy to go over the security details with me and my coworkers.
Rent-a-cop: Oh this place is going to be shut down pretty tight.
Luis: Looks like it.
Rent-a-cop: Oh yeah.
Luis: When are they going to start putting us through the metal detectors?
Rent-a-cop: Not sure. Soon. Around the same time as the sniffing dogs get brought in.
Luis: Sniffing dogs?
Rent-a-Cop: yeah. where you guys going?
Luis: Get some dinner. The cafeteria food sucks.
Rent-a-cop: Enjoy it. Soon you won't be able to leave the premise.
Luis: why?
Rent-a-cop: Well think about it. You say you're going for a smoke, then you step outside and someone passes you materials, then you step back in, we recognize you, we wave you in, then BAM! Bomb goes off.
All I could think of was that we were encased in a fence, surrounded by police. Who was passing this bomb? I decided right there and then I wouldn't be working during the summit.
Luis: Will you be using the x-ray machine?
Rent-A-Cop: Naw. I wish. They're training the security team now. They don't respect me and my authority though.
Luis: Really? How so?
Rent-A-Cop: Well, they're all teenagers right? They're hiring teens so they can pay them $10 an hour instead of experienced security like myself. They're always on their cell phones. And I tell them to stop but then an hour later they're back on them, checking their Facebooks.
And this was the vaunted G20 security team. A bunch of hired teens working for peanuts while they searched the bags of employees who had given over twenty years of service. The rent-a-cop would later reveal that he wished for a scooter like Paul Blart Mall Cop and actually fondly compared himself to him. At lease he's close to achieving his dream.
I sat outside the Royal York talking to a beautiful co-worker and as we sat there, people driving up York Street where being told by a smug cop to turn around. Rather then put up a sign they let people drive all the way up the street to be told angrily to turn around, as if they had made some kind of stupid mistake. Even the construction workers, busy fencing us off would chime in, "HEY, DON'T COME HERE!" You could tell they were reveling in there new found power. It was sad to see so many men get consumed with this authority they were given, loving every minute of having control of others. We sat and watched this all while young kids drunkenly stumbled past the security fence, fresh off seeing Justin Bieber performing at the Much Music Video awards. I wondered if they would be doing security at the Hotel that weekend.
And then came the US Marine choppers. I was up in my friends penthouse when we heard a buzzing, as if some large insect from a Godzilla movie was flying through the buildings. And there was. Two twin bladed Marine choppers, straight out of Apocalypse Now, flew right by the building and landed at the Steamwhistle Brewery next door. We were transfixed, I had never seen an aircraft fly so precisely through the city buildings, like something out of a video game. I was rolling a joint at the time, so you can imagine the fear I was experiencing. "What are they doing?" my friend asked. They took off and were immediately followed by a regular chopper with the US presidents insignia adorned on the side. It touched down, and a man with a metal briefcase exited it, handed the briefcase and re boarded. This strange exercise happened a number of times and we realized, it was a dress rehearsal of Obama's arrival. I finished my joint,went up to my nearly empty condo, packed my bags and escaped, never to return. I would rather be locked up with an ex-girlfriend then with the US military.
And so the rest is history. Our media, woefully inadequate and muzzled, denounced "anarchists" for there violence, insisting they were drawing attention from the "peaceful" protesters, the few gatherings of teens singing camp songs at Trinity Bellwoods light years away from the actual action. Those with any balls to use their god given right to dissent in the downtown core, were met with brutality, intimidation and many were illegally detained. One friend sent me an account of his experience in the detention center. He wasn't even protesting, he was just trying to get home. Police arrested the ENTIRE STREET and placed them in a make shift holding facility where 40 men were locked in a room, given one port-o-potty with no door, no access to legal counselling, and placed there for 22 hours. The only food they were given was a Kraft singles slice and two Dixie cups of water. Of course this never made the news. Only the burning police car and masked deviants got the coverage, thus placing the blame on the people for the state of Toronto. And how did that car get burned anyway? I couldn't take a piss without being asked for a urine sample lest it contain radioactive elements, so how exactly did the people get access to a police car? You ask me, its all an elaborate piece of theatre, a way to pull favor to the side of the authorities. All in all, we lost a lot that weekend, and I have yet to fully recover.
So Happy Canada Day!
I'm here in Quebec where Canada is an ongoing joke, and for the first time in my life, I'm not sure I disagree. If people want to shut down our cities undemocratically, then they will. If the world wants to put us in fences, they can. And if you are a barely political, fuck up artist like myself, God only knows what to make of it all.
I just want to be loved.
Please come again when my next blog will be about farts, water pistols and avoiding cover charges at clubs! Now excuse me while I weep.
"Reality is like a fine wine. It will not appeal to children."
That Blogging Bastard
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