Discouragement

Well, I haven't written here in a week. There is a reason for this beyond general apathy. I was knee deep in my latest posting entitled, "Ford Commercials and other worthwhile endeavors", a scathing look at my 30 second participation in a ford commercial that I did earlier this year. As with most of my writing, it was about three pages too long, full of cursing, crass sexual innuendo and my trademark inability to stop myself from going on long tangential refrains. Even so, I was quite happy with it. Barring a proof-read and a spell check the post was ready to enter the cannon of digital non-fiction. However, I was late meeting a friend and decided to save the damn thing and finish it when I returned.

Upon arrival to the homestead, I discovered that my writing was no where to be found. WHERE THE FUCK DOES BLOG SPOT SAVE OUR POSTS?

I searched and searched and searched. Nada.

Now I don't know about other writers, but when I lose my writing, it sends me into a horrible spiral of anger and depression. In fact, it saps my very will to continue writing.

I remember a few years back, I went to Andy Pool hall on College Street on a Tuesday night to see the break dancing. After being groped by security, I asked the man with the firm grip where the coat check was. He grunted and pointed to a pile of knapsacks lying in a pile. I questioned the security of this pile as it was out of the eye shot of the bouncers. After much hesitation, I decided that break-dancers were a trusty lot, and my inner hippy smiled at the thought that a beautiful place existed in Toronto, where one could leave valuables tossed happenstance on a sticky bar floor and walk away wistfully knowing that a mutual respect for one's possessions would be enough to keep them safe. A place of rainbow unicorns and big breasted angels showering Skittles from the clouds. A Utopian fantasy realm of untold trust.

OK, so I didn't actually trust this set-up. I took my ipod nano, cell phone, Nintendo DS, wallet and keys, leaving nothing but some late night smokables and two of my writing books in the bag.

So there I was, buying beer with all my electronics stuffed in my pants.

Incidentally, I hate having things in my pockets. Why does modern day life require us to haul so much fucking stuff around? And why have we scapegoated the fanny pack? If I could walk around with a fanny pack and not have everyone make comment about it, then my life would be grand. But no. For some reason we've linked wearing a fanny pack to being elderly or mentally handicapped, and so, I have to walk around looking like I shat my pants. Woman have told me I carry too much stuff in my pockets, which in turn, makes it impossible to see my butt or the indentation of my naughty bits. Not that I have that much indentation to speak of but what little there is I want visible.

Anyway, the night ends, I go to grab my bag, poof, gone. No knapsack. After pausing, quivering, screaming and then frantically burrowing through the bags on hand and knee, I realized that I had been robbed. All my writing over the last year was gone. My poems, my silly thoughts, my short stories and all the scenes for the Fringe play I was working on. Kaput.

HOURS OF MY FUCKING LIFE WASTED. ( I would probably have wasted them anyway. But still.)

I don't really remember the next few minutes. Mind you, I was screaming drunk at the time, but when you're enraged AND screaming drunk you enter an entirely different reality. It's like you enter "bullet time" except you don't remember anything and nothing that you're doing is resurrecting Keeanu Reeves career. All I recall is going into a cab, crying, swearing and punching the cab's leather seats. The driver asked me to stop a few times, even going as far as to stop the car and threaten to kick me out. I screamed, " I was fucking robbed, man. I was just fucking robbed." Although sympathetic, the ride still cost me $20 with tip. Rooting through the Future Shop in my pants, I gave him the money and jumped out.

At this time in my life, I was still living at Unit 102 which is now a full time theatre studio. When I got home, I grabbed my roommates vintage chair and proceeded to bash out the walls with it. All in all, I trashed the house pretty thoroughly. The next morning was pretty awkward. If you've never destroyed your own living space, there is an odd feeling of terror and pride that goes along with seeing your handiwork. On one hand you're grappling with the fact you went temporarily insane which is frightening. On the other hand, you were temporarily insane, which is kinda bad ass. Either way, I owed my roommate an explanation and a new vintage chair.

After this unfortunate incident, I stopped writing. So discouraged was I about all that I had lost, I simply couldn't bare the thought of starting all over again. In many ways, I still haven't fully recovered from the experience. At that time, I was writing at least every other day. Now, I'm lucky to string together a full hour of writing once a week.

This was why I started this blog. To get back into the habit. And what happens? I lose my writing again. So I haven't been able to write here until now.

The point? We need to re-evaluate our use of fanny packs. They are convenient, functional and with the growing trend of tighter pants on males, necessary. So the next time you see a friend wearing one, shut your god damn mouth, and let the poor bastard be. Only together can we make a difference.

Thanks for your time.

That Blogging bastard.