Saturday and Sunday

(what happened on Friday?)

Well, I’ve arrived at my winter estate, where I’ve received a surprise. I found my son there, who I thought was dead. I could have sworn my wife told me at some point that he died of some childhood disease; nevertheless, there he was. I suppose it was glad news, or it was until I found out the little swine had helped himself to the better part of my opium. Oh well, I guess he’s entitled considering I gave him up for dead.
Finding my son, whose name escapes me, reminded me that I should probably send a missive to my wife. Now that the Cabral Society is seeking my head, they may try for her life in some wrongheaded attempt to take advantage of my non-existent filial devotion. I assigned the task to my assistant Lucretia, which may prove difficult as my wife is currently travelling. She has become preoccupied with a nihilistic circus group called Dread Novello. We saw them perform months ago and I thought it was utter bull-buggery, but Lady Bradley was so taken with them that she became their patron and even took to the road with the troupe, the wanton harlot. I have no clue where she is right now, so Lucretia will have to track her down.
I attempted conversation with my son, which proved halting at best; spending seven years in isolation doing opium and interfering sexually with the livestock has not improved his social skills. I could have sworn I’d visited the winter estate at some point in the last seven years, but I never noticed that he was still alive. Oh well, I’m usually in such a drugged stupor when I visit that I could see Abraham Lincoln and my father engaged in a ‘Dutch door’ with a rhinoceros and think nothing of it.
No matter; my cook, Colonel Valdinov, is preparing stuffed pheasant for dinner. I suppose I’ll retire down to the river for some dynamite fishing with my groundskeeper, Holtz. Perhaps this contract on my head from an insane assassin cult will give me the excuse I need to relax and get back to nature.

Regina Spektor Live

Goddamn, ain't she cute? And the dame's got a set of pipes, to boot.

Art

Art. Art-art. Art.
ArtArtArtArtArtArtArt.
LSD Art.
Art. Art.Art.
Art
Art.

Friday night

So last night I agreed to a friendly rapier duel with Count Robichard. We met in the third ballroom in the main house of my estate, along with our servants. As the match progressed, I became aware that Robichard was dueling with skill not before evidenced. Based on his stance, footwork and thrusting technique it became blindingly obvious that the Count has joined the sinister Cabral Society, and has been receiving additional training. I quickly ended the match by slashing the Count's throat with the tip of my rapier, to his considerable surprise, I can assure you. I confess this was a bit unsporting of me, as we had agreed to a friendly match, but I was certain of my suspicions. Surely enough, I sampled the ‘wine’ the Count had been drinking all evening, and found it was, in fact, blood; proof positive that the Count had forsaken reason and joined the Cabral society.
"Shame on you, dear Count," I said. He, of course, said nothing, as his throat was cut and he was bleeding to death. His horrified servants were eager to help their master but wisely feared to approach me. I ordered my own servant, Cavendish, to mutilate the Count’s body and dispose of it behind stables. The Count’s servants tried to intervene but I reminded them that not only was I their social better, but I had a gun. In an uncharacteristic show of wisdom they fled my estate. Just to be sure, I sent my groundskeeper, Holtz, up to the roof with my deer rifle to fire warning shots at them until they were off the property. I should have been aware, I suppose, that Holtz had been spending the day drinking grain alcohol, and his ‘warning shots’ killed several of the late Count’s servants. Poor Cavendish would have a busy night ahead of him, disposing of all these corpses. Also, someone would need to clean up all the blood on the ballroom floor. So much for the upper classes leading lives of luxury!
I had my assistant Lucretia write up a quick telegram to my sister, Berenice, who had been married to the late Count. I fear this will be a difficult time for Berenice, as she seemed quite fond of Robichard. Fortunately, Holtz composed a bawdy limerick that I’m sure will lift her spirits. Truly, he is my least-despised servant.
As I am certain the Cabral Society will dispatch assassins to avenge my affront, I have decided to leave for my Winter estate. It will prove an inconvenience, but I am certain I can ease my discomfort with the knowledge that I have aided the forces of good, and also by my vast opium stores.

I'm going to cut you, man

So I saw Star Wars yesterday and I just want to say I thought it was fantastic. It was theatrical and melodramatic and over the top and I loved every minute of it. The reviews and everyone’s opinions have been positive but they are all blah blah blah it’s okay but, this and that, blah blah blah. Fuck them. It’s great. That’s all.
Went to 80’s night at the Die Maschine, the hottest ticket in town. Didn’t go too well. Got overcome with self-loathing, had to be alone. Had a drink at the pub next door. Hung out with a guy I work with, who was on ecstasy, and watched someone do really bad card tricks; dude kept dropping them. Bought beer, gave half to a friend I ran into. The plan was to go and drink by the river but I didn’t have the heart for it. Went home apparently, but who knows? I have a deep gash (I’m gash bradley) in my shin. I don’t know where I got it. Maybe I did it to myself. My knuckles are cracked and bloody. Maybe I got into a fight? Maybe I was just punching the walls. Who knows. Another friend (hi Ron) had to get his bag from my apartment and buzzed me at the ungodly hour of 10:30 am. He told me that he and my friends were worried about me. I know how they feel. Tra-la-la-la. This is how we dance.

Pizza pizza pi-pi-pi-pi-pizza

So Monday night I had gone drinkin’ down by the river. The nice thing about Winnipeg (yes, there are nice things) is the abundance of rivers, and hence, river banks. In recent years I have developed a fondness for taking a six pack down to the river, drinkin’ and thinkin.’ So I was heading back home, it was about 12:30 am, and I came over all peckish-like (hungry). As if by magic (or witchcraft…) I found myself in front of a late night pizzeria! Providence! I bought a slice and continued on my way. After I finished the slice, I realized I was still kind of hungry. I was debating whether to go back and maybe get another slice, when I found myself in front of yet another late night pizzeria! Maybe I could leapfrog my way home from restaurant to restaurant... As I entered the pizzeria I saw a sign offering 2 pieces of chicken for 2.00. Not bad.
"What’ll it be, my friend?" said the counter dude.
"Two pieces of chicken, dear one," said I.
"Sorry, man, we’re out of chicken."
"No worries. Make it a slice, then, please."
"No pizza, either."
"Ah. Do you, uh, have anything?"
"No, sorry."
"Okay. Uh… bye."
"See you!"
And I left. I think the ‘Open’ sign in the window-front was a bit misleading. When I see that a restaurant is open, I figure they are, you know, ‘open for business’; as in ‘prepared to sell you food.’ These guys had a different interpretation, I guess, by ‘Open’ they meant ‘building is unlocked.’ My mistake.
As I type this, it occurs to me that maybe the pizzeria was a front for some gang. I know for a fact there are pizzerias in Winnipeg that are. Actually, now that I think of it, the only other customers in the pizzeria (who did have pizza), were these goomba looking guys. Maybe there was a dead body just behind the counter. Maybe I barely escaped with my life! Maybe the counter guy was desperately trying to signal me with his eyes to help him, for God’s sake help him. Oops. Sorry, dude. Well, I guess it’s too late now. The counter guy is probably hanging from a meat hook, somewhere, with his balls shoved up his ass.
Man, all this talk of pizza is making me hungry!

Cruising

So, late Friday night, as the bar was closing we decided to go to my friend’s apartment. As it takes a while to get large groups of people going, I headed out on my own to hit the beer vendor before it closed. The plan was that I would grab beer, and then meet the gang at the apartment. Simple enough.
So I bought beer, and as I thought it would be for a large group, I bought a lot of beer. Now, I don’t know how it is where you live, but in Winnipeg when the bar’s all close at 2 am, the streets become flooded with drunken yahoos. Being well aware of this, I tried to stick to side streets and back alleys, but confrontations were inevitable. I don’t know why, but every single guy I passed had to comment on the fact that I had a lot of beer. "Hey, he’s got beer." "Woah, look at the beer on that guy." "Hey, look at the guy with the beer." "Beer." "I’m retarded." Oh wait, they didn’t actually say that last one, they were just thinking it. Jesus Christ. Yes, I had beer! Now shut the fuck up!
I was actually pretty paranoid, as I’ve been hearing stories for years about dudes getting cracked in the head for their beer. Constant vigilance was making me irritable. At one point, on a darkened sidestreet, a guy came out of an alley behind me. I guess I glanced rather sharply, as he felt the need to reassure me: "It’s okay… I don’t… want… your beer. I’m just going… to my truck. It’s… okay." No it’s not okay! Back the fuck up, motherfucker! "Never know," is all I growled, in my toughest voice (my toughest voice can charitably be referred to as a ‘squeak’).
So I got to my friends apartment well in advance of my friends. Figuring I should get out of the light where I might draw unwanted attention, I went and squatted in the park across the street. Now, I should mention that my friend lives in a neighborhood that is the hotspot in Winnipeg for male prostitution. I’ve got to say that watching all the hustlers pacing back and froth, and the legions of cruising johns from my shadowy perch did little to calm my nerves.
Fortunately, my friends were all drunk and stoned, so they took forever to show up. Thanks, guys!

Hey ladies!

So Friday night, me and some friends went down to the part of Winnipeg that’s closest to little Italy. Granted, it’s only about four or five blocks long, but the concentration of cafes and gelatte shops means that when the weather is nice, half of Winnipeg converges there. Seeing as how Friday night was the start of a long weekend, and the nicest day in a long time, it was packed. Families, couples, young people, old people; everyone loves to walk up and down that strip. It’s prime people watching time, and I’m a prime people watcher. We snagged a table at the corner of a patio, nearest the sidewalk, and watched the pretty girls go by. Sadly, all the tables around us were filled with fellas who had a peculiar approach to courtship. Basically, they would remain seated and yell at passing women: "Hey! You! You’re hot! Hey! Come here! You! The hot one! Come here!" Does this work? Does this work on humans? Yelling and pointing? I’m pretty sure that’s how baboons flirt. Maybes these guys just got confused about which species they were trying to attract. It happens. I wouldn’t have minded so much, but like I said, we were sitting at the edge of the patio, so these guys were yelling over our heads. When the women actually looked back at the source of the screaming the first thing they saw was my friends and I, desperately trying to dissociate ourselves from these boobs.
Now, I’m no Casanova, but I gotta question these guys’ approach. Based only on our observations in the field, it was not too successful on Friday. Women would half-smile, half-wave, and speed their pace. In my (far from comprehensive) experience, women seem to respond well to "eye-contact," and "conversation." Sure, yelling and pointing make a woman feel special, but I’m confident that by taking it to the next level and using my "conversation" technique, you will actually find yourself in a relationship.
But maybe that’s the point, by yelling and pointing from a distance, you assert your macho heterosexuality without any complicated relationships to cut into that drinking time, right fellas? Wooooo! Par-deeee! Not that I’m judging or anything. Well, maybe a little. Okay; judge, judge, judge.
As the aggressive masculinity assailing me on all sides was causing my hair to fall out in clumps, I was mighty pleased when my friends agreed to switch tables. We needed a bigger one, anyway, as we had a whole whack of people coming in. I was introduced to a girl my friend just started dating and she invited me to a party in June. The ‘invitation’ was just a card with a website address. Apparently I have to go to the website and register, and then I will receive the actual invitation. I hope. What an elaborate system for a party! Still, I’ll probably go. It will be great opportunity to try my "conversation" method, myself. Hopefully, I’ll meet a nice girl, and have some sort of sex with her. Cross your fingers!

Beware Greeks bearing gifts

Woof. Apologies for the delay, but it was a long weekend here in Canada. Much to report.
My weekend started on Friday (duh), when I popped into a little Greek restaurant to pick up some lunch. The guys working there was real friendly, and I just ordered a gyro. "That it?" he said. "Yup," said I. He started making the gyro. "You hungry, my friend?" he asked. "Yeah, I guess so." He nods and finished making my gyro then he put it on a plate and shoveled on some potatoes. "Uh oh," I thought. "I guess he thought I wanted potatoes. Oh well, I’m sure it’s not that much extra." He bought the plate to me. "You know, they tell me ‘You make too much potatoes! You have to throw them out at the end of the day!’ Or, I figure I can give them away. Enjoy." He gave me potatoes for free! Isn’t that nice? What a great guy.
"Listen, you Greek son of a bitch," I said. "If I wanted potatoes I would have asked for fucking potatoes." I took my gyro and threw the potatoes into his face. He stabbed me in the shoulder with a knife, so I had to crush his skull with the cash register. Still, the gyro was pretty good.

mad hot

So last night I went to me local club to attend 80’s night, the hottest game in town on Thursday nights. I went with some friends, including my friend Amanda. Now, Amanda is my friend’s girlfriend (hi Matt!), and she is very hot, and I say that objectively. It’s kind of weird dancing with her, because everyone kind of looks at me like: "What the hell is she doing with you?" One dude actually came up to us, checker her out, and said "Dude, you got it going on right there." I said "thanks," but I think I should have said, "Go fuck your mother." Oh well.
I ran into a coworker and had this exchange:
Coworker: Hey, I work with you, right?
Me: Oh, yeah, hey, Dmitri.
Coworker: Yeah, I’m Rene!
Me: Fuck.
He didn’t even hear me. Why do people bother to talk in bars? Anyway, this one girl really thought Amanda was hot; she came up to her on the dance floor and screamed at her: "Oh my God, you’re so hot!" and made Amanda dance with her. At the end of the night when we were leaving we ran into this girl on the street.
Girl: (To Amanda) Oh my God, it’s you! You’re so hot!
Amanda: Thanks.
Girl: No! You are so hot!
Amanda: Uh... Thanks.
Girl: No! I love you! You’re hot!
Amanda: Okay.
Girl: No! I love you! I want to be you!
Me: Now, wait a minute. What’s wrong with the way you look? You’re very pretty.
Girl: (bitterly) No I’m not. I mean (points to Amanda) she’s hot. (points to my friend, Ron) He’s hot. (points to me) You…(pause) You look like Sam Roberts (a popular Canadian rock musician).
Me: Oh. Well you’re still pretty.
Girl: No, I’m not. I mean look at me! I’m just not hot.
Me: I’m saying you are.
Girl: (indicates her own body) Well, this maybe.
Me: No, you have a very pretty face.
Girl: No, I don’t.
Me: I’m serious, I think you’re mad-hot.
Girl: (disdainfully) Yeah, but you’re Sam Roberts!
Me: Ouch.
My friends: Who’s Sam Roberts? (I guess he’s not that popular.)
Me: Ehhh, he’s some shitty rock musician.
Girl: Oh yeah? What kind of music do you listen to?
Me: Hardcore gangsta hiphop.
Girl: Seriously?
Me: No, I’m joking.
Girl: (becoming agitated) What do you really listen to?
Me: Uh… indie rock, I guess.
Girl: Okay, have you heard Death From Above?
Me: No.
Girl: You have to listen to Death From Above.
Me: Okay.
Girl: No! You have to listen to them!
Me: I will!
Girl: (shaking me) You have to!
Me: Okay, you see that music store? In the morning when they open I will go and listen to Death from Above.
Girl: You have to listen to Death From Above!
Me: Jesus! I’m telling you I will!
Girl: Okay. (walks off and goes back into bar)
Me: Wait! I forgot to tell you that I love you!
Okay, I didn’t actually say that. But don’t you love crazy drunk girls? She was kind of cute, and something about crazy girls gets me in the longshanks and the skittles, if you twig my meaning. I didn’t actually go to that music store this morning, but you know what? Next time I go I am definitely checking out Death From Above. If there’s one thing crazy drunk chicks know, it’s music.
This is, like, the third time someone has compared me to a musician upon meeting me. Some girls I know (girl H and girl P, in fact) still call me Eric Clapton, and once a dude on the bus called me John Lennon. Now I get this dude. Obviously I am rock-and-fucking-roll.

"I wouldn't wipe my ass with that shit!"

Hey, guess what? I was actually kind of cool last night! Normally I don’t go for this kind of blatant self-promotion, but I thought I would include it as stark contrast to the rest of this site.
So I was walking some girls home from me neighborhood pub, after we stopped at a drug store so they could get some things (when it was suggested that she buy the generic brand of toilet paper, Girl H said the title of this post. Actually, she screamed it). As we were walking, Girl H was bitching to Girl P and myself about some guy that was being a dick to her. Apparently he hadn’t called her in a few weeks, and then he did and he was a dick, yadda yadda. So she was ranting and raving and hitting trees with her bag of toilet paper (incidentally, I can’t stand when girls complaining that "guys are assholes." No, guys aren’t assholes; the problem is that you only date assholes. Stop dating assholes, and watch your opinion improve.)

Girl H: I hate boys! (looks at me) Sorry, no offense, I’m just mad at boys right now.
Me: Well that’s okay, I’m a man.
Both girls: I like that!

Wooh! Did you hear that? I was actually a little bit of da bomb* at that moment. Don’t worry, it won’t happen again. It may not sound impressive, but believe me it’s as cool as I get.
In other news, according to the Winnipeg Writer’s Collective, I am not da bomb, at all. I submitted a story to their annual fiction contest and I didn’t win! I know! I didn’t even get an honorable fucking mention! Cocksuckers!**
I should mention at this point, that although I am a neurotic, insecure mess about 95% of my life; when it comes to writing I am the alpha-uber-male-dog. I cannot be denied. Thus, I am forced to conclude that a) they did not receive my submission through the mail (fuck you, Canada Post), or b) the judges are morons. Either way, I plan to attend the award presentation gala next week, where the winning writers will read their pieces. I will sit there, listen to their crappy stories and bitterly judge them as inferior. It should be a fun night! Oh yes, and Winnipeg Writer’s Collective? You are now my nemesis. I will get my revenge, oh yes. I haven’t decided if I will do it Freddy Krueger style and infiltrate their children’s dreams, or if I will go Count of Monte Cristo style, spend the next ten years becoming a rich count, and then kill them all in a series of rapier duels. Suggestions?
Oh, and Fox Broadcasting has kindly informed me that Arrested Development will be returning for another year. This is certainly glad news, but I am puzzled as to why I was emailed personally. How do they know who I am? Do I have some affiliation with Fox that I was not aware of? Odd.
Oh yeah, and remember how I mentioned that my friend's car was apparently stolen? He found out that the city needed to clean the street the car was parked on, so they moved it several blocks away! And made no effort to inform him! So I guess the city can just move people's cars around as the mood strikes them. The real question is why they don't do that all the time, at random. Oh, if I ruled the world...

*Literally; the bomb. Well, not an actual bomb, of course. Don’t be stupid.
**I mean this in an entirely non-homophobic way.

Baby Bird

So, last night my friend calls me and invites me to get a drink. It turns out his car was stolen, which is kind of surprising as it was an older, crappy car. It's possible it might have been towed but we could see no discernible reason for it.
So we had some drinks, and later on some other friends joined us, at my neighborhood pub. At one point my friend, let's call her S, produced a loaf of bread from her purse and offered it around. I declined, and she asked why.
"I don't eat solids," I said, which is mostly true.
"Oh, so you only eat food that's been chewed up first?" she joked.
"Yeah, that's right," I said.
"So if I chew this up, you'll eat it?"
"Yup."
"Okay, let's do it."
At some point our little joke turned into a dare. I am not one to back down from a dare, so moments later she was chewing a largish hunk of bread. I think we both thought that the other would back down, but I guess we were both stubborn. So I cocked my head back, opened my mouth and she slobbed some bread into my mouth. I chewed and swallowed it as fast as I could, and then got another drink. We both felt kind of awkward about it, and the rest of the table ( consisting of my best friend and some dude I just met) were astonished. I got a drink, and started making jokes to diffuse the situation. Then, the bartender/bar owner came over and whispered into my ear that I had been short-changing him all night. It turns out that drinks were 3.75, and I had been giving him 3.25. I thought I had been tipping well, but it turns out I was stiffing him! I was horrified, and immediately took out some cash, got another drink and tipped him generously. I can tell you I was far more shocked about the drink prices than the bread. So anyway, yeah, I can say that I've been baby-birded by a chick. Wooh. Par-dee.

In the land of the Frog

Woof! My goodness, I had a rocking hard-on of a night. First, when I got off work early I went for a long meandering walk through the french quarter of Winnipeg. I guess because of the strict french-language laws there are less chains and franchises there, so there were a few peculiar businesses. For example: "Deen's Calypso Gardens." I was kind of puzzled as it appeared to be a regular house. What was Deen offering exactly, besides Calypso? Next to the house there was a sign reading "No minors past this point." What's he building in there?
I also saw a sign for an infrared sauna, offering to burn 600 calories, guaranteed! Sounds kind of brutal.
The most intriguing sign was stenciled onto the side of a garage. It read, simply, "Beware Dog." Perhaps there is a comma missing, and he was telling his guileless pooch to be more cautious. I like to think that he was trying to warn the rest of us that his dog was dangerous but he couldn't even get through the full sign.
"Beware... ahhh! Goddammit, boy, down! Down! Ahhhhhhh! My leg! Ahhhhh! Fuck it! 'Dog!' 'Beware Dog!' You happy, boy? Ahhhhhh! Someone help! Ahhhhhhhh!"
Poor sunavabitch.

You can stop running now

Okay, we’re doing better, but that was a real bug-bastard of a few days. Much drunken degradation ensued, the nadir being on Saturday night when I ran into a girl I used to date while I was pathetically drunk. I haven’t seen her for many months, since we broke it off, basically. It didn’t end on bad terms, necessarily, but it did end on awkward terms and this weekend certainly didn’t help.
Well, pish and tosh, jam and crackers, no matter. In other news, my mediocre film streak is continuing unabated (Rock Star and The Salton Sea, if you’re wondering). On the brighter side, my music streak is practically meteoric. My favourite music store, located conveniently a block from my apartment, let’s you listen to five CD’s at a time. One of my favourite activities is to grab a full stack and just stand at the listening station for like an hour. It faces out the window onto arguably the busiest, coolest street in Winnipeg (Osborne, if you’re wondering). I just listen to music and watch the world go by; it’s very nice. Although I always listen to the max, I promise myself I will only buy one or two, if that. But like I said I am on an unbelievable streak, right now. Last night I listened to four CD’s and they were all so phenomenal that it was unbelievable for me not to buy tem all. Stupid! But great, too.
If you’re wondering (are you?), I picked up The Stands, which is just some good ol’ rocking and rolling. I haven’t listened to it enough to warrant any musical comparisons. An odd note: I could have sworn I had heard good reviews of this band, but none of my usual sources ever reviewed them. I guess I picked up the CD entirely at random.
My next pick was definitely a result of a good review: …And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead. I’ve been curious about the band for a while because I love the name, but I always thought that they were some effete Goth outfit. Spurred by the review I checked ‘em out and was surprised to find that they rock rather well. (They also rolled with some efficiency).
I like to mix it up so my next draw was a bit more…ahem…urban; it was a Prince Paul disc. Although I have not been blown away by his other solo efforts, I am just a sucker for anyone associated with De La Soul. The disc is muy bueno, with lots of wild samples, and a parody of Law and Order. What’s not to like?
The last album is the pick of the litter. Regina Spektor. I’ve been actively seeking this one out because of another good review, and a very sexy album cover. Isn’t she cute? She is also a wonderful musician; imagine if Bjork and Tom Waits had a Russian daughter…Man, I walked around for hours last night, listening to the album over and over again. It planted a seed in my heart, and the flower is tickling the walls as we speak (and don’t let anyone tell you hearts don’t have walls. They do.) *
So good/bad, up/down. That’s how it crumbles.




*I thought of this line last night. Is it creepy? It seems kind of creepy.

Run with me

I’m at work and I’ve run mad. I’ve torn my keyboard out of it’s mooring and I’m using it to smash the monitor to pieces. My coworkers are screaming but I can’t hear them, maybe I am screaming, too. I overturn my chair, and yank my phone out of the wall and throw it at the reader board; both explode in a shower of sparks. Everyone around me is frozen; their mouths wide open. I should be able to hear them, but nada. I am running now. Can you see me? I am running and pushing people down and knocking over chairs (The office is becoming untidy. Because of me.) People are running with me, or after me, I can’t tell. For the moment we all seem to be running together. Maybe they started running after me, to catch me and stop me but I think now they are running with me. We are running around the office throwing up papers into the air and overturning chairs. We are screaming expletives into the phones at outraged customers. We are running because it is not insane. What we do for a living is insane and this makes sense. That is why no one will be able to stop us. Anyone who tries to stop us will see, will see, that what we are doing makes more sense and they will run with us.

A black and evil place

There will be no posting today, as I am in a black and evil place, and I'm sure you are tired of hearing of such things, as I am tired of reporting them. Hopefully I will be out of this black and evil place soon, and I can tell you of good, worthwhile things that make us all feel better. Wait. There is a small man licking my foot. Get away, I say! Back! Ridiculous. Who are you? That's disgusting. What sort of place is this? Oh yes. A black and evil one. Still, even in a black and evil place that is just no sort of behavior.
Anyway, as I said it is quite unthinkable for me to post anything today, as I... Good God, he's back again. Get away! He's licking my foot! What's wrong with you? I'm going to stand over there. You stay there. Stay there, and don't come near me. Licking my foot, really... Where's the conductor? I should have that man thrown out.
Once I am in better spirits I have every confidence that... You are joking! You have got to be joking with me! Ow! Now, he's actually biting my foot! Can you believe this? That places exist where someone would persistently lick, and then bite your foot? Unprovoked? Ridiculous that I should find myself in such a place. A black and evil place where strange men accost you in strange ways. Wait a moment, please, while I fetch my umbrella, and give this odd fellow a sound thrashing.
(pause)
There, that should teach him. I know you can't see him, unless you yourselves are in a black and evil place, which I hope you are not, but I have beaten the strange man about the chest, head and ankles. I am quite sure that this beating will prevent him from approaching me further. Now what was I saying?
Oh yes, the lack of posting today. I apologize to my faithful and loyal readers, but... No! It cannot be! For I find there is once again the sensation of licking on my foot! I dare not look down to confirm with my eyes that this is the case as I find myself paralyzed with a sort of terror! Not fear of the man, as I mentioned he is quite small in stature and easy to beat with an umbrella, but fear of a universe that would allow a creature to exist, a creature that would continue licking your feet despite all obstacles. Perhaps I am wrong; perhaps it is only an animal licking my foot. But no, it is a velvety caress that assails my feet, not the sandpaper touch associated with the lower mammals. Perhaps I have suffered a stroke, or some other debilitating mental impairment and I am experiencing the phantom sensation of footlicking without its actual physical counterpart.
No. To be sure, I must motivate the tendons in my neck, cast down my gaze and confirm that which my secret heart screams to be true: the little man is licking my foot. I will look now.
(pause)
There is no God. As I child I feared it was the case, and now I know it to be true. No creator, malevolent or benign, would allow a farce such as this to continue. I will never be rid of this little man, nor shall I escape this black and evil place unless I take brutal action; I will have to beat the little man to death with my umbrella. I would like to say that, as a civilized man, I would take no pleasure from the death of another human being, but that would be a lie. I believe that the fate I am preparing to exact on the little man to be a minor crime compared to the mountains of emotional agony he has inflicted on me. Excuse me.
(pause)


(pause)


There, it is done. God, what a mess. No matter, the little man has been dealt with, and I am inclined to believe it was a merciful act. After all his life seemed to consist of little more than tonguing the feet of strangers in this black and evil place. I wonder if this is his home, or if he was merely an unfortunate visitor like myself? Bah, such speculation is useless. Where was I?
Oh yes, I will not be posting today. In a few days when I have returned to the elysian fields I am accustomed to, I will resume. But until then, nothing. For this I apologize.

Under the Wagon

I don't know if it's entirely healthy, but I guess I'm a sucker for nutty dames from Chicago. Karla's pro-alcoholism weblog.
By way of contrast, this is pretty fucking cute.

The Life Aquatic

If you haven't seen this yet, then I hate you. Unless you intend to see it, in which case I love you. Or if you have seen it, but didn't like it, then I hate your fucking guts. Unless you have some sort of medical reason for not liking it, like being born a moron, in which case I love and pity you. Unless your medical conditon is somehow curable, and you didn't take your pills or something when you saw it, in which case I hate you again.
If you see it in the future and don't like it, something bad will happen to you. That will be the power of my hate, coming from the past (our present), wishing you ill.
See it and love it. Hear me and obey.
Oh, and obviously if you have seen it and liked it, or if you intend to see it and will like it, then I love you. If that wasn't obvious to you, then I hate you.

Now!

Okay, I'm quitting drinking nnnnnnow.
No, wait! Nnnnnnnnnnoooow!
(drinks himself unconsciousness and wakes up on bathroom floor)
Okay, nnnnnnnnnow.
"I said what? To who? When? Really? Sheeeee-it."
Now!
"Hmm. The underside of my toilet could use a cleaning..."
Now!
"Okay, just the one drink."
Now!
(Falls out of tree/into river/out of car/onto ass)
Now!
"You think I have a problem? You?"
Now! Now! Now! Now! Now!
Okay.
Now.

Watch your grill!

Woof! Well I got old-school stinko, last night. Been a long muthafuckin’ time since I did that, doctor. It all started when I finally finished the last book of Stephen King’s Dark Tower series. The oeuvre of Monsieur king has been a guilty pleasure of mine for some years, however I think the Dark Tower books are genuinely well written. I first started the series about ten years ago, so I was pretty excited when King finally released the last volume. The ending was entirely appropriate for the series, but also mighty depressing. I went downtown to buy the newly released The Life Aquatic to try and cheer myself up, but I decided that I would need company to truly buoy my sprits. So I called up a buddy and we were off to the races. Me and this dude have a long and storied history of drinking together, so we fell back on old routines pretty quickly. Well, after he finished crafting a bong from an old beer bottle, that is. I am generally not too impressed with stonercraft, and I find head shops really annoying, but I was pretty impressed with his handiwork. We got another dude and bounced around the city for a few hours, scrounging liquor, food and pants where we could. I am truly an alcoholic, because I am rarely happier (or approximate happiness better) than when I’m wandering, drunk, without any appreciable goals. It’s like swimming; you leave all your earthly concerns back on the surface, and just let the current carry you where it will. Yesterday, it carried me to my local pub where I ran into some girls my friend and I met on St. Patrick’s day, at that same pub. So we joined them, and as I recollect it, I was quite charming and personable. Of course…
You see, I can moderate my drinking up to a certain point; up to, let’s say, drink #X. After I drink drink #X? All bets are off. Last night? All. Bets. Were. Off.
So I think I was charming and personable but who the fuck knows? A curious note: At the end of the evening my friends had left and it was just me and the ladies. As I’m a chivalrous drunk I insisted on walking them home (they live just up the street from me). They insisted that I not, to the point that they walked me home. Now, the neighborhood I live in has a reputation for being kind of dangerous (which is part of why I love it), so I’ve never encountered girls who would refuse a walk home. So what’s the deal? I figure that either a) they thought I was hitting on one, or both, of them and I was going to try and segue the walk home into an invitation into their apartment where I would attempt some sort of "move, " and they were heading me off at the pass. Now let me just say that that was not my intention, I am simply a gentleman. Let me also say that the above is a great move which has met with success in the past, and I would likely have given it a shot. So it was either that or b) I was too drunk and embarrassing for them to deal with any further. I’d kinda put my cash on this one, as I can be sort of a handful when I’m pretty drunk; they likely (and correctly) thought that I was more of a risk to myself than any potential attackers, and that’s why they declined my gallant offer.
Of course there’s option c), that I was neither charming nor personable and was, in fact, an obnoxious drunken ass and they wanted to be rid of me. I hope to hell it’s not this one, but you never know. Ultimately, I think my only agenda was to not be alone, but I needn’t have worried as I fell asleep immediately as soon as I got in my apartment. All in all, this has been an excellent reminder of why I should get a handle on my drinking. I don’t think I was an ass last night, but I would really love to know for sure, so that I wouldn’t have to dread seeing these girls again.

I watch bad movies

Yesterday (actually early this morning), I saw the film, The Company. It is a Robert Altman film, about ballet, starring Neve Campbell.
I didn't like it. I don't know why I possibly thought I would like it seeing as how I don't like Robert Altman, ballet or Neve Campbell. I've been on kind of a bad movie streak lately. I watched The Terminal, despite a general distaste for Messrs. Spielberg and Hanks. Didn't like it. For some reason, I thought I'd enjoy Andrei Rublev, a three and a half hour Russian film from the 60's, about a 15th century icon painter. You know what? It was kind of dull. My bullshit detector is mad on-the-fritz, son.
On a more positive note, I finally saw Garden State. Finally. Although I did not love it as much as...um... every girl I've ever met, I did think it was pretty charming. And Natalie Portman was mad-cute, doctor. I'll have to have some mad-hot fantasies where she's my girlfriend, bro-dawg.
Peace up, out, and into the future, homie-darling-g-units!

This is the end...

I have a wet patch on my shirt. It is on my left side, just above my hip. I don’t know where it is from. Granted, it is raining today, but the rest of my body is quite dry. This spot on my shirt is soaking wet. I’m not positive it’s water either, it has a vaguely chemical smell. This, combined with a pimple on my nose, forces me to conclude that I am undergoing a fly-like metamorphosis. That sucks, but on the bright side it is a spanking excuse to start drinking again. Of course my bastard friends would still probably give me grief.

Bastard Friend: You know, I invited you to dinner for a reason…
Me: Really? (vomits on food)
BF: Yes, I’m concerned about your drinking…
Me: God, really? (pulls out tooth)
BF: Yes, you seemed to be on the right track, but now…
Me: Well, in all fairness I am turning into a grotesque man-insect hybrid. (vomits on food again)
BF: That’s no reason to throw away all the progress you’ve made.
Me: I think it’s a rather good reason, actually!
BF: Well, are you just going to start drinking every time you suffer a setback in life?
Me: (sullenly pulls out a clump of hair)
BF: I just think you should try and deal with things instead of running to booze at the drop of a hat.
Me: (vomits on food again, purely out of spite this time)
BF: Would you cut that out? I’m trying to be serious, here.
Me: Alright! Jesus, I’ll quit drinking…
BF: Well don’t do it for me. Do it for yourself.
Me: Myself? Listen, I… (jawbone drops off, and lands on table with a loud thud)
BF: See? I told you drinking was bad for you.

My God! What a grim picture. I hate lectures.

Hmmm....

I just realized that the vast majority of twentysomething people I know have either taught English in Asia, or are working towards that goal. I think it's becoming a legal requirement. Maybe it's a colonial thing?

Dream Diary #2

(Because the first one was so popular)

Now, I’m not the kind of coworker who likes to chat. I mean, if there’s something to say, or we have an important issue to discuss, then fine. The weather? Your weekend? How the customers are annoying you? Yeah, couldn’t give less of a shit. The majority of my coworkers sense that about me and so, keep their mouths shut. I do have, and have had, some coworkers who were such chronic socializers that they would talk to anyone in earshot, including me. Now I’m antisocial, but I’m no prick; if someone wants to talk to me I’ll respond and converse with them, but I don’t take a robust part in the conversation and I will try to politely end it as soon as possible.
Now, I had one such coworker who left my work a few months ago. We had chatted a few times; she was nice, cute, young. A very sunny gal, so we had little in common. So she quit, I wished her well on her last day, she was gone. La-dee-da.
Like, a few months later, I had a dream about this girl where we got to talking at work and went out for drinks and talked and had a great time. It wasn’t like a romantic thing; we just really got along and had a lot to talk about. So I woke up and felt this pang that she was gone. I was like, "Oh, man. It sucks that she’s gone. She was so easy to talk to!" But then, "Oh, wait. That was a dream. In reality we had nothing in common. Never mind."
So last night I have this dream where I’m at work, and this coworker of mine comes up and tells me I have a secret admirer. Now the coworker who’s telling me this is gay, in real life and inn the dream. So my first thought is, "Oh, shoot. I bet this coworker is going to tell me he has a crush on me. So I start formulating how I’m going to gently tell him that I’m not gay, but then he produces this chick, my former coworker, as my secret admirer. Whoah! Where did she come from? So we start talking and flirting and it’s going okay, and then I say something sweet or romantic and she recoils and tells me that she liked me because I was kind of an asshole! So I backtrack and assure her that I’m not sweet and I am kind of an asshole. The dream changed from that point into God knows.
Anyway, I don’t know why this coworker keeps cropping up in my dreams. She’s not exactly my type. Who knows?
Regardless, it got me thinking about this whole Chicks and Assholes thing. What’s the deal with chicks going for jerks? My theory is that chicks did confidence, and as assholes tend to be confident (ever met a shy jerk?), chicks go for them. It’s the confidence that is attractive, and the assholeness (assholiness?) is incidental and overlooked. I think it’s a sound theory, but I told a friend about it (who knew a thing or two about dating assholes) and she said that no, chicks just like assholes. Disheartening. But another friend of mine contends that all guys think all other guys are assholes, whether or not they actually are. So it’s not a question of chicks actually going for assholes, it’s just that guys perceive the guys that chicks go for as assholes, arbitrarily. Anyway, I’m writing an article about the phenomenon, which I plan to have published in Psychology Today, and Scientific American. The Nobel people have also expressed interest…

Low down, no good...

Boy. So last night I told my friend that I started drinking again and she tore me a new asshole, perhaps not undeservedly. My argument was that drinking is just one of my problems, and really only the tip of the iceberg. Her argument was that it was not helping and I should cut out all harmful substances in my life (including, she says, refined sugar and processed food. She’s kind of a hippie). So now I don’t know. I have a bottle of scotch-whiskey, undrank (undrunk?), sitting on my kitchen table. I told my friend I was going to see a doctor about maybe starting on the pills. I don’t know. I’m tired of talking about this. I’m sure you’re tired of hearing about it.

Sandals with Socks

Waaaaaaaaa-BOOM!
Relapse, my darlings, I believe that's the word. Last night I hit it old school, and had eight cans of beer. Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn, but it felt niiiiiiice. I walked home from work, torturing myself all the way. Yes? No? I can! You can't! Let's do it! Stop, no! I hesitated at the beer vendor counter. I questioned my decision as I walked home. Questioned it as I screamed at my cat for pissing on the shoe mat, again (I just cleaned her litterbox yesterday. She's already pissing on the mat? Come on!). Questioned it after that first sickly sweet sip; right up until I finished the can.
My friends, I did not question it after that. I got good and drunk and watched a movie ( New Waterford Girl, if you're wondering. God, but canadian girls are funny looking in the cutest fucking way), and then I sat on the floor and watched favorite scenes from my movie collection. I woke up today, still drunk.
Is this a good thing? I don't know. I'm tired of whinging* about my welfare. Maybe I'll quit drinking again, maybe I'll drink myself to death. Baby, I'm just going to go for it. WOOOOOO-HA! Balls to the walls, motherfuckers**!



* Phrase courtesy of Adam.
**This phrase? I made it up.

Dash Bradley: Unmasked!

I should point out that my name is not actually Dash Bradley. I will hang on to my actual name for the moment. The name dash bradley has two meanings for me, which I will detail nnnnnnnnnnnnnow.
Dash Bradley is a term me and my friend came up with many years ago to describe a certain kind of guy. This guy, this guy that we're talking about, is tall, good lucking, well groomed, successful. He's not stupid, he probably has, or is getting an education. He listens to all the latest bands, keeps up with pop culture. His friends are exactly like him. He has nothing of consequence to say. He has few original thoughts. Women love him, as an icon of dependable conformity. He is a dash-bradley. My friend and I came up with this term when we were both in school, he, college and me, university. It was a kind of shorthand to describe the kind of guys we were encountering regularily. Legions of clones with short, gelled hair, identical striped sweaters, those weird little chains. Maybe even (ooh) an earring.
"What's her new boyfriend like?"
"Ah, he's a dash-bradley." Etc, etc.

Later, during my schooling, I wrote a parody of a Buck Rogers-ish science fiction serial, starring a character named Bungalow Bill (after a Beatles song) . I later returned to the character for a story to be published in a classmate's fledgling fiction magazine. For some baffling reason, I was concerned about potential copyright problems should I use the name of a popular song in a published magazine. Regardless of the fact that the magazine was free, and I recieved no payment. Regardless of the fact that Michael Jackson owns the Beatles Catalogue, and my copyright infringement would be the least of his legal problems. Regardless of the fact that the magazine would most likely fold aftert the first issue, which it did. Regardless, I changed the name of my protagonist to Dash Bradley. It was the story of a shallow, two-dimensuional character thrust rudely into three dimensionality. Draw parallels as you please.

I decided to start this site on the spur of the moment and I had not put too much forethought into it. When it came time to choose a name for the site... I cracked under the pressure, and resurrected the name again.
Thus, the startling true-life origins of my alter-ego.

Progress Report

Well, I hit the one month mark in sobriety last week. How am I doing? Good question, you're very bright.
When I quit drinking I, perhaps naively, thought that there would be some sort of massive emotional payoff. That didn't happen. Yes, there are benefits to being sober all the time, which I have mentioned before. I feel less shitty in the mornings. I have more money. I can engage people in conversation and, more importantly, be understood. I think I'm even less intensely depressed. But, but, but, but, but, but.
Man, my moods don't swing, anymore. They don't swing. They just fucking sit there. This last month? Has probably been the most boring month of my life. Yes, I'm coherent. Yes, I can maintain my balance. But so fucking what? I've got nothing to say and nowhere to go. Back in the day booze was like fuel, man. I could go for days, riding one buzz after another. Now? My nights just peter out. My social outings have become anemic, at best. A man can only drink so much coffee. My life has become safe. Safe, when once it was vital. Yes, goddammit, yes, I was a wreck. Half the time I didn't give half a shit whether lived or died. But the other half? I loved this life, and everything in it. Now it's just flat. It's ehh. Give or take. Comme ci, comme ca.
Now, I know. I know that I need help. If anything, this experience has taught me that I am not a functional person. To live my life I require some sort of... narcotic? I don't know. What's the best word for anti-depressants? These are my choices. Booze, or pills. Now that's kind of a bum rap, but I'm not going to point any fingers. That's just how it is. I am a fucked up, damaged person (I know, I know, join the club). So I can either dope myself into some sort of rationality, and piss and moan to a therapist ( as opposed to the internet), or I can embrace my fucked-upedness and take this motherfucker out of the station! Let's cut the brakes, like in the old days. Therapy! It is too puny a word, too puny an option. Who is this man, this woman, who dares dictate to me how I should or should not feel!?!? I choose chaos over rationality! I should feel normal? What the fuck is normal? You mean like other people? Fuck that! Are you really going to sit there and tell me that other people are happy? I am sick of this shit. I am sick of sitting in fucking coffeehouses envying how everyone else seems so normal, so collected. I am a dynamic human fucking being and I have an addiction and indulging that addiction makes me feel alive. It makes me care about this whole fucking thing in a way that I just don't, right now. Everyone keeps telling me to wait, just wait. I will feel better, the craving will go away, things will come around. Soon, wait, almost, nearly, just one more, easy, great, so great, so proud, hang on, hang on, hang on. I don't feel like a man, I feel like some mewling rodent trying to rationalize my wretchedness. Fuck this. A thousand times fuck this. I am going to buy some beer. I would buy hard booze but they'd be closed by now. I don't even want the beer. Just the fucking oblivion. Even as I write this there is a twisting, writhing presence in my gut which I presume is my conscience. You can't drink, you asshole, what'd you tell your friends? What'd you tell yourself? What about your word? It used to be that the thought of booze in my future put me at peace. Now it's just more anxiety. I'm squirming in my seat, grappling with this. Can't drink, can't stay sober. Let's say, dear conscience, I don't drink. What's my reward? Another long night? Let's face facts, I am fucked up drunk, I am fucked up sober. At least when I'm drunk I enjoy it more. I've tried being sober and I ain't happy.
This fucking Waiterrant thing. You look at his site and it's comment after comment of people who get it, who love it, who eat it up. What am I missing? Why am I seeing it differently. Why does that site rub me the wrong way, when it rubs so many people right. I just tick differently is all. The rules don't apply; I want a drink. Conductor? Tell the engineer to cut the brakes. There will be no stopping tonight...

A drink for all my friends

"If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all."
- Genghis Khan

My, my, my, Internet, you have been busy while I was away, spiriting my snarky comments away to a world unprepared for them. How to respond?
Like so:

The Sites I Love.
Bears Will Attack- Funny, but not laugh-out-loud, funny. I like how he uses the royal "we" to refer to himself. I like how he ends his posts with song lyrics. I like how his life seems to take place in this alternate world where fantastic things happen, a world that’s more wonderful than this one. I know he lives in the same world as me, and shuttle between work and home and his social life like the rest of us, but this is how he chooses to talk about it. He makes me feel happy.
"You call me mad/ And I am mad/ As a hatter
Some fall in love/ Some fall in love
I shatter"
- I Shatter, Magnetic Fields

Maud Newton- Mrs. Maud, our guide and usher through the literary world. No book review, no author interview, no publishing gossip escapes her scrutiny. She keeps me in the loop, and by imitating her I can pretend to be smart. When she is away she finds guest bloggers. Smart women are so fucking sexy. The cinetrix of books, je t’aime, Maud.

Andrea Siegel- I found young Miss Siegel through the aforementioned Mrs.Maud. Miss Siegel, an author, had given an interview where she basically said that she felt people had the right to commit suicide if they were unhappy. I still don’t know what I feel about that sentiment, but I admired, and admire still, how outspoken she is. Hers was the first blog I ever read from the beginning. It took a few days to pore through her archives, and it left me nursing a mean crush on her. She just loves TV so much; it’s inspiring. I have yet to read her book; I guess I’m afraid I won’t like it and it will break the spell. I still harbor dreams of marrying her. Don’t tell her, though.

Kafkaesque and Monkey Disaster- These fellas are hanging by a thread, as they do not post often enough, anymore. But I will forgive much, because of this, and this, and so and so on and so on.

Perry Bible Fellowship- I’ve mentioned this dude before. Pros: Funny, sick, disturbing. He’s like Canadian cinema in cartoon form. Cons: He’s younger than me! The fucking bastard!

Izzle Pfaff- I don’t know. His love of horrible movies? His apathy towards his job? Backstage gossip? Tragi-comic reminiscences? Fucking A.

One Child Left Behind- Okay, this guy gets muy bonus points for linking to me, but he’s still pretty great, too. You never know what to expect when you call up his site. A dark memory about his work? A funny story about his wife? Fortunately, it’s all strikingly well written.

Cinetrix- An embedded reporter in the front lines of cinema. Film festival? She’s on it. Kurosawa retrospective? She’ll give you the address. I’ve stolen more than a few links from her, but her science is just too tight. Who else obsesses over getting a picture of reclusive New York Times film reviewer Manohla Dargis? She’s the Maud Newton of movies.

The Homeless Guide- Sad in its subtext, but screaming with hope. You will be okay, he wants to tell us. I hope to God I never end up on the street, but fuck it! He makes me think I’d survive.

BA’s- Talk about stealing links, I’ve taken more than my share from this guy. If I was going to have anyone searching the web for me, it would be him. The only thing funnier than the crazy shit he finds, are his comments on the crazy shit he finds. Plus he has linked to me twice. Bonus points.

Honorable Mention- Ubermilf- Granted, she doesn’t technically have a blog (yet), but she posts so frequently I like to think of her as a guest contributor. She’s too funny, too kind, too supportive. I don’t deserve her.

Hell, there’s others. Anyone else on my link list I didn’t mention just hasn’t been on my radar long enough.
Are there any trends in my tastes? I seem to admire audacity, honesty, whimsy. Tell me something I don’t know. Be unashamedly yourself. Be honest about your failings, your struggles, your hopes. I will love you, I promise.


UPDATE 05/05/05: Kafkaesque has finally updated his site. Good timing. And Defective Yeti was left off the above list, as I was starting to lose faith in him. This recent post has redeemed him admirably, in my eyes.

Sniping

This is probably atrocious netiquette, but I really hate this fucking site.
The guy reminds me of that kid you knew in grade school who always made up stories to impress people. Do you notice how in every single post the waiter comes out on top? How every single patron is a complete grotesque deserving of his contempt? This guy is full of shit. My two cents.
Nay, my ten cents.




UPDATE 04/05/05: It has been brought to my attention that I am the only person who thinks this. Everyone else on earth loves the waiter, and loves the waiter's site. I stand corrected.

Mi Familia

I had lunch with my family today, to celebrate Ukrainian Easter. It was typically excruciating, moreso as I couldn’t drink (the entire drive home I hemmed and hawed over whether or not I should swing by the liquor mart for a bottle of Bell’s scotch-whisky. I ultimately decided against it, but I think I’ll buy one tomorrow. Sue me, I’m weak).
My uncle, my mother’s brother, died a few years ago, of a brain tumor. It was very devastating for my grandmother, as he was relatively young (around 40, I believe). Shortly after he died, my grandmother insisted that me and my brother go through his things and take whatever we liked. It seemed important to her, so I took a few books, but I never felt quite right about it. That was a few years ago, but for some reason she insisted again, today, that we go through his room and look for things to take.
My uncle lived with my grandparents off and on until his death; he was schizophrenic. I found out he was schizophrenic when I was about 18. I found out he was schizophrenic like this:
I was driving with my father and brother one summer, and my brother noticed a man wearing a parka, despite the fact it was a very hot day. He remarked on this, and my father suggested that the man might have been schizophrenic, as my uncle used to do the same thing. That’s how I found out. My father, bless him, has a habit of dropping bombshells like this in a casual way*.
So, I found myself searching though this room today, again, for things to take. It still felt weird, but it still seemed important to my grandmother. My uncle was always such a mystery to me, although it was surprising to learn he was actually mentally ill, it made a certain sense. I only ever saw my uncle a few times a year, at family gatherings, despite the fact we lived in the same city my whole life. Most of the time he was kind of like a ghost, he would eat in silence, not speak to anyone, stare into space, but there were exceptions. One year he was so animated, telling stories of a student trip to Japan, of art classes, his first nude model. One year, we started watching Metropolis together, and partway through he paused the movie and left for like half an hour to go smoke on the porch (as a child I though it was strange that he had to go out on the porch to smoke, while my aunt could smoke in the house. I also thought it was strange that my uncle rolled his own cigarettes. In retrospect it’s pretty obvious that he was smoking pot). I sat and stared at the paused screen, frustrated, but too afraid of my uncle to press play. Once we were watching TV with him in my grandparent’s house, and my brother accidentally knocked over some books. My uncle said: those are your grandmother’s books and if you don’t pick those up I’ll kick your ass." We were about six and ten years old, respectively. That scared the shit out of us, we had never been threatened by an adult before. I don’t know if that fear ever really went away. Once, I was about twelve, I came home from school to find him visiting my mother, which was unusual. He saw that I had a violin with me and asked if he could see it. He then played for us. I knew he was an artist, and an engineer, but I had no idea he could play the violin, or play so beautifully. (I remember it as being beautiful, anyway; it was thirteen years ago. Who knows?)
So there I am, in his bedroom, looking through his bookcase. There were a lot of coffee table books on various countries, Popular Mechanics, science textbooks. There were three copies of a book called the Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. Was this curiosity? Was it related to the fact that his parents, my grandparents, fought against and suffered under the Nazis? I looked through his old notebooks from when he was a student. Line after line of immaculate notes on math, physics. He was probably about twenty when he wrote them. Did he have plans for his future? Did he know what was coming; could he feel it? In the bookcase was a framed paycheck for 77.00; his first I assume. Who was this man?
When he was in the hospital, dying, my mother never encouraged me to go see him. I didn’t push for it, either. He was my uncle, my blood, I knew him my entire life, I was a pallbearer at his funeral, but he was a stranger to me. My mother never really talked about him while he was alive, I learned things by accident, or by overhearing them (I was a chronic eavesdropper as a child. Probably a result of no one ever telling me anything). Even after he died, she only told me snippets and curio; he watched Popeye cartoons as a child, he was friends with my dentist, "See that painting? That was one of Michael’s."
To me he was, is, and will always be a mystery. I’d like to think that one day I’ll be able to talk about him with my mother, although I figure I’ll have to start that conversation. Somehow, I don’t think she’ll have any answers for me. I think he was as much a mystery to her as to me. She tells me that when he was close to the end, the tumor spread throughout his brain, and he became very lucid. For the first time in decades, he seemed sane; he was my mother and my aunt’s brother, the boy they grew up with. He could speak, the paranoia, the delusions, the irrationality were gone. A few months later, he died.
All I have of him are these memories, a bag of old National Geographic's and, according to my relatives, a striking resemblance.



*A few years ago, I was having dinner with my father when the subject of gun control came up. My father is a pretty liberal guy, so I was surprised when he said he had considered buying a gun in the past.
"Why on earth would you want a gun?" I asked him.
"Haven’t you ever wondered why our address isn’t listed in the phone book?"
I hadn’t noticed.
"When I was practicing criminal law," he said. "When you and your brother where very little, I was prosecuting some members of a biker gang and they threatened to kill you. So I considered buying a gun."
Oh. Neat. Thanks, dad.