Dash Bradley is Dancing Madly

The wheels on the bus go 'round and 'round

2006-12-11T03:32:00.000-06:00

My hand to God, this is my last post about Vancouver transit. I was hanging around at home today, when my roommate Shereen came home.
"Aaaargh!" she said. "I've just had the worst bus ride!"
Apparently, a gentleman on the bus had been harassing her the entire way home, although in his mind he probably thought he was flirting. Eventually, some of the more gallant riders started yelling at him to leave her alone, and he started yelling back at them, which only made things more awkward. Finally, she had to get up and move to the front of the bus just to get away from him, and understandably so.
After she told this story, Rocel, another roommate of mine, said "You know? I almost saw a fight on the bus, today." Apparently, as a guy was getting on the bus he lost his balance and accidentally hit a seated passenger. As he did not apologize, the wounded rider started yelling at the man who'd hit him, in a British accent. "Take your hat off! let me see your face! I'm going to remember you! Wot, wot!" It almost came to blows!
"Huh," I said. "I had a crazy bus ride last night."
When the bus reached Hastings *, a woman had gotten on board who was in the process of screaming her woes at the world. She began by lamenting the fact that there was a woman with her small child on the bus. "Whatever happened to bedtimes?" screamed the crazy woman. "I don't believe it. With my son he was in bed by eight. Sometimes he'd sleep with me, though. That's not good for a boy to sleep with his mother. But so what? Fuck you!" She was saying all this to no one in particular. Eventually some other passengers told her to "shut the fuck up and quit whining! No one cares about your problems!" "Fuck you!" she screamed back. "No one cares about me. I'm alone 24/7. So what if I'm talking. Fuck you!" And so on. "Fucking cunts! Motherfuckers! At least I'm not cruel! I don't have a mean bone in my body! Motherfuckers!" Finally, the bus driver told her to get the hell of the bus, as he'd seen her before, "blowing her nose all over the seats" (which kind of gave me pause). In fact, the driver got so flustered he went down the wrong street, and we all had to get off the bus.
So, Vancouver transit; it's a real life experience. I just can't wait until my other three roommates get home so I can see if they'd had any bus adventures. Also, I can see if they'd spoken to my other four roommates.

*For those of you who are not in the know, hastings is the saddest street in Vancouver; the saddest I've ever seen. It's absolutely filled with junkies, prostitutes and the homeless. Fortunately, it's right by Gastown and Chinatown, two of Vancouver's biggest tourist draws. Hence, it's kind of a rite of passage for visitors to Vancouver to accidentally wander onto Hastings and find themselves swarmed by homeless junkie prostitutes, making all kinds of intriguing propositions.

Say it Loud and Say it Proud! You're Married!

2006-12-09T19:02:00.000-06:00

Okay, I'm a little apprehensive about broaching this topic, as the last time I brought it up it resulted in a screaming argument between my aunt and uncle, culminating in my aunt storming to the front door and proceeding to throw shoes at my uncle and me. I am not making this up.
But here goes: wedding rings. As I am in my mid-twenties, it is perfectly feasible that the women I hit on could be married. Therefore, I have developed the habit of looking for the ring when attempting to ascertain the availability of the young woman upon whom I am inflicting my advances. But this practice, which has been used by single people of both sexes for decades, if not centuries, has become woefully inadequate. Many married women have taken to wearing non-standard wedding rings, and many unmarried women who like wearing jewellery have taken to wearing rings (that signify nothing) on their 'ring fingers.' This is annoying.
My objection is prompted by an encounter with a lovely young woman, with whom I was flirting (and who, I may add, was flirting back). I subtly cast my eyes down to her hand and spotted only a thin silver ring. Being the old-fashioned fella I am, I decided this was not a wedding ring, as I was looking for the more traditional thick, gold, wedding band. Needless to say, I was wrong, and barking up the wrong tree *.
So what is a single boy to do? My aunt's suggestion, before she commenced hurling the footwear, was that I should just outright ask a woman if she's married. While admiring the forthrightness of this approach, I fear that it would rather tip my hand. To my mind, it would be somewhat akin to announcing: "I am going to hit on you, now," at the start of a conversation. But what's the alternative? Many women helpfully, if irritatingly, work their husbands or boyfriends into the conversation early on, so as to head one off at the pass, so to speak. But, many unavailable women enjoy flirting with single men (especially handsome, hairy, slightly off-putting ones), and so are hesitant to bring up the old man, and end the flirting prematurely.
I vote that we bring back the standard old, easily recognizable, wedding ring and make it mandatory for all married women. Also, i think burkas are a good idea, you wanton harlots.

*"Barking up the wrong tree." How come when someone meets someone eligible, attractive and interested in them, they do not say "I was barking up the correct tree." Just a thought.

"As I creep through the underbrush, I spot the elusive #8...."

2006-12-09T18:31:00.000-06:00

Continuing the transit theme from my last post, I would just like to say that the buses here in Vancouver suck. No, let me amend that, the buses themselves are just fine; the eccentricities of the transit system here suck. Now, back in Winnipeg, and I don't know how it is where you live, buses have routes and schedules, which the drivers attempt to adhere to with some regularity. Here, the routes seem to be at the mercy of the drivers, or some other as-yet-unknown entity. Case in point; last week I was at my favorite bar in Vancouver (the Pub 340 at Cambie and Hastings if you're wondering), and around twenty to one I got up to leave. As there were a few more buses scheduled to come around, I knew I had given myself plenty of time to catch one. So I walked the half block to the bus stop and I waited. And waited. And waited. Another fellow at the bus stop asked me: "The number eight fraser runs past here, right?" "Of course," I replied, in retrospect a tad optimistically. I smoked a cigarette. And waited. I smoked another cigarette. And waited. And waited. "You're sure the number eight comes by here?" asked the other fellow. "I'm... pretty sure," I replied, with rapidly flagging confidence. I confirmed for the thousandth time that I was at the right bus stop. I smoked another cigarette.
And so, an hour passed in this way, and I finally had to bite the bullet and admit that the bus just wasn't coming. Did the #8 fraser spontaneously stop running? Doubtful, more likely the bus was re-routed elsewhere through downtown.
Really, it's my fault; I should have sensed that the bus would be going a completely different way. I mean, what was I thinking? How could I be so naive as to think that the #8 Fraser would actually pass by the #8 Fraser bus stop? I am such a hick! I hope no sophistimicated Vancouverites read this and realise what a rube I am. I should just go back to the farm where the buses run on time.
Ahem. Anyway, I had to catch a cab which was annoying, as I hate taking cabs. Nothing against cabs or cab drivers, I just don't like being driven around by complete strangers, whether I'm paying them or not. It's a quirk of mine. So, I'm not crazy about catching cabs, and I'm really not crazy about catching cabs at quarter to two on a Friday night when I'm competing with, approximately, the entire population of Vancouver.
So now, every time I go downtown, I'm very apprehensive. There is absolutely no way to ensure, ahead of time, that I'll be able to get back home. Unless, of course, I get in the habit of wandering the streets of Vancouver and hoping to God I spot my bus, in which case I'd have to chase it down and incapacitate it in some way so I can board it. Much as the lion stalks a gazelle...

*Postscript! The one social difference I have noticed between Vancouverites and Winnipeggers, is that staggering numbers of people thank the bus driver here when they get off the bus. And I don't mean a discrete nod and a muttered 'hello' as they walk past the driver. They'll get off at the back doors and practiacally scream 'Thanks!" to the driver. We just don't do that in Winnipeg. I mean, really, why would you? It's not as if the driver was making a special trip just for you. I mean, he was going that way, anyway.

A Flower Grows in South Vancouver

2006-12-08T23:17:00.000-06:00

The story of my strange and lengthy encounter with a young gangsta chick while on my way home the other night.

Part 1: On the Bus
Gangsta Girl: Hey, is this Fraser St. here?
Me: Yes.

Part 2: Getting off the bus.
Gangsta Girl: Can I have a cigarette?
Me: Sure. Here.
Gangsta Girl: Thanks.

Part 3: Walking to the Bus Stop
Gangsta Girl: Hey, I'm supposed to meet someone, but I'm way early, do you have a phone I can use?
Me: No (which was true, I don't have a cell phone.)

Part 4: At the Bus Stop
Gangsta Girl: Yeah, so I'm supposed to meet someone and I said it would be in, like, half an hour and I'm really early.
Me: Yeah, sorry, I don't have a phone.
Gangsta Girl: It's actually a guy I just met on the bus. He told me to meet him here and he said he lives, like, a block away.
Me: A block in which direction?
Gangsta Girl: Exactly!
Me: Huh, that's annoying.
Gangsta Girl: I know. Hey (pointing at a guy sitting at a bus stop across the street), maybe that's him!
(she walks across the street and stares at this guy, who looks uncomfortable, then she walks back)
Me: No luck?
Gangsta Girl: Nah, wasn't him. But there's a pay phone across the street, I'm going to try calling him. If you see a dude named Ben, tell him I'll be right back. Just go 'Ben!' at every dude who goes by.
Me: Uh, okay.
(she walks off to the pay phone, as I stand there and wonder how long I'm expecting to wait here. Also, in the unlikely event that my bus arrives on time, what is the etiquette here? Should I let the bus go and wait for her? Anyway, the bus doesn't come and she walks back)
Me: Well?
Gangsta Girl: Yeah, he says he's coming soon. I think. I don't actually know this guy so I can't say for sure if he's coming. Damn it's cold out! Anyway, I'm glad you're here. I feel safer.
Me: Sure.
Gangsta Girl: if you weren't here, you know, what if, like, some old guy drives up. The I'd have to stab him.
Me: Sure.
Gangsta Girl: And I would, too! I have a knife, I'll fucking stab somebody! But I'd rather it not come to that.
Me: No one wants it to come to that.
Gangsta Girl: God, this is so sketchy. I don't even know this guy, i just met him on the bus. Now I'm going to his house! Hey, could you lend me, like, two bucks in case I need to get out of there? Then I could take a bus at least.
Me: For that, you can have two dollars (I give her two dollars).
Gangsta Girl: Thanks. I'm kind of drunk.
(At this point I realise she's been drinking a can of beer the entire time)
Gangsta Girl: This is so sketchy! I don't know what I'm doing.
Me:(hopefully) You know, you could just take those two dollars and go home right now.
Gangsta Girl: (nodding slowly as she ponders this) You know what? You're right. (pause) But maybe I'll wait around a bit longer.
Me: (not so hopefully) Uh-huh.
Gangsta Girl: Shit! And there's your bus! Well, I guess you're leaving.
Me: I guess so.
Gangsta Girl: Well, thanks for everything, man.
Me: You going to be alright?
Gangsta Girl: Yeah, he'll be here soon.
Me: Good luck.
Gangsta Girl: Thanks.
(she hugs me. I get on the bus)

Part 5: On the Bus
(I feel like kind of a piece of shit for leaving her, but she was a drunk girl wandering the city alone, about to go home with a dude she met on the bus. She needed more protection than than I was capable of providing.)

The Death of Kaiser Wilhelm *

2006-12-08T23:11:00.000-06:00

So I was in a bar last night and, during a brief lull in the punk music, I heard this snatch of conversation from the two men behind me:

Guy #1: ...so he was assassinated in 1937.
Guy #2: He invented the dildo.

Then the music crashed back on. I am insanely curious as to who these guys were talking about. Their use of the term 'assassinated' makes it sound like a political figure, but dildo?
I considered researching this further, but I don't think googling 'dildo' and 'political figure' will result in anything too helpful.

*Incidentally, I am not suggesting that Kaiser Wilhelm was assassinated or invented the dildo, in case any of you are history students using this site as a reference.

What? Who?

2006-11-18T04:49:00.000-06:00

Hello internet! How is you doing it? I am much glowing! Things are super double plus good! Am enjoying happy much joy!
Okay, that wasn't entirely sincere. But i am doing okay. As the more astute of you may have noticed, i am in fact living in Vancouver right now, the jewel of Canada's West Coast. I am living with a few very fine people.
Oh, so much to report; since last we spoke, I have had several romances, worked as a census taker, worked as a pantyhose salesman, done emergency customer service for Dairy Queen, and have had many misadventures. oh, so much to tell.
But there'll be time enough for telling. Right now, i just want to say that I am here.
I hope y'all ain't forgotten me.

I still exist

2006-03-02T11:09:00.000-06:00

Yes, hello, I'm here. I'm always here. So it's been, my goodness, about seven months since last I posted. It's been fairly busy, I've quit drinking, started drinking and quit drinking several times; you know the routine. I'm starting to think of it like the seasons; I go through my drunk-happy season, drunk-miserable season, sober-happy season and then we start again. I know I'll have to quit for good at some point, some point fairly soon, but right now I have to say I am... well happy seems boastful; less depressed, maybe? That may sound underwhelming, but I assure you 'less depressed' is probably the best I've felt in a long time, years maybe. Wow, that's depressing. Fuck! I ruined it!
This is getting maudlin. I remember why I stopped posting to this thing. Anyway, this really is a good time for me. I finally quit my job! I am no longer an indentured, albeit well-paid, servant of mastercard. That's a good thing. While casting about for another job I ponced off to Vancouver to visit my father's family. While there, my aunt and uncle offered me a place to live, a room in their condo, and my aunt offered me a job with the tour- company- thing she works for. They made the offer less than a week ago, so I want to give it some thought, but I think I'm going to go. It would mean leaving Winnipeg, the city I've lived in my entire life, as well as my family here, and my friends. Frankly, the prospect of starting in an entirely new, and massive, city scares the hell of of me, but I think that's a good thing. I'm excited about it; I feel engaged by the possibilities of it.
Oh, I'm writing, too. I don't know if I ever mentioned this, but I've written a screenplay. I gave it to my old screenwriting professor to read, and while I was waiting to hear back from him, which took a while, I started a novel. I've since heard back from my prof and he gave me lots of good notes and ego-boasting praise, as well some names in local production companies. The novel is going well, though, so well that I want to finish it before I get back to the screenplay, with some breaks here and there to knock off some short stories. I really love writing, whether or not I'm ever successful at it. Of course if I can recieve some sort of champagne-and-blowjob- based compensation that would be good, too.
I am still single, which is annoying. I've been kind of a mess the last...oh, seven years or so, and probably not much use to a woman. I'm starting to pull my shit together, though, and become someone worth being with. Hmm, that's kind of boastful, too, but hey, let's just go ahead and get a little nuts.
So that's it, I guess; there's my progress report. You know what? In retrospect, upgrade my status from 'less depressed' to 'almost happy.' I know, I know, it's a bold statement for me. But so what, fuck you, it's my blog.

Have we met?

2005-07-30T10:38:00.000-05:00

One night in July, I slept in a tent on Prince Edward Island. The wind blew hard that night, shaking the tent so violently that I woke repeatedly. In fact, the wind was so harsh my friend’s tent broke, and he woke up wrapped in canvas; he spent the rest of the night in the car. Because of the difficult night, all three of us got up around 6:30 in the morning, sunrise, although it was overcast.
Prince Edward Island is the smallest of Canada’s provinces, boasting a mere 100,000 people. It is a small island nestled on the East Coast, surrounded by the waters of the Atlantic Ocean. As we were all awake so early, we decided to take advantage, and go see the coast. It was nearby, of course (everything is nearby on the island), and we reached the coast within minutes. I don’t know why, but the rocks, and consequently the sand and soil, are the color of rust in P.E.I. We parked, and my friends immediately went down to the water, their cameras in tow. I hung back, intentionally, and doubled back to the car. I opened the trunk, and rooted through my duffel bag, which at that point was half filled with clothes and half filled with dirty laundry. I was looking for a bottle of whiskey.
About three weeks earlier, back in Winnipeg, I had purchased the bottle; I only drank about a quarter of it before I decided to quit drinking entirely, the culmination of a lengthy, messy bender. The morning that I was leaving for the coast, I had the impulse to pack the bottle, I didn’t know why at the time.
I was having a hard time finding the whiskey in my bag; although you’d think finding a glass bottle in a bag of clothes would be short work. I was getting frustrated, and accidentally knocked over a plastic bag with a bottle of BBQ sauce in it. Finally, I found the bottle of whiskey, and I stuffed it in my bag. I picked up the plastic bag with the BBQ sauce from the ground, to set it back in the trunk, and noticed that a) the bottle had broken, b) BBQ sauce was spilling all over my friend’s luggage, and c) I had cut my hand on the broken glass. I mopped up the spilled sauce as best I could with damp paper towels, and cleaned the blood off my hand and BBQ sauce out of my wound as best I could. I had cut my hand on the soft skin between my thumb and forefinger.
I set off along the coastline, in the opposite direction from my friends. Red cliffs lined the coast, and I walked along them, through knee high grass, until I found a sufficiently remote spot where the cliff jutted out over the water. Satisfied that I was alone, I took the bottle out of my bag. It was Wiser’s, my favorite brand of whiskey, and, as I said, the bottle was three-quarters full. I held the bottle with my bloody hand and said, aloud: "Liquor bottle, you carry all my fear, and you carry all my weakness. I send you out, now, into the world, to trouble me no more." And I flung the bottle over the cliff where it shattered against the red rocks, and mingled with the waters of the Atlantic Ocean.
Then I put a band-aid on my hand.
* * *
I haven’t posted in any serious way for along time. The fact is, since I quit drinking I have had no urge to write about myself, or my life. I stare at the blank Blogger posting rectangle and I have no desire to write anything. It’s taken me a week to write this. I don’t know what has brought this change about me, but I think I don’t like Dash Bradley, any more. It’s not my real name, of course, as I’ve mentioned, but a name I invented to describe both a kind of person I don’t much care for, and a two-dimensional character who becomes three dimensional. I think both descriptions are appropriate. It’s time to cast off this alter-ego, shed him like a skin I’ve outgrown.
I feel like… remember when you were a kid? Remember that moment when you realized you know longer wanted to play with toys? Remember how it was kind of sad, to be leaving your childhood behind you, but also kind of exciting? That’s how I feel. I’m sober, and I feel good about it. I’m going to AA. I’m probably going to go into therapy (but I’m not taking the pills). I’m looking for a new job. I’m even starting to write again.
Maybe these are placebos and pipe dreams, and in six months I’ll be back where I started, drunk and hopeless. I don’t know. All I know is that, right now, I don’t feel hopeless at all.
As hope is alien to Dash Bradley, I must send him away, off into the wastes of Siberia with his bitterness and his alcohol. Who knows? I may check in on him from time to time.
As for me, I’ve found this an interesting experience, and may return to blogging in the future. I have met some terrific people I wouldn’t have met otherwise and I’ll be keeping my eye on you, don’t worry.
My name is Nicholas Andrew Beley, and I’m not dancing so madly anymore.

"If you're fond of sand dunes, and salty air/ quaint little villages, here and there"

2005-07-10T00:05:00.000-05:00

Well, I’m off for pastures greener. Sorry I haven’t spoken for a few days but I’ve been away from work, getting involved in all sorts of monkey business. I am still sober, in case you were wondering, and it seems to be going okay. I actually feel pretty good about it, to tell you the truth. I have been concerned that in giving up drinking my life would be less exciting or fun, which may well be true, but in return I seem to be feeling a twinge in the back of my neck that may be this thing you hu-mans call ‘self-respect.’ Shh, don’t tell anybody.
But yes, I am heading out for the East Coast on a long-overdue vacation. What adventure will I find out in the wild maritime provinces? Who can say; perhaps what I will really find is… myself?

Tell me why/ I hate Mondays...

2005-07-06T00:33:00.000-05:00

Embarrassing admission: in my wayward, brooding youth, I used to shoplift. I know, I know, it is terrible horrible and bad, bad, bad, but I was a weird lonely adolescent and this was my way of acting out. Arguably it was a cry for help, but seeing as how I was never caught it was a cry for help that no one heard, which I guess was a waste of time. Anyway, things took an upturn; I became less brooding and a relatively happier person, who felt no need to commit antisocial acts. Many, many years later, I feel I have become the victim of karma, in as much as I seem to set off those fucking, fucking anti-shoplifting alarms every fucking time I pass through them, despite the fact I have not stolen anything. I must have an alien chip in my head. It only happens in big box stores (Best Buy, Wal-Mart etc), where the doors are some distance from the checkout. Now, in a perfect world when the alarm went off an employee would be discreetly alerted and rush over, we’d discuss the issue and I’d verify that I had not, in fact, stolen anything and we’d laugh about it and I’d be on my way. In a perfect world. What actually happens is… nothing. Well, not nothing. First, a hideously loud screech sounds throughout the area. Then, all the other customers nearby look at me with contemptuous accusing eyes; "You shoplifting piece of shit!" they say, silently. Now, at this point, you’d think an employee would come over to investigate the piercingly shrill alarm, but no. No employees bat an eye. This leaves me with the choice of a) ignoring the alarm and continuing on my way, or b) going and finding an employee, to advise them that I am not a shoplifter. Now a) results in even more contemptuous looks, as it looks like I’m just trying to escape. Option b) results in charming little exchanges like this:

Me: Excuse me, I appear to have set off the alarm.
Brain-dead retail zombie moron: Huh?
Me: The shoplifting alarm? At the front doors? I set it off.
BDRZ: Melvin?
Me: No, I’m not Melvin. Could you just check my bag or something, so I could leave?
BDRZ: What section was that?
Me: No, I’m talking about the front doors. I would just like to leave. I promise I didn’t steal anything.
BDRZ: I think that’s in cookwares.
Me: Uh… so can I leave?
BDRZ: Melvin?

And so on. As these stirring discussions seldom yield results, this generally leaves me with the only option of just leaving, thus setting off the alarms again, and so on and so on. My question is: what is the fucking point of these fucking alarms if no one gives a fucking shit if they fucking go off? Huh? What’s the fucking point except to heap embarrassment on poor fucking wage slaves who are just on their way to their own brain dead fucking jobs and they are just passing through your fucking store and it’s not their fucking fault that they have alien fucking chips in their head and set off your fucking stupid alarms you fucking fucking morons? Huh? HUH? HUH?
Not that it bothers me or anything.

You want the truth!?

2005-07-05T21:38:00.000-05:00

I saw the film Last Tango In Paris last night (and it was excellent), and I had a thought. Yes, just one. In the movie, Marlon Brando plays a man whose wife has just committed suicide, and he enters into a self-effacing affair with a young woman. Now, there’s a scene where Marlon visits the body of his wife, and starts to berate her, just a torrent of obscenities, that gives way to a weeping, pathetic appeal. This scene reminded me very strongly of a scene in Magnolia (possibly my favorite film), where Tom Cruise’s character confronts his dying father, and also unleashes a vitriolic attack that degenerates into childish weeping. The similarity of both scenes struck me with this thought: Tom Cruise is the new Marlon Brando! Think about it; Brando was a famous, critically lauded, popular actor whose talent became overshadowed by his increasingly eccentric personal life. Sounds like Tom to me! You can’t go to a supermarket without seeing fifty magazines talking about how crazy he is, nor turn on the TV without hearing about one of his crazy interviews. I think he’s just getting started. I think weirder on-set behavior, many marriages, massive weight gain and private islands are all in his future. Scientology is a fabulous start.

My name is Dash*

2005-07-03T18:07:00.000-05:00

Well, internet, I hate to say this but I think it’s time for me to quit drinking, again. I guess I should say try and quit drinking, actually, but we’ll give it a go. Man, this has just been a brutal week for me, entirely self-inflicted. Let’s break it down, shall we? Wednesday, after dinner with my family, I got drunk and watched, appropriately enough, a film called Drunks, about alcoholics. There was one character, played by comedian Richard Lewis, that I especially identified with; he plays a two-year sober dude who goes on a bender. Man, watching him swear at a bottle of bourbon, so filled with desire and self-loathing, I really saw myself. I still got drunk, though. Thursday I went and saw a matinee of Batman, stopping off at a liquor mart first to buy a bottle of whiskey. I bought myself once of those giant-ass cups of coke, and proceeded to maintain my drunk as I watched the film. I drank my way back home, and then met some friends at a bar. I had to leave early, around midnight, as I’d been drinking for about thirteen hours. I went and sat down on the front steps of some random apartment building, where I promptly fell asleep. Yes, that’s right, I slept on the street; a new one for me. I woke up a little while later, staggered home and proceeded to throw up all over my bathroom. I couldn’t even get it together enough to prop my head onto the toilet. Friday morning, I washed my vomit-stained bathmats, and then started drinking around 10am. I think I walked around town after that, but who remembers? I know I hooked up with some friends in the afternoon, to attend a street festival. At some point, I wandered off and got into an altercation with a brick wall, leaving me with a hand that is still bruised and swollen as I type this. I don’t know how or when I left, or how I got home, I just woke up on the couch Saturday morning. I had to drag my sorry ass to work, and after my shift I went to meet some friends for -guess what! - more drinking. Except I couldn’t. You’re talking to a guy who’s been drinking pretty much daily for a long fucking time, but I couldn’t even choke down a beer. It’s like my system wouldn’t take it; the taste was disgusting to me. I attempted to drink a few beers of different brands, but there was nothing for it. Again, I ended up leaving early, but I didn’t sleep in any stairwells, nor punch any walls. I woke up today and went for a very long walk, and I’ve decided to quit again. I know, I know, I have been down this road before, and failed. But, maybe I’m going into it a little wiser this time, with fewer expectations. I don’t know if it will last or what will happen to me, but I think I’ve finally lost my taste for self-destruction.

*actually, it's not.

yay for me

2005-07-02T12:04:00.000-05:00

Well, internet, the rumors are true; yesterday was my birthday. I am now 25 years old. Twenty five. That's a quarter of a century. Shit. It was a pretty good day, I (guess what!) got very drunk. The neighborhood where I live shut down and had a festival, which was very cool. Many beer gardens. I think I broke some knuckles on my right hand, and a few on my left; they are all swollen. What the hell was I punching? Not people, I hope. Anyway, I hung out with all kinds of interesting people, had some laughs. I wore a suit, because I'm awesome, but I didn't count on the heat. My God, the heat! Fortunately there was much to drink, so I could stay cool.
Happy birthday, Jennifer!

Ah, they only come out at night...

2005-06-29T14:47:00.000-05:00

I managed to utterly shame myself yesterday. I stopped in at a little used cd store, and I picked up a David Cross cd. It cost about twelve bucks and I gave the cashier a twenty. I noticed he calculated the change wrong and he was giving me back a ten dollar bill. I noticed this, and said nothing. The cashier caught his error and gave me the correct change, and I tried to pretend that I didn’t notice. What an asshole I am. I immediately punished myself by getting drunk and walking around, while listening to the David Cross album. He’s a comedian, by the way, and a terribly funny one; I must have looked like quite the Christmas ham walking around, laughing to myself. No matter.
A very funny phone call, yesterday. A few months ago, a friend of mine left a pair of sneakers in my apartment. Yesterday, he left me a message saying he wanted to pick them up. I called him back in the evening to let him know he could come by whenever.

Him: I’ll be by around midnight.
Me: Midnight? What are you up to, right now?
Him: I’m at the fair.
Me: The fair?
Him: Yeah, I’m like a carnie, now!
Me: A carnie? When did this happen?
Him: Last night! I was just hanging around and I asked for a job!
Me: So what do you do?
Him: I’m dressed up like a mad scientist. I have a lab coat and everything!
Me: A mad scientist? What do you have to do?
Him: I run like a fucking freak show or something!

Maybe you have to know the guy to find this as funny as I do. On top of everything, during the year he studies biology, and actually has to sincerely wear a lab coat. We all kind of figured he would eventually become a mad scientist, just not in this form.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Miss Peggy Lee

2005-06-28T14:38:00.000-05:00

(Read what came before)
Is that all there is? Causing avalanches with dynamite to annihilate helpless villagers? Emptying thousands of rounds into the Siberian countryside, obliterating forests that have stood for thousands of years? Drinking grain alcohol by the liter, and consuming more opium than all of Shanghai? Witnessing the most depraved acts ever conceived by man or beast, performed by individuals of questionable gender?
I confess, I am bored.
Every day, I wake up, beat the servants, take in brunch with my son, attempt to kill him, set off explosives, scream obscenities while I wander the campground naked with several liquor bottles strapped to my body with leather belts, lunch, fornication with something or someone, more drinking, vomiting, dinner, opium.
Every day.
It didn’t always used to be like this; as a child I was a firebrand, a prodigy. Even as a boy, the adults around me were terrified of me, and with good reason. At boarding school, I was a champion in the fighting pits, lauded and feared in equal measure. I left school ready to conquer the world, to remake and rejuvenate it. What I found was an empire of bored degenerates and terrified peasants. My passion and dreams meant nothing to fools such as these. They drifted, played out their roles, did as they were told. I could have been emperor, but emperor of what? I could have been poet or painter, but who would listen? Who would see or understand; who would care? It would have been pearls before swine.
So I began to drift, and found it pleasing. Those who don’t know can never understand the profound beauty and simplicity of inertia, to simply exist without past or future. So I exist still. And what next? Where does this lead? Will I ever believe in anything again?
Bah. This melancholia leads nowhere. Where is my bottle? Where is my pipe? Where are my guns? Where is Consuela?

Girls, girls, girls

2005-06-27T15:54:00.000-05:00

"Girls, girls, girls," from Girls, girls, girls, by Jay-Z

So last night I somehow got two of my friends to come out to the bar with me, despite the fact we were camping all weekend and we all felt pretty beat-the-hell-up. So we went to our local pub, the Toad. The Toad is always great on Sundays; they have a DJ set up in one of the booths with a couple boxes of records. People can browse through the records and make requests, so the music is generally pretty good. They played a lot of David Bowie last night, so I was pretty happy. The other cool thing is that the owner comes in and bartends for the night, and his wife/girlfriend/whatever also comes in with their little baby girl. On one hand, it’s kind of cool having a little kid running around, as it gives the place a homey feel. Along with the records, it feels like you’re hanging out in someone’s basement. On the other hand, it’s kind of creepy with everyone siting around getting drunk, and there’s this kid learning to walk over here. It’s a little hard to enjoy your drink when there’s a metaphor for your lost innocence bumping into your legs.
Anyway, we started the night sitting out on the patio, when a girl we know came up and said hello. Now, this girl, let me tell you about this girl. She’s a friend of a friend, and she’s just about the sweetest person you’ve ever met. Apparently she grew up Mennonite, and she’s kind of naïve, and very earnest, which I find endearing. When you talk to her, she’s incredibly interested in everything you have to say, even if it’s mundane she’s always really impressed. And she’s so excited to see you! She works in a restaurant just down the street from me, so I walk past it like, every day. Whenever she sees me she always runs over to the door and calls me over to say hi, and usually invite me to go hang out with her. On top of all this, she’s a very pretty girl. Now, normally if I encountered a girl who was always eager to see me and to hang out with me and was very interested in what I had to say, I would assume she was attracted to me and I should ask her out (even I wouldn’t miss signals like this). But here’s the thing: she has a boyfriend! She is completely committed to, and in love with this boyfriend! I know this because all of her friends have confirmed the fact that she has a boyfriend, and a lot of my male friends have asked her out, and been rebuked, because she has a boyfriend. This girl is just incredibly flirty, to everyone I presume. It’s beyond friendliness, this girl sends off all the signals, man. It’s annoying; when you talk to her, it’s impossible not to start flirting yourself, until you catch yourself and remember: there’s no chance!
So, yeah, we run into this girl, and she’s so happy to see us, and she invites us to hang out with her tomorrow, yada yada yada. Fuck!
Anyway, we go into the basement for Vinyl Night, and we hook up with a couple of other Toad regulars, A and P. So we’re sitting around, talking and drinking and P starts flirting with this girl standing nearby. She eventually joins us and hangs out with us for about an hour. She’s a cool girl, cute, funny; we’re all having a good time. Now, P, my friend and myself are single dudes so we’re all hitting on this girl. Again, I would argue she was somewhat flirting back. Things are going well until about 45 minutes in when she mentions the boyfriend. Fuck! Ah, the b-bomb, you gotta love it. Now, I do appreciate this, as it does stop a fella from asking a girl out and being rejected, which is nice. On the other hand, though, it’s so calculated. Girls are rarely able to thread it smoothly into the conversation so it always seems kind of superfluous and contrived. "Oh, you have a job? That’s funny, my boyfriend has a job!" My friend had been talking about how he shaved his head, "Oh my boyfriend has a shaved head." Yeah, great, good to know. So she drifted off at some point. What the hell was her name? Oh well.
Now, I mentioned that we sat down with two other regulars; A, the other one, is a very cool, kind of weird, very cute chick. Despite the fact that we frequent the same bar, and have done so for years, we’ve only recently started hanging out with A. I’d never really thought of making a play for her, but lately it’s been like Dash Bradley mating season around here; I’m taking it pretty hard to the hoop with every female who crosses my path. So, I was kind of flirting with her, and eventually my friend and P faded into the night. We’re getting along, she’s laughing at my jokes. She asks if I lived around there, I did. I asked if she lived around there, she did. I asked if I could walk her home, she said "Yeah." I start to focus my chi. Everyone knows that walking a girl home is as solid a move as there is. We kept talking, drinking, laughing. At closing time, when the bartenders were kicking everyone out, she looked at me and said "Goodnight." Uh…okay. I stood up and paused next to the table. "Goodnight," she said again, curtly, not moving a muscle. Either she hadn’t really heard me when I offered to walk her home, or she changed her mind, or maybe she forgot. Regardless, I had been dismissed from her presence. Fuck! Oh well, it probably would have been a bad idea, in a "don’t shit where you eat" sense. Also, my friend is kind of interested in her, so he’d probably be pissed off. What can I say? I was drunk and horny and I took a shot.
But, yeah, chicks and flirting, I see no solution. I know girls like to flirt, whether or not they’re interested in a dude, whether or not they’re already involved. I understand and respect that, but man can it be annoying!

Into the Woods

2005-06-27T14:13:00.000-05:00

So, this weekend I went camping with some friends. It as kind of a last-minute decision, I wasn’t sure if I was going to go and then I decided "I should go," so I went. Get it? I left with two friends after work, and intended up taking longer than we thought so we didn’t get to the campsite until around 10. A few of our friends were already there and we were then joined by our friends, Marco and Colleen. They got the weekend off to a good start by announcing that they were getting married. Congrats, Marco and Colleen! I’m looking forward to that bachelor party.
Now, I don’t camp too often, maybe a few times a year. My family never camped while I was growing up, so I didn’t start camping until I was into my 20’s. Suffice to say I am not terribly experienced at it, and am apparently a slow learner. My chief mistake is my theory that it is somehow beneficial to bring as little gear as possible. I do have a tent, sleeping bag, food, booze (of course), and that’s about it. There is some sense to this, as the less gear you bring, the less you have to shlep around. That being said, some creature comforts might have been nice. For example, seeing as how I was sleeping on rocks (not gravel, rocks), some sort of air mattress, or padding might have made my nights more comfortable, instead of painful. On a similar note, some sort of pillow might also have made sleeping easier. In terms of food, although hot dogs, peanut butter and granola bars will sustain your life, some more varied or tastier choices might have made meal-time more palatable. I suck at camping.
Fortunately, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers. My friends brought a shitload of food and adopted a share and share alike attitude. Some of them even wanted my peanut butter. Hence, I was able to eat better than I deserved to, but sleeping was still a bitch. On the bright side, I had plenty of my medically prescribed sleep-aid; booze.
So the first night we stayed up long into the night, drinking, toasting the happy couple and reminiscing on our favorite Simpsons episodes. The next morning, my friend introduced me to a novel hangover drink; redeyes. They comprise one part clamato to two parts beer; it was kind of a nice way to get the morning started, although I still find clamato disgusting, beer or no. That afternoon, Colleen invited us to her parent’s cottage, which was conveniently close, where her father was eager to take out his new speedboat. So, I was introduced to the activity of ‘tubing,’ which basically involves tying a fancy inner tube to the back of the boat, and clinging tenaciously to said inner tube as Colleen’s father does his best to fling you off of it. Added to that, there were actually three of us, clinging to our respective tubes, bouncing and careening off of each other. It was intense, to say the least; the cap’n was going very fast, and making very hard turns. The thing is, if you relax your grip on the handles, you’ll go flying off, and if you relax your body in the tube, the water will smack your ass red. So you have to prop up your body and keep your ass up out of the body; basically every muscle in your body is clenched for the duration of the ride. It’s kind of exhausting, after a while I had no upper body strength left, and it was a bitch just climbing into the tube. Falling off was also kind of a trip, as you’d be going so fast that you’d skid across the water on your face for a while before you’d finally submerge. After, I don’t know, half an hour maybe? I felt like I’d had the shit kicked out of me. In a good way, though, it was a lot of fun.
That night, we had an insane dinner of steak, ribs, smokies, hot dogs, sausages and chicken wings. You could say that we all felt pretty full after all that. After the water sports in the afternoon, and the feast o’meat, everyone was pretty sluggish, and the night kind of petered out. Colleen’s father was kind enough to donate 24 bottles of beer (I love this guy!), which we made a valiant effort to consume, but ultimately we were bested.
Something weird happened both mornings; I was asleep in my tent, and I dreamed that I was asleep in my tent, hearing my friends talking outside. Both mornings, I woke up, thought my dream was real, and got up to find everyone still asleep. Fucking dreams! Also, the dude sleeping in the tent next to me reported, with some vehemence, that I snore like a motherfucker. For some reason, I had no sympathy for him.
Sunday morning, everyone felt stiff as hell, but we still attempted to go back for more. Unfortunately, or fortunately as the case may be, the water was too choppy to take the boat out, so we had to resort to swimming. We were all sore, tired and sunburned, so we headed back to the city in the afternoon. On the drive home, I surreptitiously started drinking from a bottle of leftover wine. I thought my friends would be annoyed that I was drinking in the car, putting us at risk of attracting Johnny Law. When they busted me? "You have wine and you’re not sharing!?" I do love my friends.

How I am doing

2005-06-27T13:05:00.000-05:00

Don’t you hate people who infrequently update their sites? What motherfuckers!
Anyway, been a busy week. Let’s get started; this is a three-parter so pay attention. Ready?
The most interesting day last week was Wednesday, which turned out to be the exact kind of night I like. It started uninteresting enough, I was going to go down to the Little Italy-ish part of Winnipeg with a friend of mine for some drinks. When the weather is nice, half of Winnipeg descends on Little Italy-ish, to sip cappuccino, eat gelatto and gawk at each other. My friend met me at my apartment and we headed out, but we had to wait in the area because he had to meet his drug dealer shortly. We decided to have a drink at the local pub, the Toad, while we waited, where we found a friend of mine hanging out with a few of her girlfriends. They invited us to join them, which we did, and we played boardgames. I played, I think, something called scattergories, which I completely misunderstood how to play and fucked up the first few rounds, much to everyone’s amusement. I’m not really big on boardgames, as they distract one from drinking, but I tried to be a good sport. Anyway, the girls got tired and went home relatively early, so we decided to return to the original plan, we got about two steps and we ran into a friend-of-a-friend who invited us to the Zoo, which was having their weekly amateur stripper contest. Now, I’ve kind of sworn off strippers, as I’ve always found them kind of depressing, and I’ve really seen more strippers than a man my age has any right to. But, when I’ve been drinking you don’t really have to twist my arm that much to do anything.
Now this guy, this friend-of-a-friend, is someone whom I actually consider my nemesis. He’s not aware of this, I’ve never found the time, nor words, to tell him, but it’s how I think of him. I’ve known him, through a close friend (Chuck, actually), for many years; we’ve never been exactly good friends, but we always got along. You know, we’d meet at parties, fuck around, make each other laugh. We have a lot in common, actually, similar sense of humor, we both write; we’ve even discussed collaborating on a project. Now, he’s my nemesis for two main reasons: a) he has, in the past, been a rather heavy coke dealer, which involved selling coke to a lot of my friends. I know, I know, they are adults and they made their own decisions and he didn’t push them into anything; but it sure didn’t endear him to me. Now, more important is b) this guy is a big time womanizer; he’s fucked about half the women in Winnipeg. So, okay, not unforgivable, again he’s not forcing himself on women, they seem to go for the guy, fair enough. But like I said, I have a lot in common with this guy. Including taste in women. So, whenever I see this guy, he’s with a girl who is funny, interesting, quirky, smart; the exact kind of girl I would like to date. And what does he do? Fucks them and discards them. And women always go for it! They love this guy, they eat up his shit every time; not for nothing, but I’ve had a girl leave me for him. I can’t compete with this guy; he’s like a cooler, older, better looking, infinitely more confident version of me. The only thing I have going for me is that I’m not a scumbag, which, as we’ve discussed, doesn’t hold much weight with most women.
So, yeah, he’s my nemesis, but hey, that shouldn’t stop one from drinking with the guy. So, I had a good time, like I said, we get along. I shall keep him relatively close, and wait.
And wait.
Anyway, like I said this is the exact kind of night that I like. You head out the front door with a vague plan in mind, and things just come up, and plans change, and your night ends up totally different than what you thought.

Siberia!

2005-06-17T14:58:00.000-05:00

(Read what came before)
So, Siberia. It took three trains, two zeppelins and a goddamned sled for this? I gave Cavendish a thorough beating for dragging me to such a godforsaken spot. Not a proper cabaret in sight! He had the audacity to point out that it was I who thought of coming here. What nerve! I broke his jaw to remind him of his place, and to shut him up, as well. I fear there will be few comforts and consolations in a place such as this. Will I have to actually live beneath my station? Should it come to that, I assure you there will be a bloodbath…
I received a telegram from one of my agents at home. It turns out I was right about my sister, Berenice. She’s been camped out in her carriage in front of my estate, awaiting my return so she can avenge her dear husband. Her weapon of choice? A broom. Yes, my sister was planning to kill me with a broom. What was she planning to do? Our father must be spinning in his grave. I would find it all terribly amusing if not for what happened next. Poor old Berenice; since she was a little girl, she’s been on an unspeakable amount of prescription pills. My mother always told me that Berenice was a little terror before the pills, which I find unlikely. I assume my mother just preferred a more sedentary child. Regardless, whatever quack swine doctor Berenice has inflicted herself on must have prescribed her some pretty strong meat, as Berenice apparently lapsed into a small coma, sitting there in her carriage. When she came around, she got confused and assumed she was in front of her own house. She wandered onto the ground, and my servants, being typically useless, made her right at home. They probably just assumed, correctly, that she would not beat them with sporting equipment, and hence would make a welcome change. Remind me to buy new croquet mallets before I get home…
I’ve dispatched Consuela back to the estate, to dislodge my sister and whip the staff into shape. She’s already outlined her plan to gut one of the valets as an example to the others. God in heaven, but I love this woman.
As for me? Well, fortunately Holtz has an encyclopedic knowledge of brothels, and he has mentioned a few promising ones in the area. My son Dennis has gone into severe opium withdrawal, so I suppose we’ll have to find some of that, as well. "Sometimes, my son," I told him. "You chase the dragon, and sometimes the dragon chases you." Well, I thought it was funny.
So what can one do, but hunker down, delegate chores to one’s servants, and try and make the best of it?

If I ran the world...

2005-06-17T13:28:00.000-05:00

...customer service would be more like this.
(overhearinnewyork.com)

Didja miss me?

2005-06-17T10:54:00.000-05:00

Well.
As you may recall, when last I posted I was on my way to a long weekend. Let me just say that I enjoyed it to its fullest. In fact, I enjoyed it so much that it left me a mute. That’s right, I lost my voice. Perhaps if I had gone home and rested I might not have lost my voice, but weekends at home are just not my style.
Anyway, seeing as how my job involves answering phones all day, speaking is kind of required. Hence, I haven’t been to work in a week. Since I have no internet at home, no work means no posting. My voice has mostly returned, so I’m back to work. "Is there no one in the wide world who will care for me?" you asked. Well there is, and here I am.
My goodness, so much to report, the mind quakes at the task. What have I been doing in the past week? Too… much… information.
Item! While I was losing my voice, I helpfully ran into everyone I have ever met. I became a master of pantomime, as I had to communicate what I was up to these days with a series of hand gestures and facial expressions. It was kind of fun, to be honest, but ultimately frustrating. I always thought of myself as a fairly antisocial person, but I was surprised how strong the desire to speak was. I wanted to tell stories, to comment, to join into the discussion. I was also surprised how annoying it was that I couldn’t sing. I know! I never really thought of myself as a musical person, but man alive I wanted to belt out a tune in the shower. I can’t wait until my voice is back at a hundred percent.
Item! I ran into a girl I used to go out with at a bar on Friday, pre-muteness. We’ve been kind of avoiding each other, not that it ended on bad terms, more that it ended on no terms at all. We just kind of stopped, and with the exception of a letter and a phone call we haven’t seen each other since. My normal course of action is to slip out the back, but I decided to be a man about it and went over and we talked, and it worked out great! We got along, made each other laugh, and diffused all tension between us. My friend put it best: "That’s one less face you have to worry about seeing." So, one down.
Item! I started to lose my voice on Saturday; I was out at a bar with a friend of mine. Helpfully, my friend ingested an indeterminate amount of mushrooms. By the time my voice was completely gone, he was completely high. He made an amusing spokesman for the two of us, to say the least, although I’m not sure he accurately reflected my views and opinions.
Item! I was so angry on Thursday, that I punched a whole in the paint in my wall in my apartment, which I would have assumed was beyond my abilities.
Item! Losing my voice has kind of been like a monastic retreat. I couldn’t speak, go to work, and I decided not to go out socially. I’ve been siting in my apartment in silence, doing chores. I cleaned my apartment, top to bottom, did all my laundry, all my dishes, cooked three decent meals a day. Didn’t drink a drop. It’s been a week of quiet reflection and solitude. Now let’s go get smashed.
Item! Watched a lot of Monty Python, which is a 15-year old sick-day tradition.
Item? I don’t know, what else? This is why one should post every day; events tend to blur together. I don’t know, I’ll post things as they come to me. Anyway, I (ha-ha) have another three-day weekend, so ideally I’ll be posting again on Tuesday, unless I get… I don’t know, hysterical blindness or something.

No time for posting!

2005-06-09T16:25:00.000-05:00

Can't talk! Too much to say! People! Bars! Crazy drunk girls! I think I had a panic attack today, at work! First time ever! Is that bad?! I feel great now! Is that weird! Aaaaaahhhhhhh! I just got off work early! I have a three day weekend! Fun! Sleep! Bruises! Have good weekends, peoples!

Take off your tie

2005-06-08T14:47:00.000-05:00

I am at work and I am drunk. I did not get drunk before coming to work, I don't do that (yet). I got very (apparently very) drunk yesterday and I woke up drunk today. You should be allowed to call in drunk to work, without any stigma. I mean, for Christ's sakes, I'm in customer service! I'm speaking to customers and I'm just sloshed. But if I were to go to my supervisor and tell her "I'm sorry, I'm too drunk to work," she'd probably fire me on the spot. What the hell am I supposed to do? I'm sick and tired of this workplace discrimination against the sobriety- challenged.

Stephen Lewis

2005-06-06T14:38:00.000-05:00

So last night i saw a PSA* about AIDS in Africa that literally caused my jaw to drop. I was so moved by it that I decided to go to Africa to fight AIDS personally. I was drunk at the time, and am still kind of cut now (what the hell did I drink last night?). So today I went to the Stephen Lewis Foundation website ( the folks who sponsored the inspiring ad). What did I find there? Well, a whole lot about Stephen fucking Lewis. I don't really care about Stephen Lewis, nor should anyone. I care about the issue.
Bah, I'm just being cantankerous; I think I'm starting to sober up. Anyway, it's a good cause, so if you have extra money you should give it to them. But they don't actually help you go to Africa and do something. They have links to other organizations that do, so who knows? Maybe I'll go. It seems like the right thing to do. It probably beats working for a credit card company. But doesn't everything?

*Public Service Announcement, gimp.

I am angry

2005-06-04T18:59:00.000-05:00

So last night I was hanging out with some friends and one of them was getting a little a lot drunk. She’s quite a tough girl; if I was that drunk I probably would have been unconscious, but she was keen to keep going. In fact, despite the fact that we were already in a bar,she wanted to go to a yuppie dance club across town. She asked me if I wanted to go with her (I didn’t mind hanging out with her, but I didn't want to go to the club). "How are you going to get there?" I asked. "Walking," she said.
Oy. Visions of her washing up in the river danced (or swam) through my head. Like I said, she was plenty drunk. So I agreed to accompany her, and thus we set off on a whirlwind journey for the next few hours, where I not only managed to keep her from getting killed, I also avoided the dance bar. I’m not going to go into details so as to spare her embarrassment (although she has nothing to be embarrassed about. [You don’t, you know]), I just wanted to set up my point, here.
Like I said, I was concerned about her not getting killed, but I think my main concern was something more sinister. While we were in the bar I was watching her like a hawk. After we left the bar I never let her out of my sight. Why? Because there are men who, when they encounter an obviously very intoxicated young lady, will take advantage of her. Some may refer to that as "getting laid." I call it "rape." How fucked up is it that I live in a society where this is a concern? In my society (the one in my mind), when a man (not boy, not guy, a man) encounters someone vulnerable, someone who needs help, then what you do is help them. What you do is stand up, and do the right thing and be brave and true, because that fucking counts for something. And I know that you read in Maxim that the most important thing for a man to do is to get laid and think about sex all the time. You know what? They’re wrong. That’s not what men do. That’s what boys do. Children are selfish. I know that your friends (sorry, buddies) talk to you about getting pussy, and ask, "did you fuck her?" and tell you "you should have fucked her." They’re wrong. They are products of a fucked up society that is so sick and broken that they have been trained to believe that this is how the world should work. A world where status, where having good stories to tell your friends, where hurting (where hurting), is more important then being decent and gentle. There are people reading this who think this way. They are thinking, right now, that I am a pussy. That I am a faggot and a gaywad and a dork and I probably never get laid and "dude you should fucking check out this faggot-ass site because this guy is so gay." I could not would not would never should not give less than half of a rat’s ass what these people think, because they are wrong in a terrifyingly massive way.
A few months ago, I was at a dance club (why? Why?); which was, in fact, a rather badly designed dance club. It was very crowded and everybody was trying to squeeze past each other and this one guy was elbowing elbowing elbowing me and I was fucking sick of it. So I did what a Maxim/Spike TV/ Hustler/Man Show/WCW MAN is supposed to do: I shoved him. Because he was touching me and I was drunk and mad. He sputtered like an old woman, I kept walking, it went no further. A half-hour later, when I had sobered up a little, I felt ashamed. I felt lower than a snake’s belly. I had been frustrated and I had lashed out like a child. Like a child.
Last night I helped my friend; I kept her safe. Today, I woke up and I felt proud. I held my head up. I felt like a man. *
If you are reading this, and you would ever take advantage of a drunk girl (or any girl, anytime), then fuck you. A thousand times fuck you. I wish a parade of stiletto heels into your balls. You know better. I hope to God you do, anyway. You have to. Jesus Christ, you have to know in your heart what is right and what is wrong. Don’t you? Please?
So, yeah,I am a gaywad, faggot pussy bitch. What the hell are you?
Let’s wake up. Let’s be men; it’s easy. You’ll feel better, I promise.

*I know this is a bit self-aggrandizing, but my moments of pride are fleeting. Forgive me if I relish them.

News Explained by Comic Covers

2005-06-04T17:27:00.000-05:00

From Superfrankenstein.
The last one is my favorite, and check out the previous installments. Very funny.

What's the deal, Sly?

2005-06-02T23:45:00.000-05:00

According to the Guardian, two of Sylvester Stallone's current projects are a biopic on Edgar Allen Poe (!), and another installment in the Rambo series.
Can it be that Sylvester Stallone is actually complex?

Ladykiller

2005-06-02T23:07:00.000-05:00

Today I was listening to the radio, and the DJ asked for people to call in and talk about the bad relationship they were in (this was a rock station, so I don’t know why they were doing amateur therapy). One girl called in and she was telling her sob story: "Oh he’s really mean to me, and he treats me badly, and he wouldn’t let me live with him when I got kicked out of my apartment, and he makes fun of me, and all my friends and family hate him, but I’m still with him. What can I say? I love him."
Who are these women? Who are these men, more importantly? Every relationship I’ve ever been in I was working like a maniac to not fuck it up. "Oh shit, I forgot to call her, she’s going to be pissed…" "Wait, did I remember to tell her that I loved her?" "Shit, is her birthday celebration spectacular enough?" And so on. And I still always managed to fuck it up! The idea that you could be in a relationship with a woman, physically strike her, and not only will she not leave you but she will still love you, is so alien to me. But it seems to be happening all the time, all around. It’s happening right now. It might be happening to someone reading this. Is it me? If I started treating women like shit would they actually stick around? Would they like me more? (I’m not suggesting I actually do this, I’m just riffing, here.) Or is there a certain type of guy who is so… what? I have no idea. What qualities could a guy have that a woman would stick with him, no matter what? Looks? Money? Oh fuck, I don’t know. Whenever I try and write about society I just end up depressing the hell out of myself.

Going abroad

2005-06-02T21:57:00.000-05:00

(parts one, deux, et trois)

I’ve decided to take a cue from my wife and go travelling. I was going to return home after the attack on my winter estate, but apparently my sister, Berenice, is a tad upset that I killed her husband and has declared her intention to kill me. She’s not very creative so she’s probably sitting in her carriage in front of my home with a shotgun, or some damn thing. Fortunately her servants are quite aged so I have little to fear from them, and she lacks the wit or resources to hire killers. Poor, sweet Berenice, so out of her depth. I am sure she will tire of this farce soon enough and return to her pillows and marionettes.
But where should I go? I have a perverse desire to go somewhere wretchedly cold; maybe it would adequately distract my staff so as to stop their moaning.
Siberia? An eccentric choice, and one the Cabral Society would not foresee. But, as ever, there is my own comfort to worry about. My blasted wife took all the furs with her when she went on tour with that damnable circus troupe and I don’t know of any reliable furriers in my area. I suppose I could have Holtz shoot some woolly beasts, and Cavendish could fashion a decent coat. You’d never know it to look at him but he’s an excellent tailor.
And as for my son, Dennis? I’ve decided I shall invite him to come along. Although I have several bastard sons with my housekeeper Consuela, they have inherited her fiery temperament. I fear I shall lose them all to hot-blooded duels and crimes of passion before they reach manhood. By way of example; when I told Consuela, years ago, that I would not be renouncing my titles or holdings to that we could marry, she reacted by shooting me in the left temple, tying me up in a potato sack and throwing me into the river. The woman weighs a hundred pounds! As she assumed I was dead, the bag had not been tied very tightly, and I was able to escape. When I crawled back onto my grounds I saw that Consuela had set fire to the guesthouse, where we held our various secret rendezvous. Seeing her, backlit from the flames, her hair whipping around her face, screaming obscenities in whatever language she speaks; it was impossible not to forgive her. Fortunately my wife was in Berlin at the time, producing an opera about dinosaurs.
So I have Dennis; whom I am confident will not be doing too much dueling. There is the risk of opium overdose, I suppose, but good God! The amount of premium singing-dynasty opium the lad has ingested already would have killed a horse! That reminds me: I must contact my drug agent, the Honorable Turk, before we go.
And go we shall. I’ve decided. To the icy wastes of Siberia! I doubt all of my staff will survive the journey, but pish and tosh; I’ve pledged to raise the wages of those who live. An empty promise, I assure you.

Postsecret

2005-06-02T20:38:00.000-05:00

Saw this in the NY Times. It's a site where people make postcards confessing various secrets and send them into the site. It's a lot like Found Magazine, but it's more strange and surprising. They range from touching, to funny, to jaw-dropping.

The Days of the Week

2005-06-01T17:58:00.000-05:00

(hear about the other days)

Apparently my son’s name is Dennis. If I had any hand in naming him, I cannot recall why in the world I would have chosen Dennis. I presume my wife, or more likely one of the nannies named him such. It is a dull and stupid name, and I have told him so. He told me that he hates me, which I figured was the case, anyway. I am not concerned about maintaining a good relationship with him, as I have several other sons with Consuela, the head maid. Granted, they are bastards, and cannot ever inherit my holdings, but I see that as a plus.
Anyway, it’s been a busy few days. Whilst dynamite fishing on Sunday night, that idiot Holtz lost three fingers (by which I mean they were blasted off his body, not that he misplaced them). I endured his whining for several hours before I relented, and allowed Cavendish to drive the pitiful cur to town to see a doctor. This took Cavendish away from more important duties, such as burying the servants whom I accidentally beat to death. Cavendish had the gall to tell me that if I was going to keep assigning him to corpse disposal he wanted a raise! I pointed out that I would be more willing to have his bollocks for dinner than give him another goddamned cent. That shut him up, mainly because he knows that is exactly how his predecessor and I parted ways. In fact, I think it was Cavendish who served me the tray.
On Monday, or perhaps it was Tuesday, the Cabral Society caught up with me and my winter estate was attacked by assassins. There was a shootout with my personal guards, which I found so irritating I proceeded to drink several ounces of Absinthe. The next 48 hours are kind of a blur, but when I woke up today the majority of the estate was still standing. Well done, guards! Although I am greatly pleased that I am not dead, my good mood has been soured somewhat by Cavendish molesting me with his complaining. "If you did not want to dismember and bury the dead," I tell him. "You should have not come in to my employ." I sent Holtz to help him, mostly because I was tired of his moaning, too. My son is also alive, but he is still named Dennis, so my joy is muted.

Saturday and Sunday

2005-05-29T16:58:00.000-05:00

(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

2005-05-28T22:08:00.000-05:00

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

Art

2005-05-28T21:12:00.000-05:00

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

Friday night

2005-05-28T17:34:00.000-05:00

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

2005-05-27T15:15:00.000-05:00

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

2005-05-25T15:53:00.000-05:00

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

2005-05-24T16:54:00.000-05:00

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!

2005-05-24T16:32:00.000-05:00

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

2005-05-24T15:21:00.000-05:00

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

2005-05-20T14:25:00.000-05:00

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!"

2005-05-19T13:21:00.000-05:00

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

2005-05-18T12:59:00.000-05:00

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

2005-05-18T12:50:00.000-05:00

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

2005-05-17T13:43:00.000-05:00

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

2005-05-16T15:58:00.000-05:00

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

2005-05-13T17:06:00.000-05:00

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

2005-05-12T16:54:00.000-05:00

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

2005-05-12T15:58:00.000-05:00

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!

2005-05-12T15:54:00.000-05:00

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!

2005-05-11T15:57:00.000-05:00

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

2005-05-09T16:10:00.000-05:00

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...

2005-05-09T15:38:00.000-05:00

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....

2005-05-07T20:31:00.000-05:00

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

2005-05-06T16:51:00.000-05:00

(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...

2005-05-06T16:04:00.000-05:00

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

2005-05-05T15:23:00.000-05:00

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!

2005-05-04T22:42:00.000-05:00

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

2005-05-04T21:36:00.000-05:00

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

2005-05-04T18:35:00.000-05:00

"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

2005-05-01T19:19:00.000-05:00

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

2005-05-01T18:59:00.000-05:00

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.

Crash

2005-04-30T12:02:00.000-05:00

Towards the end of June, 2000, I was walking around with my friends, Jason and Ron. It was a warm, aimless summer night, and Jason idly mentioned that his younger brother had had his high school graduation the night before. At this, we started waxing nostalgic about our own graduation* a few years previous. I don’t know whose idea it was, but someone observed that there was probably a high school graduation going on somewhere in the city, that night. Someone else suggested that we should find one, and crash it.
The idea was absurdly simple; the grad would invariably have lax security, we could breeze in, dance, have bad drinks and take off when we liked. It would basically be a free, fancy party. The idea was bandied around that we should go home and dress up, but it was decided that it would be more fun to try and crash wearing our rat-ass street clothes. As both Ron and myself had recently attended wedding receptions there, the International Inn, out by the airport was suggested. We went out, relatively excited.
We arrived to see a greyhound bus, and scores of well-dressed youngsters, bedecked in corsages. We had found our grad; the trick was then to infiltrate. We were a little surprised to find that adults, teenagers and children were wandering in and out of the banquet hall. Security was not lax; it was nonexistent. So we sat at an empty table, observed the goings-on. While it was kind of a tickle to be crashing, we were crashing a pretty tame family affair. Regardless, we stuck around until around midnight, when suddenly the music stopped, the lights went up and the DJ announced that everyone had to leave the banquet hall.
What the fuck? What kind of grad party ended at midnight? We grabbed some girl and asked her "What the fuck?"
"It’s safe grad," she said.
Huh?
"We all leave the hall, the parents and kids go home, and we have to show our tickets to get back in."
Right. Our tickets.
Sure enough, everyone filed out. The parents and kids left and the graduates all flooded the bathrooms to change from their handsome suits and pretty dresses to skank-ass club gear (I know!). Meanwhile a desk was set up at the entrance to the banquet hall where adult chaperones prepared their materials to presumably check tickets. We were in a jam.
Casually, we sauntered up to the volunteer desk and asked if tickets were really required.
"Yes, or the ticket of the person sponsoring you."
Yes. Our sponsor.
Again, we grabbed some girl (there was a lot of that), and asked if she was sponsoring anyone. No, she wasn’t. Would she… um… sponsor the three of us?
"Sure."
Ha! We were shitting and flying. We passed some time gambling in the hotel’s lounge, and after a suitable while we strolled back to the banquet hall.
It was a madhouse. About two hundred eager graduates were swarmed around a desk with three harried volunteers. This was our chance. We grabbed our "sponsor," and shoved to the front of the throng. Apparently to get into the banquet hall, and be allowed to drink, we would require a wristband and a hand-stamp from the volunteers.
"We need wristbands," we shouted.
"Where are your tickets?"
"Here’s our sponsor."
"You guys aren’t on the list."
"Forget the list, it’s okay."
"Well, you need to be on the list."
"No we don’t, it’s okay."
"How do I know you’re eighteen?""Here, look at our id’s."
"Well… but… you’re not on the list." He was cracking. The crowds were surging all around us. Time was so short!
"It’s okay. Wristbands!"
He snapped under the pressure, slapped plastic on our wrists and stamps on the backs of our hands (except for Ron, for some reason. He didn’t get a hand stamp and thus, couldn’t buy drinks. He was the oldest of the three of us).
So were in. We flashed our wristbands and were welcomed in to the grad party by smiling chaperones. Even now I can say that that was a good feeling. We beat the system.
So we partied. We had bad drinks mixed by chaperones, danced with drunken high school girls; I slaughtered at the fake blackjack table. At one point, I wanted to go and use the bathroom in the hotel lobby, as the bathroom by the banquet hall was packed with pot-smokers. I was stopped by some chaperones and told I had to stay in the banquet area, because of safe grad. Fine.
Fast forward a few hours, around 4 am, I was talking to some boob about something when it hit me like a lightning bolt. Safe grad! They weren’t going to let us leave and drive home whenever we wanted! If our own graduation was any indication, adult volunteers were going to forcibly drive us home, and Ron was parked in the hotel parking lot! Fuck fuck fuck.
I ran out to the dance floor and grabbed Ron. "Ron! This is safe grad! They won’t let us just leave!"
"Fuck!" he said.
We ran over and grabbed Jason. "Jason! Safe grad! Can’t leave!"
"Fuck!" he said.
At this point we noticed that all the exits were covered by two or more chaperones. We were trapped (my suggestion was to rush the doors, which was vetoed. I still think it was the best option). Real casual-like, we went up to one of the volunteers.
"So…um… refresh our memories. What happens at the end of the night?"
"Well, at 7am (!) You get back on the bus that brought you here which takes you back to Oak Park High School, and you go home from there."
Ah. A bit of Winnipeg geography: the neighborhood of Oak Park is a suburb literally at the edge of the city; a long fucking way from where we were, and a longer fucking way from our homes.
We called our friend David, who had a car, and asked him if…um… he wouldn’t mind coming to Oak Park High School at 7 in the morning to pick us up, and drive us back across the city to get Ron’s car. Astonishingly, he agreed, although he needed directions to Oak Park. Uhhhhh. "It’s uhhhh…. Down… Fuck." We asked the chaperone if he could give us directions to the High School, but he couldn’t (despite the fact that his children presumably went to this high school. Apparently the only prerequisite for being a chaperone was being completely useless).
"Could the bus," we asked. "Possibly drop us off somewhere else? Other than Oak Park?"
We would have to ask, he informed us, at the front desk; the nerve center for the chaperone operation.
As casually as possible, we went to the front desk and asked if the bus could drop us off… anywhere other than Oak Park, really.
The head chaperone was stunned by the absurdity of this question. "Of course not," she said. "Once you get back to the school you have to be signed out by your parents."
Ah. Problem. The three of us shared a look, and with our unspoken agreement, Jason tried the direct approach.
"Look," he said. "We don’t go to Oak Park, we don’t have tickets, we don’t have a sponsor, we crashed the party. We want to leave, now."
Her head cocked to one side. "What?"
"We don’t go to Oak Park," he repeated. "We don’t have tickets. We crashed."
"What?"
"Don’t go to Oak Park. No tickets. Crashed."
The chaperone had to sit down. "How did you get in?"
"Doesn’t matter. We bullied past the guy."
"How? It…it can’t be…" The poor dear. We broke her.
More chaperones showed up, and me and Ron told our exciting story a few more times.
"So can we leave?" asked Jason.
"Well, no," said the increasingly hysterical head chaperone. "We’re responsible for you! What if you get in an accident! It would be our fault!"
"That won’t happen, we assure you."
"No! No! You can’t leave! Your parents! Your parents have to sign you out."
This was simply not going to happen. We had reached an age where you could no longer call your parents at 5 in the morning and ask them to bail you out. The possible exception was Ron, whose mother had the kind of lifestyle where she might still be awake at that hour. Ron called her, spoke to her briefly.
"She won’t come," he said.
"Let me talk to her," said one of the chaperones, taking the phone with utmost confidence. "Hello! Yes…I… Uh, yes. No… No, I… uh-huh. Right, yes. Okay. Okay. Yes." He hung up the phone. "She won’t come," he said, defeated. Then he burst into tears (well, maybe not).
At this point we had drawn quite a crowd. We told the story about how we were part-crashers over and over again, such that we got pretty good at it. Ron started telling it in haiku form, while Jason did some exciting things with the chronology of the narrative. The poor head volunteer was curled up in the fetal position on the floor. "No tickets… they don’t have tickets… not on the list." Poor dear. She’s in an institution, now.
Eventually some cops showed up to see what all the commotion was about. Again, we told our story, which, to their credit, they found pretty funny.
"Hey, we’ll sign these guys out and put them in a cab," said one of the cops. Blissfully, this arrangement was agreed to, and we were on our way. The lobby was packed with well-wishing chaperones, who were able, at last, to see the humor of the situation.
The cops put us in a cab and left, hopefully to deal with some actual problem. We argued for a bit over where we should have the cab drop us, when the answer struck us: we had the cab drop us off around the corner. We paid the cabby five bucks, hopped in Ron’s car, and drove home laughing like maniacs. Two days later, I turned twenty years old; this was my send-off to being a teenager.

*Our own graduation was somewhat more banal. Uncharacteristically, even for those days, I didn’t have a drop to drink. Our safe grad involved chaperones driving everyone to their individual houses at 2am. This posed a problem, as everyone then had to find their way to my friend Ron’s party. My parents, also rather uncharacteristically, offered me the use of their car, as long as I didn’t drink. I was true to my word, which was helped by the teachers at my school convincing me that the streets would be swarming with cops on Grad night, who would be searching for drunk teenage drivers. I never saw a single cop car, all night.
In the days leading up to Grad, we figured there would be lots of parties going on, so we decided to just have our own party at Ron’s. As Grad night progressed, we gradually became aware that there were no other parties, and the entire graduating class was coming to Ron’s. We had visions of mayhem, but fortunately everyone was so drained by the long Grad day that it was a very mellow, pleasant party. That was Grad.

Special Message

2005-04-30T10:35:00.000-05:00

(Note to blog readers: Please excuse the following as it is a special message from myself, to myself.)

IDIOT! COFFEE HAS CAFFEINE! DON'T DRINK COFFEE LATE AT NIGHT IF YOU HAVE TO WORK EARLY IN THE MORNING! YOU WON'T BE ABLE TO SLEEP! IDIOT!

(Thank you.)

I'm not a stalker!

2005-04-29T14:19:00.000-05:00

I never get spam email. That kind of bothers me, but I don’t know why. Everyone I know receives buckets of mortgage/porn/penis-enhancement offers, but I never get squat. What gives? My dick is too grand to need enhancement? I assure you, internet, that is not the case. I got a lot of shit going on downstairs. So where’s the offers? Help me out, here.
I always feel slighted when I’m excluded from really ignorant things. For example, my coworkers are always attending work-related focus groups to discuss their jobs, but I’m never invited to these things. Granted, the few times I have gone to them made me want to pull my own head off, but an invitation would be nice.
Also, spam comments. All the other bloggers complain about hordes of morons clogging the comments sections with abusive gibberish. My commenters are universally intelligent, kind and funny. What the fuck? Morons are too good to comment on my blog?
Anyway, last night I walked a friend of mine home. It probably wasn’t necessary, but her neighborhood isn’t the best, and man, if I didn’t walk her home because I was too lazy and something happened to her? I would spend the rest of my life trying to make up for that one. Plus I know it can be spooky for the ladies walking around at night. As I work downtown, and live close to downtown, I often walk through bad neighborhoods late at night. I very consciously try not to freak out any female pedestrians who are sharing the sidewalk with me (there’s a very funny short film called ‘Stalker Guilt Syndrome’ about this very phenomenon. Find it yourself). I try to keep my distance, and walk in a very casual, I’m-not-going-to-assault-you manner. I’m sure it just freaks people out worse.
So as I walk my friend into the lobby of her apartment building, another young lady walks past us and out of the building. I say goodbye to my friend and head out. As I leave, I notice this other girl walking ahead of me, and she gives me this suspicious look over her shoulder. I start thinking "Oh shit, I’m freaking this girl out; I should cross the street or something." But then I start thinking: "Hey! This girl just saw me walk another girl home. Shouldn’t that exclude me from potential-stalker status?" I think so. I still tried to be non-threatening, but I resented it. I mean seriously; as if I would see a girl safely home, then turn around and say, "Okay, let’s assault a stranger, now." I don’t fucking think so! So fuck you, strange girl, and fuck your paranoia. Fucking stalker guilt syndrome.

Wingdings and Things

2005-04-24T11:59:00.000-05:00

Howdy, all. It’s been a few days since I’ve posted, for which I refuse to apologize. I should mention that, as I don’t have the internet in my apartment, everything I post is while I’m at work. This actually goes a long way to explain the frequently bitter and snarky nature of many of these posts.
Regardless, it was a relatively busy few days. On Thursday I went over to a friend’s place where I was subjected to a few hours of reality television. Have you seen that Donald Trump show? What an absurd program! My understanding, correct me if I’m wrong, is that Trump is trying to find an executive to run one of his companies, right? So why the fuck do the candidates have to do these crazy specialized jobs? The episode I saw had them trying to design and market office furniture for Staples. Then, the losing team was chastised for failing: "You’re supposed to be hot shot lawyers, and this is what you come up with?" I don’t know about you, but if I wanted someone to design office furniture, I would go to a … um… designer. Why would they expect lawyers to be able to design timesaving products? Weird show.
Also annoying is the fact that the regular bartender at my local pub is in Scotland for a month, the bastard. As he was a first hand witness to my astonishing capacity to drink, he was pretty supportive about my quitting. So much so, that he would serve me my club sodas for free. Well, he ‘s gone, and the replacement bartender is apparently not aware that I have a disease, and the fucker charges me 2.25 for a club soda. I am going to say that again; 2.25 for a club soda. My regular man even gives me a full-ass pint of club soda for free; this son of a bitch gives me a small-ass glass. For 2.25. Let me put this into context, a rye and coke of the same proportions is 3.25. Apparently you’re mostly paying for the coke. So I call bullshit on the replacement bartender. And you know what? The motherfucker still greets me like a regular! "Hey, man, how’s it going?" It would be going a lot better if you weren’t fucking me on the club-goddamned-soda, you insensitive prick!
Still, the night wasn’t a total wash as a friend of mine came back from Europe, and it was good to see her. Also, I saw these girls, who have downgraded from being merely chilly to me, to ignoring me completely. I won’t say I don’t deserve it, though. I don’t have a lot of amends to make from my drinking days, I wasn’t that kind of drunk, but I do regret the way I treated these girls. And not just because they come to the same bar as me every week.
Later that night I smoked a good deal of the reefer, which I haven’t done in some time. Witness. It felt really good to be fucked up on something, and I realized on Saturday that it’s really escape I’m addicted to. Whether it’s booze, or drugs, or movies, or writing, or whatever. I just want to get out of my own head as much as I can. Booze is just my weapon of choice. So the trick now is to figure out why, oh why, I hate myself so very much*. Unless I can crack that one, I don’t think I’ll ever be happy, without being drunk. The plus side is, if I can figure it out, I can probably go back to drinking, armed with my new self-awareness.
So, #1 on the to-do list: Figure self out. I gots high hopes.

* Maudlin!

More bitching

2005-04-21T17:45:00.000-05:00

So last night was a first for me; I went to a coffee shop. It was perhaps the third time in my life I have willingly set foot in a coffee shop, and the first time I paid for fancy coffee. I got a… oh, shitballs, what was it? A mochacaracci, or something. It had about a pound of whipped cream, cost 4.50, and took me about two minutes to drink. I sat in the coffee shop and edited some writing. Sipping my fancy coffee. I have become that which I hate most *.
I don’t think hanging out in coffee shops will be a suitable replacement for hanging out in bars. The vibe is too different, not dangerous enough. I can’t see any kind of fight breaking out in a coffee shop, or any asshole coming up and harassing me. Nor can I see myself harassing some poor young woman. What’s the point?
Unfortunately, all these little tricks and diversions I set up for myself to avoid drinking just make me want to drink more. It didn’t help that across the street from the coffee shop I was sitting in was a giant, gorgeous new Liquor Mart. It was so bright and shiny, with big neon signs on the outside: "Wine, Spirits, Beer." I could hear them singing to me…
But, I persevered. I guess coffee shops beat hanging out in my apartment, but not by much. At least in my apartment I have my cat, who is like an obnoxious drunk in a lot of ways.
Maybe I could bring the bar vibe to the coffee shop myself! I should just start talking loudly and crudely, and picking a lot of fights.
Goddamn, I’m brilliant; I’ll lick this sumbitch, yet.

*Okay, maybe going into a coffeeshop did not turn me into a violent, child molesting bigot. Not yet, anyway.

I'm Looking at You

2005-04-20T14:41:00.000-05:00

It’s no secret that I’m a big fan of that ‘next blog’ button at the top right. Goddamn, I love that little thing. One click and I’m embroiled in a random stranger’s life. I wish I had something like that in real life.
That being said, there are certain things that cause me to go to the next blog. Let’s call them dealbreakers:

1)Hella. When the fuck did this fucking trend start? Hella? "I will be hella mad if…" Shut the fuck up. Next.

2)Students. I barely cared about my classes when I was a student. I sure don’t care about yours. Oh, you’re sick of studying? Stressed by exams? Good to know. Next.

3)When people label their blogs as "the pointless, stupid, ramblings of an insane, unstable, dull human being, looking for answers in a crazy etc, etc, etc." If it’s so stupid and pointless, why the fuck am I reading it? Next.

4)Spelling. I’m looking at you young people. "WelcoMe to my BloG. U R in Hot ChikZ HeaVEn." I was more coherent when I was drinking. Next.

5)Christians. I’m sorry, it’s great you’re happy with your religion, but you’re too damn chipper and you don’t ask enough hard questions. Makes for dull reading (prove me wrong, Christians! Prove me wrong!). Next.

(Interlude: Am I mistaken, or has this blog devoted to actor/comedian Richard Belzer been active for 15 years? No, right? Because that’s just crazy, right?)

Anyway, in the future maybe I’ll post what I do like about new blogs. At least this blog has no irritating trends, right? Right?

Young and Old

2005-04-18T15:34:00.000-05:00

"The beat-beat of your heart! Love it!"
- Beloved

Well, a busy little weekend. A sad revelation; I don't appear to be able to go to my favorite neighborhood bar without being sent into a spiraling depression. Everyone is just drinking and socializing so much, Lord God but it makes me want to get smashed out of my mind. After I visited there with some friends, I had to walk around downtown alone until about 4 in the morning (downtown Winnipeg at 4 in the morning is very, very grim).
On a brighter note, I went to a show on Saturday and saw an old friend. It was a benefit for a feminist film festival, or something, so they had a number of female DJ's. One of them was this chick I went to high school with. An interesting note: in high school I had a mad, insane, ludicrous, bottomless, devoted, passionate, utterly hopeless crush on her. It was a yakuza-style courtship; without honor or dignity. It was also quite unsuccessful, as she wasn't interested in me in that way. It took me a pathetically long time to figure out that you can't actually make someone like you, which broke my young and fragile heart. Anyway, 8 years later, I was kind of nervous to see her again. Would my heart skip a beat when I saw her? Would all those lonely months of longing come rushing back in a single burst and cause my brain to explode in a massive stroke cause by unrequited teenage love?
No.
She came over to say hi, we chatted, caught up on old times. It was nice. No fireworks, no residual angst; my heart was quite still. What in the hell did I ever see in her? Certainly, she's funny and pretty, and it was good to see her. But why did I lose my mind for this girl all those years ago? I honestly couldn't tell you. I guess she changed, or I changed, or some combination thereof. Or maybe no longer having a teenage heart frantically beating in my chest has something to do with it. That's almost kind of sad, isn't it? Will I ever have that head-first lunatic passion again? Christ, I hope so. If any high school kids are reading this: relish the madness of your youth! You will miss it, I assure you.
Man, maybe that's what I miss about drinking. Not so much the oblivion of drunkenness, but the carefree joy of it. Living from moment to moment, whim to whim, without past or future. You know, I never understood the appeal of skydiving; I guess because I was living my life in freefall. My friend asked me the other day if drinking made me feel happy, I had to admit that it did. The freedom to fall from trees, jump from rivers, to live without pride or dignity, or self-respect, or any self-preservation whatsoever. It was rather liberating. I guess the trick is to find out how to get something approximating that feeling while sober. Haven't cracked that one, yet.
At the other end of the spectrum, I helped my friend move her grandfather from one part of his nursing home to the other. Moving is always such a delight, but where's the challenge? Fortunately, the helpful geriatrics at the nursing home thought they would spice up the move by standing in the middle of the hallways staring at us. Now instead of just worrying about not dropping the heavy wooden old-man furniture, I also got to worry about not stepping on and crippling some octogenarian. Thank you, seniors!

P.S. Ubermilf; in case you missed my comments, get a blog!

Update!

2005-04-17T00:21:00.000-05:00

In my last post, I mentioned this fellow who had set up a fake blog to mock a classmate. Well, he emailed me and told me the whole sordid tale. Apparently his fake blog was set up in retaliation to this fake blog, which was set up to mock the first kid as retaliation for... etc, etc.
By the looks of things this titanic struggle is nearing its end, but none too amicably, so stay tuned.
You know, in my day, we just started nasty rumors about people we didn't like. The internet lets kids today take their high school drama to the world.

Enough about me...

2005-04-15T00:16:00.000-05:00

Blah blah blah. Alcoholism, depression, blah, blah, blah. Enough about me. What are you lovely people up to? Let's find out!
This guy is tracking a "rogue CNN producer," who is apparently supporting the agenda of a foreign government. Neat!
This kid created a fake blog to mock some other kid.
Oy, these kids, today.
This is the Princess from Pluto! About fucking time!

Phew! It's good to know that everyone else is doing okay!
I guess I can go back to being maudlin.

Issues of the Day

2005-04-14T17:51:00.000-05:00

So, I 've been on a bit of a self improvement kick, lately. I've kicked, or rather, I'm in the process of kicking the bottle. To that end, I've considered going to an AA meeting. I emailed my local chapter and they were kind enough to send me a schedule for meetings in my city. My goodness! There are a lot of meetings going on, every day! I had no idea... So, I'm considering going, but I have reservations. On the one hand, this quiz on the AA website was a big eye-opener for me, and helped me recognize my drinking...enthusiasm. In fact, let's go through the quiz together.

Here were my answers:
1) Have you ever decided to stop drinking for a week or so, but only lasted for a couple of days?
Yes, until recently my record was a day, before I'd freak out and buy beer.

2) Do you wish people would mind their own business about your drinking-- stop telling you what to do?
Yes, I have a friend who was always telling me about this guy he knew who drank himself to death. It irritated the shit out of me.

3) Have you ever switched from one kind of drink to another in the hope that this would keep you from getting drunk?
Yes, I started drinking wine. Read this. And this. Didn't work.

4) Have you had to have an eye-opener upon awakening during the past year?
Yes, but I tend to wake up about noon. Does that count?

5) Do you envy people who can drink without getting into trouble?
God, yes, the fucking bastards.

6) Have you had problems connected with drinking during the past year?
Yes. See blog archives for more details.

7) Has your drinking caused trouble at home?
At the time I did this quiz I answered no for this one. I always believed that my drinking never damaged my personal relationships, but since quitting I've learned that that's not the case... So this is a yes.

8) Do you ever try to get "extra" drinks at a party because you do not get enough?
"Wait! After this case of beer, and that case of beer, there's only three cases of beer left!"

9) Do you tell yourself you can stop drinking any time you want to, even though you keep getting drunk when you don't mean to?
Yes. That's all, just 'yes.'

10) Have you missed days of work or school because of drinking?
No, surprisingly. I always dragged my sorry carcass in to the office. Oh, wait, except once, when I was really hung over. Does that count?

11) Do you have "blackouts"?
Christ, yes. It became a day-after ritual to call my friends and ask them if I embarrassed myself or offended anyone the night before. Also, I woke up on the floor, a lot. I think I spent more time sleeping on the floor last year than in my bed.

12) Have you ever felt that your life would be better if you did not drink?
Obviously yes, because here I am.

"Did you answer YES four or more times? If so, you are probably in trouble with alcohol."

So, there's that in their favor. But then there's articles like this: "Drunk Like Me", which makes a pretty convincing case against AA. Should I or shouldn't I? I guess there's no harm in going, but I'm kind of uncomfortable with the whole "relinquishing control of my life to God" thing. I mean, I'm trying to gain control of my life. Why would I just relinquish it?

The other question on the plate is pills. Pills, pills, pills. Pills that fuck with one's already fucked up wiring.
I'm talking about anti-depressants. It's come up in the comments a few times recently, and they've been on my mind for years. I probably need them, but Lord God in heaven above do I hate the thought of them. I mean, I just got away from one kind of self-medication, why should I jump into another? I know people who've tried these things with mixed results, and who've come back with reports of withdrawals when they tried to quit. I've got enough of that shit, already. Also, doctors don't even know how the pills work! Depression is still largely a mystery, but hey! Let's just throw these pills at the problem! They seem to shut the patients up! I don't even like pills, in general. Man, I don't even take tylenol! No way am I going to start taking pills that screw with the way my mind works.
But shit, I could probably use some help. Goddammit. Goddammit, goddammit, goddammit. People never believe me when I say this, but sometimes I wish I was more normal, more average. I see people living their lives, flitting in and out of relatiosnhips, enjoying life. It seems so easy for them. God, how I envy that. What I wouldn't give...
But hey! Fuck it. I am who I am. A titan. A God! A seven-foot tall, tattooed Russian strongman! I am a train, an engine, a locomotive traveling with undeniable momentum into an uncertain future! I am a grain of sand, a snail, a toad, a tiger, a griffon. I am impossible to deny, unforgivable to ignore. I am a giant, I am insignificant. I exist. I never was. In the morning I will sing, in the afternoon, I will weep, and at night I will wither and fade and my petals will drop. In the morning I will sing!
Who needs pills?

Q&A Session

2005-04-13T17:25:00.000-05:00

"Look at how he moves. Why does he move like that? How does he move like that?"
-Jorgen Leth, The Perfect Human

Q: So you were kind of freaking out, before.
A: That’s not a question.

Q: Okay, were you freaking out back there?
A: Most definitely.

Q: Are you still freaking out?
A: Not so much. I think I’m always freaking out a little bit, these days. Right now I am freaking out, but not so emphatically. Not with so many italics.

Q: Should we expect more anxiety-laden posts?
A: I would hazard that yes, yes we should.

Q: That’s kind of a drag…
A: That’s not a question.

Q: So, are you okay, now?
A: Yeah, more or less. Don’t worry about it.

Q: Are you still going to become a recluse?
A: Maybe not. I do still enjoy going to bars, although they do depress me now, a little. Still, if I sit at home, I have a 0% chance of meeting a woman*. If I go out, that jumps up to 5%.

Q: Did you mean all that identity crisis shit?
A: I don’t know, probably. Look, this is kind of a fucked up period. I’m pulling my shit together, but at the moment I’m kind of stripped bare. I’m like a house undergoing renovations. My plaster’s exposed, my floors are ripped up, my wiring’s hanging loose. I just have to keep at it and have faith that the work will get done, and I’ll be myself again.

Q: That’s a really pretentious analogy.
A: Hey, fuck you!

Q: No, fuck you.
A: That’s not a question.

* Well, technically it's not 0%. I mean, there is a chance that an attractive neigbor might knock on my door to borrow a cup of salt, and some playful double entendres might lead to noisy sex. It's possible, but improbable. So, I'll go out.

Hooray for Me

2005-04-11T16:46:00.000-05:00

"Look at him. Look at him, now. And now. Look at him all the time."
- Jorgen Leth, The Perfect Human

Still sober. Starting to regret it.
Why the fuck did I quit drinking? Why did I have to acknowledge my problem? Yes, I was miserable. Yes, I was in a downwards spiral. Yes, I had (have) a disease. Yes. Yes. Yes.
But at least I was drunk.
Now what the fuck am I supposed to do? Where the fuck do I fit? I've been drunk for seven years. For seven years my role has been to be drunk and make wisecracks and eventually fall down a lot. Ha-ha. Life of the party. Now what? Who or what am I supposed to fucking be? I don't have a clue. I can't be the drunk, anymore. That's out. If I start drinking now, everyone I care about would lose a lot of respect for me. That would be no good. I can't be a barfly, anymore, either. I love bars but it's too fucking hard being around all that and not joining in. I don't even know how to socialize sober. I just get so goddamned depressed when I'm hanging out with my friends I can barely lift my fucking head. How the hell am I supposed to do this?
The only thing I can think of is to become a recluse. Shut myself up, draw the shades and write. Just focus everything I have on the fucking writing, and hope everything else sorts itself out. That's the best I got right now.

Return from the Belly of the Machine

2005-04-08T15:18:00.000-05:00

Still sober.
So I went to the club last night; I would say it was a tentative success. After about five minutes I was seriously jonesing for a drink, but I survived. Once again, I felt struck by envy, a serious desire to join in and share everyone else's good time. It's mostly the social aspect of quitting that's gotten me; I miss hanging out with people and getting smashed with them. Despite all the positives, I still feel left out when I go to the bar, I have this nagging sense that there's something I should be doing.
But there were positives; namely I was not struck by my usual blindness after a few hours. There were a lot of pretty girls there! One of them was my friend's coworker; we had a nice, coherent conversation towards the end of the night. Three weeks ago, speaking intelligently (or even intelligibly) would have been far beyond me by 1 am. So, that was nice. Also, I spent 3.00 the entire night, as opposed to my usual 60.00. That's okay, too.
At one point, a friend of mine (very drunk), made kind of an ass of himself in front of some girls by knocking a beer bottle onto one of them, and forgetting the punchline to a joke he was telling. I must admit I was kind of delighted at this; someone was making an ass of themselves, and it wasn't me!

He eats it!

2005-04-07T15:50:00.000-05:00

Courtesy of BA, I bring you Steve, Don't Eat It! A column where Steve eats it, and tells you about it!

"Actually, the little pile inside looked kinda like baked beans. It also smelled kinda like baked beans. If they were baked in the filthy heat of Satan's asshole."

Funny stuff.

Into the Belly of the Machine

2005-04-07T13:55:00.000-05:00

Still Sober.
Well, tonight I head out to a dance-club, my first time sober at such a club since 1999, the last time I attempted to quit drinking (the attempt failed). Should be interesting, I’m trying to stay positive. On the bright side, I’ll e able to avoid what may be the most irritating aspect of going to a club: getting a drink. I can skip the whole process of clawing through a mass of clumsy, belligerent idiots trying to make their way to the bar so they can monopolize the bartenders time by ordering nineteen different fucking shooters, and then lean on the bar blocking everyone else’s access so they can look fucking cool because there is nothing fucking cooler than assholes leaning on a bar oblivious to the crowd surging around them who have obviously forgotten that they are in public and there are other fucking human beings whom they should consider showing the slightest shred of respect for.
I can avoid that, which will be nice.
Tonight will also, most likely, mark the first time ever that I will dance sober. At this point I am not sure how I will react to the storm of asses-and-elbows that is the dancefloor. It could be stressful without the calming influence of booze.
Still, ah got mah fingahs crossed.

Family Films!

2005-04-06T13:52:00.000-05:00

Okay, still sober.
I saw a couple of movies last night. One was Rick, which was written by Daniel Handler. AKA childrens author Lemony Snickets. It wasn't bad but it was pretty much directly based on the opera Rigoletto, so if you're aware of that opera the movie is pretty predictable. I also saw a French movie called Bad Company. Jeeee-sus Christ. It's about this mousy teenage girl who starts dating this brooding bad-boy type. She decides she loves him, and he decides he wants to go live in Jamaica. His plan for raising the money to get there? She should sell blowjobs at 50 francs a pop! Aaaaaaahhhhh! Until they raise 20,000 francs! Aaaaaaahhhhhh! And she agrees! Aaaaaaahhhhhh! I mean, the onion said there was "shocking debasement," but there is "shocking debasement" and there is "shocking debasement," and then there is teenage girls whoring themselves in public toilets for their boyfriends.
All said and done, the movie was surprisingly sensitive, and didn't shirk away from the grisly consequences. It was kind of tough to watch, but I doubt I'll soon forget it.
Oh yeah, spoiler warning. Sorry.

Sobriety: Week One

2005-04-05T15:15:00.000-05:00

Okay, it has been one week since my last drink and I'm still here. People tend to scoff when I tell them how long it's been, but this is literally the longest I've been sober since 2003, if not longer.
So, okay, it hasn't been that bad. I've been out to bars, met new people, attended an improv show; generally activities that would send me scrambling for a bottle, but I handled it. People are still being supportive, which is cool, I don't know why I was expecting resistance. In my experience, sitting in a bar and not drinking generally draws derisive comments, but I guess dropping the "A"* word gets people to back off. I admit, Saturday was kind of a drag because I was hanging out with a lot of people who were drinking heavily, and I felt very envious. Club-goddamned-soda.
It's not intolerable being in a bar and not drinking; it's kind of like being in the office on a sunny day: you would rather be outside, frolicking, but it's not killing you.
Still, on the bright side, I got through the weekend without a) spending 100.0+ dollars, b) injuring myself, c) making an ass of myself in front of women. That's a good thing, right?

* "alcoholic," nimrod.

A New Direction

2005-04-02T15:44:00.000-06:00

I apologize for the hiatus, should anyone give a fuck, but it's been a strange week. As of Tuesday, March 29th, I have quit drinking. It was not an easy decision to make, but I have decided it is necessary, as I am an alcoholic.
I've told several of my friends about this (their reaction? "Good, about time."), and everyone's question is: "What happened?" I guess I'm supposed to have some sort of bottoming-out drunken flameout experience that forces me to quit. It doesn't work that way; I have had many bottom-scraping flameouts in the last few years, and it didn't make me quit. It was a combination of a lot of little factors, mainly a growing distaste with my lifestyle.
When I was young, I was somewhat serious about my inherited Christian faith. When I was 15, a tragedy forced me to question those beliefs for the first time. Faith is a fragile thing; once you start questioning it, it collapses pretty quickly. Alcoholism is kind of similar; once you are aware that you are an addict, that you have a disease, it's hard to ignore it and go back to having a good time.
So here I am, teetotal; sober as a judge. I must say, everyone has been very supportive (even the bartender at my local pub is behind me. Isn't that great?); for some reason I thought people would give me a hard time.
It's only been a few days, but it's been an interesting experience. I've been to a few bars, felt tempted, but didn't drink. I ordered club soda, which is what alcoholics always order in the movies. I understand why: club soda is very unpleasant; it tastes like carbonated salt water. Hence, you tend to sip it slowly, giving you the tactile experience of alcohol. It works. Also, I always thought that booze gave me courage, or at least loosened my inhibitions. Not so; I find I feel more confident sober. Who knew? So as a result of all this, the blog must change as well. Gone are the days of falling down all the time and making an ass of myself. But here are some of the exciting upcoming features at DashBradley.com!

- coherent conversations with women!
- saving 600.0+ dollars a month!
- not falling down!
- less self-loathing!

I, for one, am looking forward to it.

Didn't Suck

2005-03-28T20:11:00.000-06:00

So I saw a movie over the weekend that I thought was the shit (not shit, mind you, the shit). It was called The Girl Next Door, which you may recall is the recent film about the high school kid who falls for a former pornstar. I was never expecting much based on the trailers, and the high-concept, but spurred on by a unusually complimentary onion review, I checked it out. To my great surprise, I loved it.
I know! But the film exists in the grand tradition of the nerdy-guy-who-grows-a-backbone-and-gets-the-girl. Ah yes, films like The Cooler, Once Upon a Time in the Midlands, In July, Mad Dog and Glory; these all hold a rich, warm place in me heart. Could it be related to the fact that I, yes, I am a nerdy guy who possesses a nerdily optimistic view of love? No.
But I found the movie really sweet; I loved the kids and thought they were very sincere. The porn-producer antagonist was great because he was so sympathetic; he really liked the kid.
Now, as usual I tried to share my enthusiasm with those bastards I call my friends, and met with derision and apathy!
"Ah, that movie’s just T&A." "Whatever, it was just okay." "I just saw it for the chick."
What the fuck! How could I be the only person who saw this film as romantic? Even the generally reliable Mr. Ebert came out with a surprisingly nasty review. I think people couldn’t get past the fact that the chick is a pornstar, and hence just not romance material. I don’t know. (That being said, isn’t it weird that whenever there is a "bad boy" in movies he’s always an ex-con or a drug dealer or something, but "bad girls" are always pornstars or prostitutes? So I guess the worst thing women can do is get involved in the adult industry. That’s kind of odd…) Anyway, what the hell’s wrong with you people? I blame the schools, really…
You know, the more I thought about the movie, the more it occurred how classical it was. It was almost like a historical drama, think about it: when we meet the hero he is terrified of damaging his reputation, yet risks it all for love. The heroine fears her tarnished past prevents her from finding a normal life, but loyal love proves her wrong. This is the making of a pretty good samurai movie… except it would probably climax with a big swordfight instead of the prom.

How it is

2005-03-24T16:00:00.000-06:00

So obviously this Red Lake shooting is a terrible tragedy; a lot of people died needlessly (assuming there is such a thing as a needful death), including the shooter, himself.
So now what happens is that everyone is going to clamor to find the reason; why did this happen? How can it be prevented? My response to this is: it can’t. My friend Chuck asks: "is this the kind of shit my future kids will have to look forward to?" Yes, it is. Kids are not safe at school, nor will they ever be. You know what? They’re not safe anywhere. Your home is not safe. You are not safe. There is no such thing as safety. It is a concept used to sell security systems and insurance policies, but it does not actually exist. The guy sitting next to you could be the next office shooter. The kid who serves you at Macdonalds could be planning the next Columbine. There are insane, dangerous people out there. That’s it. That’s reality.
Now we go on that familiar merry-go-round of placing blame; it was the school, the family, the media, rap music, video games, movies, the internet. No. Wrong. That kid was just crazy. We can ban anything and everything you want and people will still be crazy. (Although I might suggest that restricting access to guns might help reduce the body counts of these rampages.) In the next months, scores of angst-ridden depressed teenage boys will be suspended or expelled from school because they exhibit the "warning signs." In reality, these are just depressed teenaged boys.
I don’t know; maybe this caution helps. Maybe some kid will get the help he needs; maybe another shooting will actually be prevented. I doubt that it will ever stop entirely.
Christ, this is a bleak post, but that’s how I feel about it. I have no better solutions to offer, only profound sadness.
Hey, how about this: instead of focussing on the few people who shoot up their schools/offices/whatever, think of all the billions of people who don’t. Let’s hear it for them.

He said what?

2005-03-20T18:56:00.000-06:00

I don't know about you but these kind of sites always tickle the shit out of me: Overheard in New York. Priceless.

Indie Filmmaker Loses Mind

2005-03-19T23:47:00.000-06:00

I've been reading about this British science fiction action movie that was made for 20,000 pounds. It's kind of impressive; apparently it has special effects and stunts and a film score with an actual orchestra (which is good because I fucking hate synthesizer soundtracks). It's called Soul Searcher, and it's about a boy who becomes the new Grim Reaper, which for some reason involves fighting demons. Here's the actual movie site, which has a great diary from the director. It covers like three years of pre-production, production and post-production. He seems like a resourceful, optimistic guy, but he kind of loses it after a few years:

"So, a brief summary. Over the last week, two sessions of back-breaking labour building embankments and then dismantling them again, many hours loading things in and out of hire vans, £250 worth of damage to one such van, and hour upon hour of working in the pouring rain, wind, mud and miscellaneous unpleasantness... and for what? Two shots. TWO FUCKING SHOTS. THIS FILM IS TAKING THE PISS. I HATE IT. I HATE IT I HATE IT I HATE IT I HATE IT I HATE IT."

Here's a link to the Guardian article that brought the film to my attention. After reading the diary, I really want to see it.

This is a Low

2005-03-19T15:33:00.000-06:00

So last night, in the middle of a pub-crawl with a friend I was refused service by a bartender. Refused fucking service because I almost knocked over a bar stool. Can you fucking believe that? What really bakes my potato is that I was in that pub earlier in the day for lunch, and I tipped the same bartender four-fifty on a fifteen dollar cheque. And this is how the motherfucker treats me! That fucking bastard; I have never been refused service in my fucking life. Fuck him and fuck that bar. Fuck this city and everyone in it.
No.
Fuck you, Dash Bradley. That guy was right, you did it again. You screwed yourself over, you dumb fuck!
On the brighter side, I saw a fucking great movie today. It was a German romantic comedy/road movie called "In July." It starred the dude who played Lola's boyfriend in "Run Lola Run" as a teacher who meets a Turkish woman and takes off for Turkey in pursuit of her. Along for the ride is this hippy chick who hasn a crush on him. Needless to say, complications ensue and the pair meet a bunch of nutty characters on the way. What was so wonderful about the movie is how everyone they meet is so eccentric and decent. It was so refreshing to see a movie about nice people being nice to each other. No one is shot, nothing horrible happens; there is one dead body, but there's even a nice story about that. You should see it, it left me feeling completely happy. What a lovely movie.
Unfortunately real life is not quite so lovely. As I was heading to work through the skywalk today, I saw a woman on the street collapse at the exact moment I looked out the window, which was creepy. She was just walking and then crumpled into the arms of the man she was walking with. I considered going to help, but I didn't really have access to the street; I'm not even sure what help I could have provided, anyway. So I just stood there like a dope and watched. What pissed me off was that a lot of people just walked by; they just walked right by this twitching woman! Fortunately a couple of dudes stopped and helped, and they carried her inside. I hope she's okay. Fuck, I should have gone down there; another pair of hands can always help. Damn it, this is the kind of shit that sticks with you.
Oh, this is odd; a couple of days ago a chick on a bar told me that I looked like a seventies rock star, and today a guy on the bus told me I looked like John Lennon. Apparently I've got it.
Going on, that is.

The homeless solution!

2005-03-17T20:06:00.000-06:00

Well, once again my city is making new plans to crack down on homeless people and panhandlers. This time they are planning to employ a special team of "deputies" whose sole function will be to patrol downtown and arrest drunks (which, in theory, bodes poorly for me). This is in response to increasing concern from visitors to downtown about being harassed for money and cigarettes. Technically, this patrol only handles drunks, not panhandlers, but seeing as how most panhandlers are drunks anyway*, the two problems dovetail nicely!
As a public service, I am going to provide some solutions to the homeless problem, as alternatives to the drunk patrol.

1)Zoos- Now, calm down, it may seem grotesque, but think about it. We round up drunks and panhandlers and put them in glass cages. Visitors can, for a small fee, view these fascinating human specimens in safety. Laugh at the drunks cavorting for your amusement, and pitch coins at the panhandlers without fear of reprisal! The homeless get a place to stay, funded by visitor fees, and folks are kept safe from their advances. Oh, and alsp learn about the emotionally crippling situation homeless people find themselves in. That, too.
Solid gold!

2)Forced labor camps- Okay, relax, it may sound harsh and yes, maybe even "fascist," but before we start bandying around the "f" word, consider: homeless people are physically capable of working, they obviously just lack the willpower. Well our… "Friendship camps" will provide them with the "encouragement" and "motivation" they require to complete a full days work. Ho-ho, you’re welcome, homeless people!

3)Summary execution- Okay, now hold it! Hold it! Hear me out. Hear. Me. Out. Yes, granted, I am suggesting we arm the downtown patrol with heavy caliber pistols and provide them the authority to murder human beings without a trial. And yes, we will require some sort of crew to clean up the homeless people’s corpses, which may result in a slight tax increase. But think about it! Our homeless problem will be made to disappear within a few years. Hell, months! After a while, word will get out that our city has a "no-nonsense" (lethal) attitude towards public drunkenness and panhandling, and those hobos will stop-a coming. Within a few years, our city will be homeless- free! Then our downtown patrol can turn to rooting out other "undesirable" characters…

4)Re-education- Okay, I’ll admit this is probably a few years off. But once "behavior modification" (no, not brainwashing) becomes more advanced, the homeless can be trained to fill positions now held by recent immigrants.

5) Dealing with it-Or maybe, you can allow the fact that you are going home to a nice warm bed, and the person who is momentarily inconveniencing you will be sleeping on a fucking grate provide some consolation. Hmmmm?

*and that's a quote from the fucking newspaper

Housing News!

2005-03-17T19:12:00.000-06:00

If you ever wanted to live in a stack of microwaves, here's your chance!
Okay, those are actually kind of cool.

(courtesy of stella d'oro)

Although, it is bad for you...

2005-03-16T21:16:00.000-06:00

Smoke, smoke and smoke. Pretty! Courtesy of the cartoonist.

From the man himself...

2005-03-16T19:32:00.000-06:00

Some of Tom Waits' favorite albums, via the Guardian.

New Kid on the Block

2005-03-16T17:26:00.000-06:00

Draw your attention to my links and you will see a new addition: Chuck. As a fellow late night wage-slave I'm sure he will be driven to post frequently and incoherently. Check him hizzout (I mean, out).

From the Guardian

2005-03-15T21:03:00.000-06:00

"Man who ate friend's brain jailed for life"

"(Bryan) confessed he 'really enjoyed eating Mr Cherry's brain.' "

Dance! Dance! Dance!

2005-03-13T18:50:00.000-06:00

Hmm, some troubling incidents last night. First we went down to the neighborhood pub (which is under new management, by the way, so they now actually stock alcohol! Before it was like the Cheese Shop sketch from Monty Python: "Scotch?" "No." "Whiskey?" "Maybe next time." "Gin?" "Oh, we just ran out."), to meet some friends for drinks. Now the dude we were meeting was a bit younger than us, and although a good guy, has a tendency to get a bit excited when he drinks. Now, also, he recently got a new girlfriend, which he is also very excited about. We met her for the first time last night, introductions all around; she seemed very nice. A little later, she was up at the bar and our boy leaned in for a word. He asked what we thought of her, and we said that we liked her. He asked if we thought she was good-looking, and we said that, yes, she was quite attractive. "Wait," he says. "Let me get her to take her jacket off so you guys can get a better look at her." He started to stagger to his feet and my friends, probably for the best, stopped him and advised him that, perhaps, she might not appreciate being made to strip for his friends (my friends stopped him. I actually just sat back and waited to see what would happen. I’m a prick, I know).
Anyway, later on we took the unusual step of actually leaving the pub to go somewhere else. I know! We went to a party being held at the house of a friend of a friend of an acquaintance of a friend. Actually it was these guys. The term "sausage fest"* could accurately be used here to describe the party, as there were about twenty men and about two girls (the female population doubled briefly when two girls came, accurately sized up the situation and left after about ten minutes). We showed up late, so everyone was already pretty drunk; at one point one especially drunken fellow got it in his head that he should start dancing. So he starts doing this ridiculous break dancing and a circle forms and everyone eggs him on while laughing and pointing. It might sound funny, but really it was just kind of malicious, and made me feel sort of creepy. Aren’t these people friends? Although I will, apparently, sit idly by while someone commits relationship suicide, I’d like to think I would not actually encourage them. Afterwards, everyone was trying to get him to dance again and making a big deal about it.
We left shortly after that, and went back to the warm bosom of our pub, just in time for last call. You could say that I’m a creature of habit, seeing as how I always hang out in the same bar and have had the same circle of friends since I was fifteen. But whenever I leave the bar and try to meet new people, look at the shit I have to put up with!

Note: We all later agreed that it would, in fact, have been very funny if we let out friend try to get his girlfriends jacket off.

*Other applicable terms: "cock convention," "testicle engagement," or "penis gathering."

The beginning of the end

2005-03-13T17:28:00.000-06:00

In every science fiction movie containing robots, the robots inevitably rebel and try to destroy humanity. Oh sure, we dismiss it as ridiculous; why would we ever build intelligent robots with the capacity to kill us?
Look at this.
What the fuck are these people thinking? Oh sure, it's so cute to have a robot playing the trumpet, but it won't be that cute when it's signaling the robot revolt! And I wonder what "natural" expression will be on Actroid's face when she's throttling you with her lifelike hands! And those garbage robots will be of great use when the robots need to clear all the dead fucking bodies out of the streets! This is it, people, this is the end times and I'm the only one who sees it!
So if you happen to be at the World Expo in Japan this year, look for me; I'll be the naked guy* with the shotgun saving your child's fucking life!
Sic semper... robotus(?)!

*Think about it.

Cartoons!

2005-03-13T17:05:00.000-06:00

If you haven't already, do yourself a favor and check out the cartoons link in my list. This guy, Nicholas Gurewitch, posts a new cartoon every sunday; check out his latest, "Refridgeron and Magnimous." Just too funny.
And he's younger than me! Fuck!

Fleep

2005-03-12T16:49:00.000-06:00

Once again, I am stealing a link from Incoming Signals, but this comic strip is simply too brilliant not to share with everyone I know. It's strange, and kind of funny, and shocking and sort of moving, and it takes place entirely in a phone booth. It was created by a man named Jason Shiga, who deserves our gratitude and the gratitude of our ancestors.

Why was I not informed of this?

2005-03-12T14:50:00.000-06:00

Did you know that Bill Cosby and Sidney Poitier did a number of comedies together in the 70's? And that Mr. Poitier directed them? It's true, motherfucker.
And you know what? They're pretty good, too. Oh sure, there's certainly some novelty value. It's just surreal seeing Bill Cosby playing a streetwise regular joe; in "Uptown Saturday Night" you see him drinking, gambling, starting barfights, in "A Piece of the Action" he plays a cat-burglar and in "Let's Do it Again" he fixes a boxing match so he can bet on it. My goodness, Dr. Huxtable. Also, "Let's Do it Again" features Jimmy "J.J." Walker playing a boxer (!), and "Uptown..." has a scene where (Academy Award Winner) Sidney Poitier is clinging to the roof of a speeding car containing gangsters (one of whom is dressed in drag), and he's smashing the windows of the car with a hammer; that's worth the price of admission, right there.
So, yeah, there is some novelty element, but Sidney Poitier has a real eye for directing comedy. The movie's aren't drop dead hilarious but there are a couple of big laughs. "A Piece of the Action," which has Poitier's con-man blackmailed into teaching a class of inner-city kids, is even kind of touching. The two stars have definite chemistry, plus, Curtis Mayfield did the soundtrack for two of the films. Surprisingly good stuff, all around.

Sing you pricks!

2005-03-11T19:29:00.000-06:00

Bust this. The The Malleus Maleficarum, a well-regarded guidebook to witchcraft, used in the 15th century. Repent!
(link brazenly stolen from Incoming Signals, a most excellent site)

The usual suspects

2005-03-10T13:43:00.000-06:00

Exciting times, here at work, as there appears to be a crimewave in progress.
Item! A few weeks ago a co-worker forgot her backpack in the staff lounge overnight. When she retrieved it the next day, a large amount of money within had been stolen! Item! Money collected for the Daffodil Days charity (?) was apparently stolen! Item! Last night a co-worker told me that she left her wallet in her coat, in the closet, and it, too, was stolen!
I find this all very surprising; I mean, yes, these people were obviously a bit negligent in leaving their valuables lying around, but I mean, this is an office. It’s not as if we’re all minimum-wage-earning teenagers or anything. The employees at my job are very well-paid, and most are in their mid to late twenties, if not older. And among the younger folk, the majority are students. That’s not exactly a prime demographic for stealing wallets from coatrooms, in my experience. So, who?
Suspect 1: Junkies. Yes, junkies. One of my hapless co-workers is hooked on smack, and his paycheck does not cover his habit. Fact! Junkies often require large amounts of money to purchase their "junk." Suspect!
Suspect 2: Cheaters. Yes, one, or more, of my co-workers are having an affair and requires quick cash to a) hop a plane to Mexico, or b) procure an abortion. I’ll admit the second bit is unlikely, as I’m pretty sure abortions are covered by health insurance (I live in Canada). Maybe the person in need of the procedure is an illegal immigrant, and thus, not covered by healthcare (is that true? Are illegal immigrants covered? I have no idea). Hence, our thief has to steal to pay the drunken, disgraced back-alley doctor to perform the procedure. Fact! Drunken back-alley doctors don’t take credit cards!
Suspect 3: Kleptomaniacs. This is kind of a convenient excuse, as I understand people who actually suffer from kleptomania steal random items, regardless of their value, whereas our thief seems to only "compulsively" steal large sums of cash. Whatever, try your luck with the jury, klepto Joe.
Suspect 4: Good Samaritans with brain injuries. Some addle-brained well- intentioned soul saw that money had been left carelessly about, took it for safekeeping and then promptly forgot about it. Presumably, when they found a wad of cash in their pockets, they assumed they had won it in a game of chance. Admittedly, this scenario is a little more troubling in the case of the wallet, as even with a brain injury it would be hard to rationalise someone else’s wallet in your pocket. Try that one with the judge, Memento-boy.
Suspect 5: Aliens. Yes, what we call "reality" is actually an elaborate alien experiment! These "thefts" are actually attempts by the alien to analyse our reactions to… missing cash. Okay, maybe not.
Suspect 6: Me! Under stress, my mind has snapped, creating a malicious second personality that is trying to destroy me by implicating me in these thefts! Good Christ, what am I going to do?
Suspect 7: Asshole co-worker. Self-explanatory.