A fresh notebook for an old story. A boy with a want he can't trade for accomplishment. I sit here waiting for my $5 lunch on this $2 day before heading back to my $30 workday.
This table wobbles making my words shake more than usual. The three girls, or women, beside me talk more politely than their teeth on fork eating. I think this may just be it.
This is based on a true story, I swear.
So there's this guy, let's call him Eric. He's driving through downtown Guelph during the monsoon we had Tuesday. He spots a woman, no a lady. He spots a lady in her forties standing on the curb with her thumb out. Eric, being a human of the variety we refer to a 'nice', offers this lady and her soaked ass a ride.
Once inside the car Eric asks her where she's headed. I imagine he said something like this,
"Hey there sunshine, where you headed all soaked to the skin like that?"
Okay fine, probably more like this,
"Where can I drop you off?"
"You can give me twenty bucks and I'll give you the best bj in town."
"uh, I don't have any money on me and I don't want anything from you. Can I take you somewhere? Somewhere you can get dry?"
At this point the conversation takes an sharp emotional turn and Eric's new lady friend begins to release a steady stream of water droplets from her eye sockets. (oh uh, clearly that sentence indicates I'm reading too much Vonnegut of late) (uh oh, and that last bracket sentence deal indicates I'm some sort of pretentious book nerd) She composes herself and clearly explains that she really just needs the money.
I'm not sure what her point was in saying that. I suppose she just wanted Eric to know that she didn't actually need to satisfy him in a carnal sense. Pretty sneaky, her real goal was the money the whole time. Eric responds,
"You little witch. You don't even care about me do you? You're not even interested in giving me a bj. Why do I always find myself in relationships with women who are only after my wealth? Get out of my car right this moment. I can't even talk to you right now."
Okay fine, that was his response in the pretend world I call my reality. Back in the "real" world Eric said no deal. With their budding relationship in tatters she gets out of the car while mumbling,
"Fucking city, nobody has any money."
I keep meaning to talk to my boss's boss at work. I've been contemplating applying for this manager gig we're hiring for. I don't really want the job so much as I need to increase the dollar amount on my paycheque. I've done too good a job of not working for the dollar amount on my cheque. I need a better balance between being a money grubbing ladder climber and some sort of hippie 'pay me what you can' ideal.
Apologies to all you bots and spiders, it's been a "dry gulch" around here of late. I've been trying to figure out my life and the role you aren't playing in it. Sorry, it's not your fault.
Based on some proding I'm contemplating printing a small run of fbs shirts. If you're interested, email me and let me know which picture you feel best captures the high ideals espoused at this shit show. Remove the word "REMOVE" from that email address if you want me to actually get your email. I love you, I miss you, we'll be together again soon.
I could use a long hike, walk, something outside. I'm eating left-over stir fry in the company lunch area. I pick a hair out of my food. Four women bumble and stumble through gossip at the table in front of me. I alone occupy my gray table for four. My three black plastic chair companions bore themselves.
I'm on the verge and need to finish. Someone just buy our condo and we'll be off.
I'll have to go out to Starbucks, not for the coffee but for the outside world. Should we become accustom to this? The three of them lean in, whisper, giggle and lean back. They wonder about me. What's he writing? What department is he in? Is he doing work? Melanie asked him what he was writing but he never really answered. We should steal his notebook. Take a peek.
"Dawson's Creek, Lord of the Rings."
It's quiet now, the chattering ladies have disappeared back into the gray maze. I won't see them again today.
He's a tad unsocial isn't he? Well he always sits alone, reading or writing. I don't know, he's pleasant enough when I've talked to him. Ya, he can be almost chatty with me. His wife's a photographer. I may get her to do some portraits of the kids.
Really? A photographer? And the unsocial husband is a practicing recluse?
I've had cable for two days now and I'm ready to ditch it. It's useless. Sure it's only $30 a month but that means I'm paying $360 a year to get the same 8 networks I got before but on 130 different channels. How many channels do I really need to watch Global on?
"Turn it to global for the end of the news."
"6, 108, 130, 145, or 345?"
We haven't had cable television in over three years, since they turned off the free cable we had when we moved in. Well I'm proud to say I'm in the club. Go ahead and welcome me. I feel so connected, so alive. Go ahead, ask me about the latest episode of 24, base all our conversations and communications on Simpson's episodes, I'm on it, I'm there, I'm in the club. It's good to belong.
I'm sure it was more than that but I liked, and picked up on, that. We find the messages and lessons we're after. Frodo and the boys returned home, fresh from saving middle earth, to find things a bit different then they'd left them. The quick and dirty of it is that modern civilization and industrialization moved in and displaced respect and cohabitation along with the general goodwill towards each other.
Trees had been ripped up, social gathering magnets like the Inn's were closed, obscure rules had replaced common sense and were enforced by a new policed state. Frodo didn't waste any time putting it all back to the way it was. Or was it his buddies?
It gets me thinking about common sense, more importantly our sometimes lack of it. We have, over the course of a few centuries and decades, replaced our need for common sense with rules. There's no need to exercise common sense when you've got a rule book in your pocket to take care of that for you.
So, more and more, we have generations of people growing up without ever having to use that skill we call common sense. It's the old quandry, can we have a world of people with common sense when they've never exercised it? Can you raise a responsible child by handling all responsibility for them? Can you mentor a sound decision maker by making decisions for them? Is it possible there's a link between our abandonment of common sense and, I don't know, say a rise in crime?
Looks like I'm running for office again...
I woke up this morning at the age of 32, or maybe it's 33, with a wife and two children and realized time travel is a reality. It just takes patience.
Some lessons Bit taught me about a year ago during our text messaging session:
My new job blows. I can hardly write anymore and it's because of my crappy job. I have to be somewhat creative, don't have a boss, fictional deadlines, made up HR policies, and I work with people I admire and like.
I don't think I'll ever learn to write with a job like this. I need something that offers more angst, a boss I hate, crappy made-up time filler tasks. Stuff that makes me hate everything about this planet so I can't wait to get home to my family only to retreat into a notebook and bitch about it all.
I tumbled slowly down my street yesterday to buy some cream for an espresso bubbling on the stove. I returned to find the chooch and pumpkin on the kitchen floor, mommy nowhere to be found. Pumpkin, all of one year old by the way, was holding an opened package of breakfast sausages in one hand, her other hand elbow deep in the package. The chooch looked up at me with his hockey helmet and explained "I jus give dat to pumpers".
"What? What the hell's going on here? Pump's, give me that" as I snatched the meat package from her hand. Clenched in the other fist was a full raw breakfast sausage. I literally wrenched the sausage from her fist which she obliterated in the process, squeezing sausage innards over her hand.
Having averted one tragedy, I turned my attention to washing the raw meat off my one year olds hands.
"I jus give dat sausage to pumpers daddy" added the chooch to further explain the breakfast chaos.
"It's okay buddy but we have to cook the animals before we take our place in the foodchain. Hey, what the hell is that?" Having actually looked at the chooch I finally noticed the half eaten raw sausage in his hand.
"Where's the other half of that? Did you eat that?"
"No, I didit."
"Did you eat it? Where is it?"
"What's happening?" asked mom as she returned from whatever guilty pleasures kept her from her carnivorous brood.
"They're eating raw sausages."
Upon further inspection we discovered the other half of the chooch's sausage in the package so my children have yet to taste the heady bliss of raw pork.
The chooch now wanders around the house fiddling with a couple of cars or little skateboards in his hands while muttering to himself "god is great, god is great, god is great, god is great". Sometimes he finishes off with an "amen".
I have no intention of contradicting anything the chooch has said there because, assuming you believe he, she, or it exists, how can you argue that god isn't great. Either way I don't really feel like getting into an argument with the chooch over whether the sparkling one exists or is fantabulous. What I'm really curious about is where the hell he came up with that?
What's tinted with shades of red and whispers sounds in your ear mixed with caramel and butter yet smells like magic?
Yes daddy, mister Nathan Coles. The outfit's new CD is hitting the yellow asphalt this very day.
Please, just go buy 10 copies. Oh, and for every copy of the CD you purchase you get to read one useless entry on this site free of charge. How you like me now?
If you live on the east coast, go see a show next week. If you're in the GDot, we'll see you on the 26th.
Digital camera's suck, the film takes so long to process.
"Great News From Your Alma Mater"
Those were the words on the envelope, italized to incite me to action. Once I figured out who this Alma Mater chick was my excitement dropped to it's knees and moped around with the brown lettuce. I had an idea what this great news was all about.
"Hi, I'm calling from the University of Guelph how are you doing today?"
"Great, we have some exciting projects going on here, can you give us your money?"
"What money? Do you have my record open in front of you?"
"And what does it say there in reference to the remaining balance on my student loans?"
"We don't have that information."
"Well I'd be quite happy to share that with you, I still owe a bank $7,000 for the last time I got all shit-faced and woke up in university. Would you mind adding a note to my record clearly stating that I won't be able to donate any money to you until I'm debt free, which by my calculations should nicely coincide with my hundred and eighty fifth birthday."
"Thanks for your time."
"Not a problem."
"We're moving all outside access to retinal scans."
"What? Are you serious? They do that?"
"Ah yes, the technologies are readily available these days."
"Sure, but it seems messy."
"Cripes, it seems intrusive, messy, not to mention a little painful."
"Everytime I enter the building I have to get a rectal scan?"
"Rectal? Eww, not rectal, retinal scan dumb ass. Eyeballs not assholes."
"Oh right, that makes sense. Seriously though, a rectal scan may work better. It's certainly more of a deterrent to entering the building."
I was recently contemplating what my life would be like without my wife and our two kids. Here's what I came up with:
"I need a fucking drink. Oh my fuck, we're out of beer, we're out of booze, there is no we, I'm out of booze."
After that I can only assume I'd begin frequenting an endless series of establishments in a painful odyssey ending only when my liver, out of sheer exhaustion, crawls out of my body to find a simple death.
I should really be working for Hallmark with this material. This could be an above average anniversary card.
When I was a very young child, young enough not to remember but old enough to be relieving myself in porcelain bowls as opposed to my own pants, my parents made a decision. They choose a rather invasive operation meant only for my own good. It really had nothing to do with their future or the quality of the separate nursing homes they will soon find themselves lounging in.
The surgery, as finally explained to me by my father as I entered my thirties, was surprisingly simple. A two inch square section of my back scalp was cut and peeled back, not unlike a misplaced mini facelift. Some human cable contained within, my father lacking the medical training or the stomach to watch all that closely or recount accurate details, was severed only to be reattached with a small shinny piece of metal now connecting the loose ends of the cable. From that day forward, whatever fluids, signals or messages were being transmitted along that cable would pass through that metal connector no larger than those coloured fennel seeds they keep in a bowl at the exit of Indian restaurants.
While everything was returned to it's rightful place I still, to this day, have an unexplainable bump on the back left side of my noggin where this handy work took place. The shinny piece of metal would be difficult to find today as it was quickly engulfed and swallowed up by my own living tissue. That tiny shinny piece of metal had three miniscule words neatly engraved on it. Those three words were:
"just work everyday"
I have to get back to work.
The people in here are always talking. They use words like java, transactions, developers, code base, acquiring. Why can't we talk to each other? I'm bored of writing about boredom.
Maybe my world has become boring? Why can't I write something fun, something big, bold, and full of red meat, giggles and screams?
I'm on the edge of a decision. I'm thinking of stepping out of the writing closet. I'm thinking of putting some cobbled ramblings on the internet. I'm too lazy to chase around rejection letters or learn what a real story smells like.
"So what do you do?"
"I'm a publisher."
I'm scared of something, just not sure what. Maybe I just don't want to offer a clearer picture of myself? Maybe I'm scared of stumbling in on a conversation:
"No seriously, he put them on the internet."
"And they're really that bad?"
"Well not bad, more funny bad."
I could make that my goal, to entertain people with the low quality of my writing. I should write about green warriors, tall ships, low swampy lakes, a pushy but loving neighbour, that party last Friday. Writing topics are easy to find when you're not looking for them but the good topics only arrive when you stop digging in the closet.