Malice Blackheart: The Ghost/Writer

Seinfeld Moment

2010-08-22T14:12:00.001-04:00

Okay, so I had to relate this to someone. I can’t tell whether is really funny or just embarrassing.

Last night I went to a club with the express intention of meeting a woman I’ve known about for months, but never spoken to or met. I had heard she might be going to this metal show, (and for the record, I’m not a big fan of the music – it’s just noise to me), so I went in the off chance I could finally meet her. So that alone is embarrassing enough. We have a number of common friends, but we’ve never met. I just happen to think she’s reasonably attractive and has all kinds of things in common with me. Anyway, this entry isn’t really about her, because she wasn’t there. Evidently, she didn’t think the cover charge was worth it.

I did though, and I met another friend of the groups’ instead, a makeup artist in the movies. I can’t call her Makeup Girl since I used that name already two years ago, but for now I think it’s fitting enough to call her Mulva.

See, throughout the night, it was clear that we liked each other, and that we didn’t like the music, so we tried to get as far from the stage as possible. There were some nice couches by the back. We figured out that we’d even worked with the same people in the industry, when I mentioned an ancient makeup artist with a little yappy dog that used to make my life difficult. She was like “Oh, you know MJ! I hate her!”

So we left the club together and I drove her home. We knew it was a bad idea to go up to her apartment, but she didn’t want to leave the car. So we made out in the car for the better part of an hour. When she finally left, the entire car was fogged up. I wasn’t aware this was possible in the middle of summer. Well, I suppose it’s the end of summer now…

We made tentative plans to do something today, like maybe dog walk together. She hasn’t called yet though. Maybe it’s the rain. Or maybe she won’t call. The more they don’t call, I find, the less I care. When she put my name into her phone, she spelled it right the first time and everything. Even my ridiculous last name.

Here’s the embarrassing part though. I can’t for the life of me remember her name. Ever during that hour in the car, I was thinking, I don’t know this woman’s name. So if she does call, which doesn’t seem likely, and asks if I know who she is, I’ll say “Mulva?”

Stupid Arguments that Irk Me #1: Smoking Does Not Cause Cancer

2010-07-20T13:47:00.002-04:00

Every now and again I am met with an argument that is so profoundly stupid, yet clung to by the arguer with such fervent devotion, that I lose my temper and refuse to speak with the arguer any further. Usually, this is after I’ve given them the chance to scrutinize their own logical fallacies, after which they once again repeat their stupid argument, as if it were I who did not understand. The champion of these arguments is of course, the existence of god in the absence of anything that proves otherwise, but as I bored of that one long ago, I will instead begin with a rather pig-headed argument I was accosted by last night, involving smoking and cancer.

I was at Social Girl’s home, you see, with her roommate and our friends, Muscles and Wheels. Muscles, (who is skinny as a twig – I can’t take credit for the ironic name – that honor belongs to Social Girl), argued against someone’s (?) assertion that smoking is linked with cancer, something I had hitherto expected could be accepted as fact, was wrong. Muscles argued that smoking cigarettes did not cause cancer, because if it did, smoking one cigarette would cause cancer. “That’s what causation means. Look it up in a dictionary,” he said, which is about when I lost my temper. While I agreed with him that causation did not equal correlation, the only decent rational point he made all night, I could not concede that the rest of what he had to say was anything less than the baldest of bullshit.

So I gave up on the argument in favour of playing some Sega Genesis and Super Nintendo instead, but I mulled it over in my mind, and drafted a proper response, which isn’t necessarily meant for him to read, but a means of sorting my thoughts out properly into words. The result is as follows.

Your argument contains two logical fallacies. The first is your assertion that something is not true, simply because the negative cannot be proven to be false. For instance, you cannot go claiming that there is no god, much to my chagrin, simply because we cannot prove that there is one. There may be no reason to prove that he exists, but that’s as far as you can go.

In the case of smoking, I will grant that we cannot prove the exact mechanism that leads to cancer, and thus, the most compelling evidence that we have at present are studies and statistics. While these studies do not prove causation, they do prove correlation, which is reason enough to examine further before we can confirm the positive. However, to say that this therefore proves the negative is just stupid. It is just as stupid as a priest saying that because I can’t prove that god does not exist, he therefore does, or that I cannot prove how the universe came to be, and that therefore the existing stupid theory is better than no theory.

Allow me to illustrate your fallacy with another analogy. For years, patients were dying on operating tables because of something invisible that we cannot see. We did know what was killing roughly half of our patients, but we theorized that something was indeed causing it, and we found later that proper sterilization of instruments and wounds reduced the number of these deaths to these invisible killers drastically. We call these invisible little monsters “germs” now, and even though we didn’t know then what we know now, we were not wrong in thinking they were killing our patients. They were indeed causing deaths. Just because we didn’t know how or why our patients were dying, didn’t mean that they weren’t. Lack of knowledge of fact does not equal lack of fact.

Your second logical fallacy is your assertion that, if smoking causes cancer, (and again, I think it is a well-known and well-documented fact that it does, but we can leave that for now), one cigarette would cause cancer. That is like saying that a minor laceration to your face will kill you, regardless of size, severity or number. If I cut you in the face, and then left you alone, it would heal, and you would be fine. You would be marred, but fine. If I keep cutting you, however, you will eventually die from your injuries. It is like the proverbial straw breaking the camel’s back. One straw will probably go completely unnoticed, but if you keep piling on straw, at a certain point, you will pile on the last straw, and kill your camel. An excess of something causing death does not equal the mere presence of something causing death. The name for this fallacy, which you’ve made twice in your argument, is “equivocation.” You can look that up on your own time.

So, I’m sorry Muscles, (well, no I’m not – you’re wrong, and I’m trying to help you out so that you don’t keep saying this and sounding so stupid in future, and more importantly, annoying me), but your argument is flawed, and you are wrong.

And that concludes my first rant, about stupid arguments.

Misery Date

2010-07-14T10:47:00.002-04:00

My first mistake was nicknaming her “Princess.” She told me that she refuses to get her license, and that when she gets her man, he’ll drive her around like a princess. So as a joke, I started calling her “Princess.” I was going to call her “Princess” on the blog too, but “Misery” took the win. In numerous consequent e-mails, she told me that she loves being called princess, and that it makes her feel special. This was the first sign that I was in real trouble.

By the time she started e-mailing five times between replies, I’d already asked her out. I figure it’s better to just ask women out right away rather than to develop feelings for lines of text. This didn’t stop her from building everything up into monumental proportions, telling me how nervous she was, how much she was looking forward to it, and how I was the nicest guy to grace this green earth. Me! Anyone who actually knows me, knows I’m actually kind of a jerk. She actually told me that I was going to be her “whole new world.” I guess she’s a Little Mermaid fan.

I arrived ten minutes early because, after all, I wouldn’t want to keep my princess waiting. I ordered a mango bubble milk, (yes, I like sissy drinks), sat down, and waited. By 3:00, I started thinking I’d been stood up, which was a surprise, given that she says she looked at several maps and bus schedules so that she could get there early. It was that very minute that I realized I was actually relieved, and quite happy to just sit there by myself enjoying my bubble milk.

At 3:01, Misery showed up. I made sure to sit near the front, so I could get a good look at the people coming in. I always do this on first dates. It gives me an edge. But this was a double-edged date.

I only had the one very obscured photograph to go on, and even from that, I could tell she wouldn’t be terribly attractive, but I’m all for giving everyone a chance. But I did not predict the creature I saw before me.

To describe her as looking like a shaved gorilla in an oversized moo-moo, would be an understatement. The scowl on her face, I can only describe as that of an ogre. I mean she was like a frowning, pink Shrek! And she hunched as she walked, and she lurched furtively back and forth, her eyes scanning through the restaurant and then back into the street, as if she was expecting the police to bust her for crack possession.

And I was mere feet away from her.

“Fuck me,” I muttered to myself, going back to my bubble milk, trying to act natural.

And then she was gone.

I looked back towards the glass door. No Misery.

“Well maybe it wasn’t her,” I lied, to myself. I hoped it wasn’t her, but deep down, I knew that it was.

Five minutes later, she was back, and the pattern repeated, and it was at this moment that I realized she was literally so crazy that it never occurred to her to step inside the building. I thought of helping her out and stepping outside to invite her in, but I mean, come on! What is she, a vampire? I decided that this was the final IQ test. If she can’t figure out that all she has to do is come inside, she fails.

So she left again, and five minutes later, she was back. Same furtive, nervous movement, and then she was gone again.

When she returned for a forth time, five minutes later, I knew I was done there. I waited for her to leave, paid for my drink, and left.

When I got outside, I looked around carefully to see if I could spot her. I checked all the bus stops. No Misery. Like a banshee, she was gone.

When I recounted this story to my sister, she called me on it.

“And then she was gone,” I said to her. “She was like a banshee.”

“You used three different animal terms to describe this woman.”

“A banshee is not an animal.”

“Well, mythical creatures then.”

“Fair enough. But you know, I think she must have been some kind of mythical creature, because she moved much more quickly than you might expect, given her physique.”

I had given up on trying to find her and was on my way home, when we passed each other on the street. Much to my amazement, she did not recognize me. In fact, she made no eye contact with anyone. (It was really crowded.) I thought one last time that I might say something to her, but then I realized I’d just been given a get out of jail free card.

Or so I thought, until I got home.

Cornball Justice

2010-07-10T14:46:00.004-04:00

I’m sure you’ve heard that justice is blind. Well, apparently, it’s also stupid.

Today, I want to talk about the trial of a man who was sentenced to life in prison for a crime that he didn’t commit. I’m sure you’ve all heard these kinds of stories before, and no I’m not directly involved in this affair, but I’ve taken a special interest in this particular case since I first heard about it five years ago, mainly because of how badly the whole case reeked of police corruption. You can read the article here, in the Cornwall Standard Freeholder:

http://www.standard-freeholder.com/ArticleDisplay.aspx?e=2662223

The first thing you should all note is that this entire case is based entirely on the testimony of one lying psychopath named Roger Belair, infamous for being “one of Cornwall’s worst criminals.” The police knew that he is a pathological liar, having constantly lied to them about literally everything in this case, changing his story several times, and having being caught in a lie about not having attempted to murder his accomplice, Andy Paul. (Belair shot Paul in the head, leaving him with a slew of health problems, including “permanent hearing loss, loss of equilibrium, migraines and brain fluid leakages.”)

The police had ample evidence that Belair and Paul were present at both crime scenes. (The first is the double homicide of the Benedicts. The second is the attempted murder of Paul, whose blood was understandably at the scene.) There is no evidence that any other person, (other than the two victims of course), had ever been there. So the question is: Why did two other men get charged with the murders?

The first accused man, Jason Maestrello, was sentenced yesterday to a minimum of 25 years in prison. The second, Michael Boyle, will stand trial in September. I’m hoping that his trial goes better than Maestrello’s, but also bear in mind that these two men have already been incarcerated five years, with no concrete evidence to justify keeping them there. The police lied (yes, LIED) about having DNA evidence placing them at the crime scenes, which they were never able to produce. I’m trying to imagine why in the world the police would WANT to lie about something like this, and I can’t. They would have to be convinced of their guilt, but without any evidence, I don’t see how they possibly could be. All they have is the testimony of a lying psychopath, who’s obviously trying to cover his own ass.

Here’s a paraphrase of what Belair told the police, and what the jury was presented with:

“Yeah, I shot Andy Paul. Right in the head. And yes, I admit that I lied about it afterwards, but I mean, come on! How was I supposed to know he’d survive? I’m telling the truth this time though, I promise. And yeah, I was there during the two murderers, but Boyle and Maestrello made me watch. Those two killed the Benedicts, not me. Yeah, I know I didn’t tell you about their involvement right away, but I forgot, alright? Alright, so I forgot twice, when we went over it a second time. Can we get past this? Oh, and yes, I got rid of the weapons, but they made me do that too. Yes, they made me do a lot of things that night. They were the masterminds. Yes, both of them. So can I make a deal and plead to a lesser charge for turning them in, or what?”

This, in a nutshell, is Belair’s bullshit story. Would you buy it? I sure wouldn’t. But apparently, the police did, and consequently, the jury did too. I don’t understand it. It violates the principle of Occam’s razor, and it’s littered with inconsistencies. Generally, I find when you’re looking for the real mastermind behind any crime, you look and at where the money goes. The motive behind this double-murder was to steal 160 grand, which Belair got, by the way. The whole case stinks.

Now Maestrello has to appeal this bullshit case in front of yet another jury. Do you call that a good use of our tax dollars? I sure don’t.

It is painfully obvious that something has gone horribly wrong here. Belair, a known and feared psychopath, who obviously lied about everything, and masterminded the double-homicide (which was actually meant to be triple-homicide) from the very beginning, and who GOT THE MONEY, was sentenced to 3 years. Maestrello, who can’t even be placed at either crime scene by anything other than the testimony of a known liar and psychopath, and who (understandably) maintains his innocence, gets 25-to-life. Does that seem right to you? Unless someone stops Belair, he’ll kill again. Mark my words. Belair should be serving the life sentence, not Maestrello. More importantly, all of the police involved in this case should be investigated for gross incompetence, not to say downright corruption. This is an abomination of justice, and the police should not be making deals with known psychopaths. The fact that the police built their entire case on Belair’s bullshit story, and stuck to it for five years, lacking any actual evidence, suggests that they’re trying to cover up a bigger problem. Wouldn’t you like to know exactly what that is?

What I like about Canada Day

2010-07-02T17:11:00.001-04:00

What I like about Canada Day is: Most people behave the way they should behave every day. Well, not exactly. What I mean is, on Canada Day, everyone smiles, is friendly, and is willing to talk to strangers in a way that is open, accepting, and jovial. I don’t mean the people who smash beer bottles, tip over newspaper boxes and call people “faggots” for dressing nicely and wanting to be friendly. Those butt-smears should continue to keep their hands to themselves and their mouths shut. But I think people should feel comfortable talking to their brother and sister people every day. After all, it’s not the strangers who talk to you that you should be worried about; it’s the psychos who don’t talk to you that you should be weary of.

Kiss and Miss

2010-07-01T03:29:00.002-04:00

I don't understand you. You'll kiss me in my car, but now you won't have coffee with me. How do I go from the guy you're attracted to to the creepy guy you avoid, without the exchange of a single word?

Rejection, After Rejection, After Rejection

2010-06-27T23:48:00.003-04:00

The excuse I get from people is always essentially the same. “It’s hard.” You know what’s hard? Going through life without anyone saying “yes” to you. I am tired of being rejected. I’m tired of applying for jobs I never get, sometimes because I’m “overqualified.” I’m tired women ignoring me. I’m tired of waiting for people to get back to me who never do, so I just feel like I’m waiting for Godot. I’m tired of writing about it. I’m tired of being tired of it. I’m certainly tired of talking about it, because people just say the same damn thing like they don’t know any better. “Cheer up, things will get better.” No they won’t. “You just need to lower your expectations.” To what? I’ve already come to expect nothing now. Isn’t that fuck up? I don’t know why I keep trying when I just expect to fail. I don’t WANT to fail, but I expect to. Or they say “you’re trying to hard,” or “you’re not trying hard enough,” or “you expect too much” or “you don’t have enough confidence.”

The theatre I was volunteering for kicked me out for no reason. They’ve made a ton of excuses, none of which have anything to do with me, but I’m the one who gets rejected. That girl that kissed me ignored me all week-end. I haven’t been with a woman since 2007, and that woman rejected me after a one-night-stand. I got laid off from my last actual job.

I suppose I’m not being entirely fair. I was accepted into a grad program. Unfortunately, that doesn’t start for two more months, so it isn’t much of a distraction.

I lost count of how many new messages I’ve composed to women various dating sites over the last 3 or 4 days, and I’m usually careful to consider that I’d be what THEY want. How fucked up is that? That I don’t even think what I want is relevant anymore. And they just ignore me. Even though I know some of them have been logging in every day for years. Obviously Mr. Darcy isn’t coming along.

Two women got back to me, and one of them won’t even be living in Ottawa for another month. The other one gave me a one-line response to a question about her own interests. I was reminded of a crappy response I asked Scrapbook Girl when I asked her what she was working on these days. “Lots of things.” What kind of an answer is that? It’s a blatant I-don’t-want-to-talk-to-you answer. Which is baffling, really – a poet who doesn’t want to talk about her own poetry. So I told this other girl sorry for asking her a dead-end question. But what the fuck does she want to talk about? I asked her what she made of the G20 summit. If people can’t talk about what they like, get them to talk about what they hate. She said she’s been down ever since a bad break-up, and now she hates her job. No we’re getting somewhere. So I asked what cheers her up, and she says, “singing.” Then she asks what makes me happy. And you know what I did? I agonized over what to say to her until I passed out from exhaustion. Because you know what I’ve realized. I don’t know what makes me happy. Nothing really does. Every now and then I see a spark of something that would make me happy in a woman I know, but she’s usually pretty quick to put that fire out. I meet so many people who want something, and they have this sense as to what it is. A dream, if you will. Some people want to go on a dream trip, some want to write the perfect song. Me, I get discouraged from writing my own screenplays and poems, and from my other obsessions because I just don’t see anything happening anymore. I start asking “even if I succeed, what good is that going to do me?” In five years, I could really be somebody, in some field, or I could not, but by the end of my life, it still isn’t going to matter. Nothing really matters. And the know this from the outset, well, it kind of makes the whole journey seem pointless.

You know what I spent my week-end doing? Moving old furniture around and watching my grandmother Depressia potter around with old garbage that she should just throw away. Even she said she wanted to just throw it all away, so I insisted that she do so. And I drove all the way out to our cottage with my dad and auntie Flo, just so we could move an old, ugly piece of furnature into storage there, instead of just throwing it away. My dad has this hope that his uncle, now 82, is going to come and take it, because he says he wants it. He lives in another province; it’s never gonna happen. What we should have done is leave it on the curb. Let some poor student take it. Fuck!

So right now, I feel like my purpose is to wait around for all my relatives to die, one by one, so I can help them move around all their junk into less and less space. I don’t get to start a family or career of my own, because no one wants me, but my family wants me, because I can drive them all around. (My dad can’t drive anymore, because of his eye problems.) My grandmother even want to give me money towards a car – but I know it’s just so I’ll visit her more often, which I wish she’d thought of before moving to that lodge on the other-ass end of the city. My life until 30 has been a series of school, volunteering for people who just use my good-naturedness, babysitting other people’s kids, helping make their family life easier, and moving old garbage around when I should just throw it away! That girl, (or should I say woman of 27), asked me what makes me happy, a question I asked myself 8 years ago when Karma Chameleon dumped me. And I still don’t fucking know. All I can think of is either all the bullshit that I have but don’t want – the endless about of clutter in the warehouse that is my (parents’) house, and on top of old relatives dying or moving to smaller rooms, my father and sister continue to buy assloads of junk. And yes sis, you know it’s junk. I know you do – or the things that I want but don’t have – namely a girlfriend and paid work, inching towards the whole family and career goal. And why would I even want either of these? Well how should I know? I barely remember what they feel like. So I can’t even answer that.

I Kissed a Girl / Awkward Moments

2010-06-26T04:19:00.004-04:00

I can’t decide whether I had a shitty week, or an uneventful week. I feel like I lost a hero. For nostalgic reasons, let’s call him Big Daddy. Big Daddy was my hero in my teens and twenties, because he was a sort of city hero, filming crappy movies, but funny crappy movies, and he rapidly rose to stardom as a cult hero in the Capital City. Well, recently Big Daddy came down on Ema Nymton and me for reasons I already covered in a previous entry. We volunteered for him because he was our hero, and he and his little henchman the Hambuglar just spat in our faces. Yesterday I saw a made-for-tv horror he directed, and I must say, it was great. I would tell him what a magnificent job he did, and what a great movie it truly was, (I mean, I loved this movie!) if I didn’t think so little of him right now. The way he treated us has made him look callous, cheap, petty and small. But I’m not writing at this hour to report on that. He’s the loser in this situation, after all, which I’ll tell him when I’m good and ready.

Tonight I went to a party I’ve been looking forward to all week. It was a cast party for a short called “Spoon” that a pair of competitors from the 72-hour film challenge made. It’s about an awkward accountant who hires a first-time hooker, and their awkward outing to a diner the next morning. We all dressed up for the party too (I was an awkward accountant), the hostess was an awkward hooker and the host was a Shakespearean hobo. To see the significance of the costumes, you’d have to see the film. I’d love to show it to all of you, so I will when I get their permission.

It was a great evening and I made some nice contacts. I told my two former competitors about a sketch comedy group I want to put together. I think the host is perhaps the only man I know with the technical skill to pull off a David Lynch spoof. I met an actor who also looks just like Kyle MacLachlan, and both these guys completely LOVE Twin Peaks, so we went about the show for awhile, and we will talk more about it in the future.

As the party quieted down a little, we watched a movie called “The Room.” I must tell you, this movie is a great bonding experience, because it is absolute shit. It is easily the worst movie I have ever seen, and that includes “Decoys.” Do not watch this movie alone, and preferably not sober. Otherwise, this shitty movie could drive you completely insane. It’s that bad.

Anyway, the reason I’m blogging at this crazy hour is, as the title suggests, I kissed a girl. So what, you ask? Why bother telling you something so insignificant? Well, I don’t know if you noticed, but there hasn’t been much going on in my life romantically since 2007. Well, not outside my own messed-up head, anyway. That’s before I started this damn blog, which has, of course, been nothing but trouble on that front anyway. But this girl, or woman of 27 I suppose I should say, seemed to like me from the beginning of the party. We just had a very easy time talking to each other, even though we’d never met before. We sat next to each other through the whole movie, and, as she’d been drinking, she didn’t want to drive home, so she wanted to bus. I offered to drive her wherever she needed to go, so she happily obliged and stayed for the rest of the movie. Then I drove her to an all-night diner where she meant to meet some friends. I might also mention that throughout the evening, she kept mentioning how tired she was of this guy she kept breaking up with. Cliched, I know, but I found it endearing. After dating a girl like Karma Chameleon, I can certainly relate. Anyway, as I drove her home, we both discovered we were cat lovers, among other things, and then when I parked by the ESD to let her out she leaned in to thanks me, and I tried to hug her, but I realized her lips were coming towards me, and she said “kiss me.” So I did. And as I kissed her, I thought to myself, when is the last time I kissed a girl? What does this mean? Is it just the alcohol kissing me? How drunk am I going to get off this kiss? And then she smiled and said “I like you” as she got out. I’m not sure what I said as she got out, but I’m pretty sure it was something stupid like “I’m gonna definitely add you on facebook.” Talk about your awkward moment. I felt great, and like an idiot at the same time.

I really did feel a little drunk on the way home. Whether it was from the kiss itself, or the alcohol on her lips, I don't know. I asked myself how this happened. I suppose I invited it, but I didn’t ask for it, and I didn’t expect it. But I think I wanted it. I think the trick is to make her feel completely comfortable with me. Something I completely failed at with, say Nurse Betty or Scrapbook Girl, or any of those other losers I met on the internet. She was certainly comfortable enough to get into a car with me, even knowing I only have a G2. She’s gorgeous, by the way. Just gorgeous. I just hope she remembers this in the morning. At this point in my life, I’m prepared for anything though. I’ve certainly been conditioned not to expect much.

Swapping Body Parts

2010-06-23T10:43:00.001-04:00

Sometimes I wish we just swap body parts. Then if you met a racist guy, you could just steal his arms and replace them with two different colors. Then you could steal his memory so he can't remember what color he started out as. And then you could finally steal his nose and say "got your nose!" And he would laugh, because that gag never stops being funny.

Men Are Stronger, Women Go Longer!

2010-06-23T09:14:00.002-04:00

Men are stronger than women by far. Yet women are the ones who have to give birth. That doesn’t seem very fair, does it? Then again, women do get to live 4.5 years longer on average. Then again, if a woman has 6 kids, those 4.5 years are spent pregnant. All things considered, I guess I’d rather spend those years dead.

Grad’s Cool!

2010-06-21T15:42:00.000-04:00

I went to speak with my grad supervisor today about what I’m going to be doing for grad school in the fall. He started by asking me my areas of interest, and I told him American literature and Diasporic lit were of particular interest to me. Then he asked what I’d like to do with my teacher’s assistantship, and repeated again, probably American literature, but then I realized that of course, half of us probably wind up teaching the 1000-level class, which is mainly a survey course of all kinds of periods and places in literature. That’s probably by first choice, but he also asked if I’d be interested in being a TA for the writer’s workshops. He says he only puts TAs in those for whom it’s their first choice, so I told him I’d think about it. Now that I’ve thought about it, I should probably follow-up by asking him what this might entail. Still, I think I might greatly prefer teaching literature and theory than grammar and essay structure.

Then he asked me about what classes I want to take, and I told him the one I was most excited about was a class on King Arthur. He remarked that this deviated somewhat from my areas of interest, but then I told him it was a book that I’ve been working on, using the Arthur legend. I’ve been reading a number of books around the legend, but what I’d really wanted up until now was a chance to study it with an actual professor, and this opportunity just sort of sprung up. I told him I wanted to renew the legend with a code that today’s generations could get into – I didn’t really explain this properly at the time, but I really wanted to layer it with gender and racial tolerance, with the main character (alongside Arthur and Gawain) as a female, “ethnic” knight. It sounds weird, I know, and it’s not even the selling point of the book, but it’s part of my whole vision. The selling point is the zombies part. I told him I wanted to put zombies in Camelot, given the appropriate background I’d have in both the Arthur legend and zombie movies. He asked my favourite zombie movie, and I told him, easily, Shaun of the Dead. Because Simon Pegg and Edgar Wright – everything they make is a brilliant all-encompassing send-up of a different genre. And then we got to talking about how that’s what people like – modern revisions of the old ideas, like the Arthur legend, which is constantly coming up in literature, movies, and other forms of art. He said that after 12 Harlequin Romance novels, people get a bit tired of it, and I laughed and admitted that I’m essentially writing the movie equivalent, a MOW, with an actress friend. It’s generic, I know, but dammit, networks buy them, people watch them, and they generate revenue. And I need my foot in the door. We’re hoping to sell this script in the fall.

Anyway, so far I’m having a great day. Unfortunately, right when I got home, Ema Nymton delivered some rather interesting news involving a certain movie theatre that shall for now remain nameless. Apparently the Hamburglar wants to permanently get rid of us both. However, like an unwilling prostitute, I’m not going down without a fight!

But I can deal with him later. In the meantime – GRAD SCHOOL! Yay! I’m excited!

E-Mails You Should Never Send #2

2010-06-20T23:49:00.000-04:00

Ever get an e-mail from someone, and just think, “bitch, think before you send hate to people.” Well my auntie Flo does that to me every now and again. I thought she was the only bitch in my life until Ema showed me an e-mail from The Hamburglar. (It was a toss-up between Hamburglar and Clambuglar, but I chose the former because I can’t imagine this douche ever getting laid, even by Grimace’s ailing grandma.) Anyway, he’s the manager at the cinema I work for. He noticed that my friends all seemed to have one free movie pass. When he said those passes were for the businesses in my district, I told him I always give them to these businesses. When he asked how my friends got them, I told him I gave them to them. He told me not to do that, and I was fine with it. I was under the impression the actual owner told me they were to be given to the employees at these businesses, and then any extra can go to anyone else I want to recommend this theatre to. Anyway, he told me to bring the extras back to him when I’m done distributing for the month, and I was fine with that.

Ema Nymton, however, was not. You see, when The Hamburglar took me aside to speak to me, he also included Ema, his girlfriend, and another friend we often go with. I thought The Hamburglar’s behaviour was fine, and I thought he brought up an important point, assuming good faith on my part, as a good manager ought to. I’d never have thought this a problem, but apparently I’m very naïve. Ema sent him an e-mail about it, because he found the whole system of free passes a little confusing too. Here’s the exchange: (with Ema’s permission of course!) The names have been changes to protect the innocent (and the asshole)

------------

Hey HB,
After you spoke to Malice this evening about not giving out the free passes to our friends, it occurred to me that no official policy has ever been given as to who we can and can't give the passes to. After I gave one of my passes to [my friend], Lee did tell me that I should make sure to give them out to people around [campus], but he never really specified who (as I mentioned, I've just been giving them to the work study students in the Audio Visual Resource Centre). Maybe it would be beneficial to you guys (and us guide distributors) if you made a clear list of who should get the free passes, if only to reduce any confusion as to what groups are a-o-k and which are off-limits. I know that you have also mentioned in the past that ideally the passes should be given out to non-members, but Mayfair membership isn't something that one can tell at a glance. I think that the free passes are a great way to market the Mayfair, but since they cost you guys in terms of ticket sales, maybe there should be clearer (or just more) restrictions surrounding them. Maybe only you guys should be able to give them out? I'm just spitballing here.
Anyway, it was a thought I had. Kick-Ass was great! I look forward to the secret VHS sunday movie!

Cheers,
Ema Nymton

------------

dude - i'm sorry, but your email is bullshit.

malice lied to my face tonight right in front of you, if you care to remember or not. in one breath, he says to me (and i quote) "i only give the passes to the stores where i drop off guides"... and then i say, "well, how did your friends get these passes?"... and then he says "i gave them to 'em".

so, if malice already knows our policy and you already know our policy (after lee spoke to you in the past), could you please explain the point to your passive aggressive email... you know... beside pissing me off?

------------

I keep rereading this email over, and every time there’s something new about it that strikes me as odd. Let’s see how long this list gets.

1. I think Ema was nothing but polite, and if only he’d simply ignored the e-mail, it probably would have been fine. As it stands, he’s declared a fuck you to two people in one e-mail, and sign that, much to the contrary of my initial impression, he did not assume good faith on anyone’s part, even though.
2. My initial thought was “misdirected anger”
3. When he says “(and i quote),” he’s simply lying and completely misquoting me, to make it sound like I’m the liar. That’s personal, buddy. If I wanted to lie to you, I could have, and I’m deeply insulted that you would insinuate that I would even need to bother lying to the likes of you.
4. I think another sign of mental illness is never using capitals. Yes, even in an e-mail, but I admit am a bit of a grammar-Nazi. At least it wasn’t ALL CAPS.
5. When he says “if malice already knows our policy and you already know our policy” he insinuates that either one of us has any idea what his policy is, when by the way, isn’t really his policy, and at this point, is convoluded as all hell, because not only am I getting mixed messages from different higher-ups, but I’m getting mixed messages from him. In person, I had no idea how hateful The Hamburglar really was.
6. He called my friend “passive aggressive” for expressing genuine concern.
7. He’s basically saying ‘shut-up. You know the rules. No giving passes to friends. Designated people only.’ Except it isn’t all clear who is or isn’t designated – for instance, a number of my friends actually do, in fact, work for these designated business, and I do, in fact, sometimes show up together with them. It didn’t even occur to him that these friends of mine might work at some of these places. He immediately jumped to the conclusion that I was a liar and a cheat.
8. Any response that starts with the word “dude” proves you’re being an asshole, especially when the last word of the first line is “bullshit”

That’s eight things already, and it’s only eight lines long. I honestly feel like a loser for dwelling on it so long. Next time I see him, I’m going to ask the Hamburglar if he has anything he’d like to say to me. Because I don’t like being called a liar, especially by someone who doesn’t have the courage to say it to my face. I thought everything was fine when I left! He’s the liar, pretending like everything is cool! Now I’m half expecting to see him lurking in the shadows outside my house. This is psychopath behaviour.

I also noticed, after I left the Mayfair, that he’d obviously waited through the entire movie just to ask me that on my way out. It wasn’t just an afterthought. He was waiting there for me. That did, in fact, set off a silent alarm in my head. I just didn’t know what it meant. Now I do.

The problem with this sort of, (dare I say it?), “passive aggressive” behaviour, is that, well, first of all, I had no problem with this guy before that night. Even when he took me aside and told me to bring the extra passes back to him, I was fine with that. But then he later showed his true colors to Ema, and I think they’re as ugly as all the colors of the puke rainbow. (Sorry if that analogy doesn’t quite work, but I made it up for just this instance.)

I think he owes my friend an apology, don’t you agree?

Stuff

2010-06-20T10:31:00.001-04:00

George Carlin once said “why is it that everyone else’s stuff is shit, but your shit is stuff?” Collecting “stuff” has become somewhat of a mental illness in western culture. My parents’ house is so filled with junk now, that some rooms, once meant for living, like the “living room,” for instance, are now just storage areas. This includes the basement recreation room. Now if you watch TV there, you wonder if you’re going to be crushed to death by a random box avalanche. I can’t seem to get anyone to admit that this stuff is junk with no value. It’s just a fake attachment my family has created for themselves, and it goes back generations. All my grandparents’ stuff is there now too. We’ve been “emptying” their houses for years now, unable to sell them because of all the stuff! My parents and uncles keep trying to figure out who it should go to, like it’s some kind of fucking heirloom! It’s just junk, and nobody else wants it. On top of that, you know my dad actually saves all our old newspapers? It’s like living in a rat’s nest! People need to stop chaining themselves to shit they don’t need. So fuck stuff. Go put on a backpack, fill it with a few essentials – some clothes, some water, some granola bars, and some porn if you need it, and go out and hug a fucking tree. Amen.

E-Mails You Should Never Send #1

2010-06-19T15:10:00.004-04:00

It has come to my attention that there are a lot of people who don’t use their friggin head and think before they send e-mails to people. This blog I have, while it has humiliated the hell out of me for the past two years, it has also functioned as a means of venting my frustration without hurting anyone’s feelings, except when they find my blog. In this first installment of my “E-Mails You Should Never Send” series, you’ll see me write stuff to this girl I like that I should absolutely not say. In future, I’m going to focus on shitheads who’ve sent nasty e-mails to me and my friends, and then analyze. Sound like your thing? No? Then fuck off.

Well, my woman woes never cease. That’s why you’re all reading this, right? If I’d known when I started this blog how much trouble getting a girlfriend would be, I’d have called this blog “Can Malice Blackheart Get the Girl? Probably Not. He should Go Gay.”

Remember Vampirella? She’s my current female frustration. I’m going with alliterations today. (Probably because I’m concurrently working on a superhero script). I’ve been talking to her on msn for the past few weeks, constantly trying to make arrangement to “hang out” with her, and having her constantly break them, but with stupid little happy faces and frowny faces so she can act like she doesn’t like that she has to postpone. I’m just not sure I buy it.

The worst part is, I’m also not sure I even care. I mean, I keep working by butt off trying to get her to laugh, and come out of her shell, and say something about herself that demonstrates some actual insight, you know? She simply doesn’t talk much, but I’m not sure what it is – maybe it’s because she said she’s never had a boyfriend and I find myself attracted to a challenge – maybe I’m in desperate need of a distraction from the other women that I want but can’t have – maybe she’s simply the modestly hot girl that I read too much into – I don’t know, but I’m convinced she’s got something in there worth getting to know. She wants to direct. I want to write! We like the same kinds of shows, and in a way, we have the same ambition – to one day be making one of them. Granted, it’s a pipe dream that’ll likely burst, or at least be rerouted several times though sewage until getting dumped in the ocean (what is with my analogies today?), but you’d think shared dreams could spark something. I feel no spark. But I’m sure it should be there. I’ve only met her once. ONCE! Why should I care? Am I really this bored?

Anyway, the reason I’m making this entry, aside from need to vent a little as usual, is to write out a few responses to her last messages that I sort of mean, but should probably not send her, because they probably make me sound crazy or desperate. Oh, and let’s start with her message.

--

hey!
hate to do this but i'm going to have to postpone our hangout. My mom wants to throw me a grad lunch tomorrow so I wont be able to make it to the movie. Sorry! :(

--

Really? Last time you blamed germs. This time it’s your mom? Don’t you LIVE with your mom? You couldn’t maybe go out with her some other time? I mean, it could still be tomorrow. It could be brunch. It could be dinner. You’ve known about this for a week! Why couldn’t you just tell her we had plans? Wait – you’re not afraid of your mom, are you? Wait! Should I be afraid of your mom? Is she some kind of psycho. Oh wait – do you already have a boyfriend lined up, and you don’t want your family to find out about me?

--

You know what? Last summer, I put up with constant disappointment from a woman who kept insisting she wanted to see me, but can’t have really. And you know what? I eventually gave up and stopped talking to her. And she was much prettier than you!

(Okay, that’s a lie. Vampirella is gorgeous. I was talking about Rose, by the way. Fuck! She wasted so much of my time.)

--

All right, look. I’m trying really hard here. Too hard, in fact. If you have no interest in me, as I suspect, just say so. Honestly, honesty is all I want anyway, just tell me you don’t like me, and I’ll never bother you again.

--

You suck. :( It’s just excuse, after excuse with you. I offered to buy you food, I offered to take you to the movies for free, and I even offered to drive you here and back. What is it with you women? It’s like the more I do, the less you care. It’s idiotic. All you women seem to want is that douche who doesn’t give a shit. He will make you cry. I will not do that, and I refuse to waste my time with women who put up with it. You do not deserve me. Why should I even waste my time responding? Your excuse is bullshit, and I’m not very happy about it. :(

--

Whatever. You’re boring anyway. Bitch. ;)

(Oh, God! She’s so nice though! I can’t call her a bitch, even if it’s clearly a joke. She actually does make me smile when she talks to me. I just wish she’d come out of her shell a bit more.)

--

You’re sorry, huh? Well don’t be. You’ve made yourself abundantly clear. Have a nice life.

--

What? Are you shitting me? I have to go to the movies alone now, and I’m gonna eat some worms. That’s right: worms. They sell worms to losers who can’t get women to like them, even though all my “female friends” tell me “I don’t understand. You’re such a nice guy!” And then I’d tell them to put their money where their mouth is, and ask them out, but I want to keep my friends. The last time I asked a friend out, she stopped talking to me. She hasn’t really spoken to me in six months, and we had a class together, not to mention a lot of mutual friends. I still try being friendly to her, and she still ignores me.

(I’m talking about Scrapbook Girl now. Seriously, SBG, what is your beef with me? I was always nice to you. And we always had lots to talk about. And I still essentially like you. I just can’t talk to you anymore, because you have me almost convinced that you hate me. When you’re around I find myself wishing I was invisible. That’s fucked up. I hate feeling that way. You know you do too. There’s no reason for us not to be friends. Unless there is. But how can I know if you never talk to me?)

--

I give up. Sorry. If you were just hoping I’d chase you so you could see how much I care. Or maybe you’re just looking for validation.

(That’s all Scarlet the Spy wanted, I finally got her to admit. She just wanted to know she could have me if she wanted. That’s what psychopaths do. They also stalk people. Yeah, Scarlet, I know you’re still watching. Good luck with the baby. That’s right, I know about the baby. Now who’s watching who? Spy.)

--

That’s fine. Maybe I get just show up at your work sometime and you can beat me with something from the frozen meats section. Then you can dump me in the trash. That’s where this is going, right?

--

You amaze me. Is this the real reason you’ve never had a boyfriend? You keep blowing them off with some lame excuse? I know you told me that you want to avoid the drama, but I don’t think you seriously realize what you’re missing. I dated the girl from hell in high school, and then her mutated, more sinister form in college. You need experience with a shitty guy or two so you can appreciate the good ones. Should I sit back and wait while you date a few assholes first or what?

(I don’t know that I’ve ever talked about my first girlfriend on this blog, which is odd. N/A used to complain that I brought her up non-stop. Of course, she compared me to her exes all the time, but whatever; she’s a girl, so she’s entitled I guess. I’m not sure whether to call her Groinkicker or Hell Girl. She used to really love kicking men’s groins when she was angry. Or happy. Oddly enough, even when it was me she was mad at, it would usually be someone else’s groin. That’s a weird train of thought. She made me chase her for an hour through the snow once. She damn near froze to death. And so did I. Now that I remember why she stormed off like that – because one person was giving another person a handjob, neither of whom was either one of us, I’m so glad I’m no longer with her. That girl, Hell Girl, made me feel guilty for things I didn’t even do. She accused me of cheating on her with some other cheerleader. It turns out she was the cheater. I suppose it takes one to accuse one, or something like that. I can’t BELIEVE she would cheat on me with THAT loser. The evil mutant form in college was, of course, Karma Chameleon.)

Wow. So many useless memories. You know what, Vampirella? You are absolutely right. Just buy yourself a nice vibrator and forget all about men. We are all fucked, and so are all you women. We need to be kept apart. In futuristic domes.

--

You know how many false responses I’ve written you know? I’ve lost count. The short of it is, I’m pissed off that you don’t even seem to be trying. Instead you’re giving me just enough hope to keep trying, but if you’re not serious, quit jerking me around! This “drama” that you say you want to avoid with guys – you’re creating it!” Just do something with me, and if it’s meant to happen, it’ll happen.

(Of course, now I’ve come to never expect anything to happen. This isn’t good – I get depressed before I even get dumped/rejected now, in anticipation of it, as if it’s the only possible outcome anyway. If that’s all I seriously expect, it makes me wonder why I bother.)

--

I’m tired of rescheduling. You think of something.

--

Boo! I’m writing you a prescription for LAME! :b

--

I’d say that I understand – that moms are important, but so’s a sex life. Mom is who you’ll be getting to occasionally babysit and spoil your kids, and who you’ll eventually watch die. So why get too attached anyway? You can miss a lunch or two. I mean, god, people graduate all the time. I’ve graduated four times now.

(I have seriously graduated four times now. Two of which were four-year degrees and one of which was five. How old are you again, you ask? Ancient. Okay, only thirty. Now I’m on my fifth.)

--

Just admit you don’t wanna see me again! Get it over with so I can start getting over it. Because these games you play are just humiliating.

--

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re just trying to be nice and not tell me you think I’m a loser. And I don’t know any better.

--

Whew! Glad I got that out of my system. All right, time to compose the real one. Wish me luck. Or tell me I should give up. Say whatever the hell you want, actually. I mean, what’s stopping you?

Slam Stories

2010-06-06T08:59:00.003-04:00

Be it resolved that handcuff accessories are sexy! I found a pair of handcuff earrings on Social Girl’s table, and immediately guessed they belonged to her Goth-girl friend from out of town. Now that that’s out of my system, I want to talk about the slam finals.

I saw some of my favourite poets compete at Capital Slam last night. One of them in particular performed a poem about his Chinese grandfather surviving an assault in 1937 by Japanese soldiers. It inspired me to gather more details about what happened to my own grandmother, whom I lovingly/jokingly call Depressia. You see, on a number of occasions, I have asked her about how she got out of Poland just in time to avoid the Holocaust. I know that she had to make a deal with someone, but she can’t talk about it without crying, still, after over 70 years. I want her story to be told, but in a way that doesn’t have to break her heart.

She wants to get me a car now, apparently. Last night, I drove totally by myself for the first time. It took me half an hour to figure out where I wanted to park. The city planning that went into this city was… not ideal. I can’t think of another city for instance that has this many one-way streets, or this many forbidden left turn. Or forbidden RIGHT turns. I mean, seriously, it isn’t hard to turn right. But I had fun driving around, and playing chauffeur for Social Girl, and later some of her friends, visiting from her hometown.

Scrapbook girl was there at the slam finals, and I think for the first time, I realized that it may not just be her avoiding me, because I seem be avoiding her now too. A few months ago, I thought she was trying to maintain this awkwardness, giving me hateful looks when I tried to say something nice, or just avoiding eye contact altogether. Now I’d just as soon forget the whole damn thing, because it brings the whole experience of the slam scene down. Sometimes I don’t even go if I think she’ll be there. I am tired of feeling like there’s a woman out there who hates me for no good reason. The thing is, I see her everywhere, and as far as I’m concerned, we should still be friends. There is no reason we should not be – that I know of, anyway. For all I know, maybe she has a really good reason, but she never talks to me, so how the hell should I know? We have tons of things in common. We have tons of friends in common. You know I actually waited for her to go to the ladies room before heading towards one of my friends to commend him on his performance? Then she came back out, and I felt I needed an excuse to fuck off. I felt like an idiot, but I didn’t know what else to do.

There was one other poet who really inspired me last night – the one I had to avoid Scrapbook Girl to talk to – I’m going to call him White Jesus. I’ve always found the concept of a white depiction of Jesus a bit odd, not to say offensive, or at least self-indulgent on the part of Roman Catholicism. This poet, however, standing on stage with his long flowing hair and his shirt undone, really does look that Jesus, or possibly Jim Morrison, but with straighter hair. He didn’t make the final slam team, but he is one of my favourite poets. Like Jesus, he preaches, calling for people to wake the hell up and start changing this world for the better. Like Jesus, he’s not about following the law of the land, but following your heart. He has a son, and part of his rhetorical style is to ask how he’s going to explain to his son why things are the way they are, why rich politicians feel they don’t have the budget send medicine and food to those who need it, yet have loads of money for hotels, private jets and buffets. He’s not the only poet who did this last night – I just find him the most inspiring. Another poet, (let’s just call him Prufrock because that’s what he calls himself), recited a slam about getting medical advice from his cab driver. His point was, despite having a shortage of doctors, when our doctors come here from Nigeria, or Iran, or wherever, they wind up driving cabs. Some of the doctors we have born and trained here are already callous shit-head psychos. It’s not like it could get any worse. His slam called for standardized education. We have the same anatomy everywhere. Kenyans don’t have a completely different set of arteries – it’s the same the whole world over. At the very least, they should be allowed to intern when they get here. People don’t necessarily have the time or money to repeat 4 years of pre-med and then 4 years of medical school, and THEN intern. Again.

Damn. I need to finish more of my poems. That seems to be the hardest part for me.

A Bite with Vampirella

2010-05-31T17:16:00.001-04:00

I had a lunch date today – yet another date brought on by the clusterfuck that is internet dating. I think it went well, so let me tell y’all about her. I’m calling her Vampirella, because she’s quite fair skinned, and a fan of the show “True Blood”. She’s also gorgeous, but that’s just a bonus. Anyway, aren’t they all?

She took TV broadcasting in college, and even did a collaboration with the scriptwriting program, to make a film project. She wound up with a real bitch for a screenwriter though. Yes, some of us can be really uptight about our work. We talked a fair bit about the film industry, and it turns out she had seen Jesus Christ Vampire Hunter, and she met the director when he came to speak to her class. I told her I’ve known him since high school. I thought she was so cool for having seen this movie. No doubt so did Lee – she was the only girl in her class who’d seen it. We like the same kinds of shows – things like Dexter, True Blood, etc. I have tentatively invited her out to see some shitty movies at the Mayfair – which, for those of you who don’t know, is the best damned movie theatre in town!

We had sushi for lunch and then wandered around Parliament Hill. Overall, the date was two hours, which is shorter than usual, but she actually had to work afterwards, so we planned it this way. She told me at one point that she’d never been in a relationship. I found it difficult to believe – I mean, she seems so well-adjusted. Then again, maybe that’s why. She says she saw all of her friends dealing with a lot of drama. She says she didn’t want to face the same. She left the dating site after a few months. She claimed she was getting too many messages. I explained as I usually do that the guys send out too many messages because the other guys send out too many, and if they don’t send them too, they won’t get noticed.

At the end of our date, I said I had fun, and she said “Me too. Thanks for not being creepy.” That meant a lot to me. I tried extra hard this time not to do or say anything to frighten her away, which is to say that at no point during our date did I admit to having any feelings one way or the other. I’m working on the assumption that girls are only interested in the guys who aren’t interested. Girls are stupid like that. For now, I’m playing it cool, and we will probably “hang out” again.

Movie Planning

2010-05-29T22:05:00.003-04:00

A man collapsed in front of me today, on the Capital City University Campus. He just fell off his bike for no apparent reason and lay on the ground bleeding from his face and mouth. The first thought that went thru my mind as I approached him was, “great, yet another problem for me to deal with.” There were other people around, but somehow everyone treated me like Jack from Lost. Why do people always assume I should be the leader, even when they don’t know me? Can people not handle this sort of thing – a situation where someone might be hurt, but probably isn’t? I figured he must have been drunk, or maybe he passed out from heat stroke. I asked one young woman to call 911, but she said she wanted me to actually make the call, so I proceeded to talk to the emergency response man, giving him directions for the ambulance, even though I clearly wasn’t from the area. All the while I was also talking to him to try to get his brain working. Eventually he was able to tell me his age, (he was 42, and pretty gruff-looking), and ask what the hell happened. I told him. When the response team got there, I asked if they actually needed me, and when they said they didn’t, I told him I hoped he’d feel better, and then took off. I had a busy day after all.

I met with a lawyer friend of mine who wants to make a short movie about trees manipulating people with spores. She looked at the notes I’d made on it over the last month, and she told me what she wanted me to focus on.

I then met with an actress who wants to collaborate on a movie of the week, potentially to sell to a local producer she has an in with. It turns out I know this producer too. I was a production assistant on another MOW he shot 7 years ago. As I recall, he was a real grouch on the set. I have a clear recollection of him throwing a tantrum when his fridge wasn't stalked with Perrier, and most of my coworkers seemed to think he was some kind of ogre. Mostly I found his antics entertaining. At one point we were missing a walky-talky and my department thought his girlfriend took it. Of course, no one had the courage to confront him – they wanted ME to do it, (it has to be you, Jack), and as expected, I got a blast from him - he insisted he didn't have it or have time for my stupid bullshit and stormed out in a huff. Then I went through his desk and found it. Problem solved. That’s what I do. This is the man I’m going to be pitching our MOW to. Let’s just hope he’s mellowed with a bit of age. Anyway, she clearly has an in with him. She’s super-gorgeous, and he wants her to audition for an upcoming movie.

As the actress and I talked about our various writing projects, I became conscious of just how much of the subtext of my work is my regret of leaving N/A. My actress friend told me about how her ex wrote her a long letter telling her he had feelings for her, long after the fact. He was engaged by then in fact. She gathered he wanted to get it off his chest. She told me he was glad he did, because she always wanted them to be friends in the end. I miss N/A, the friend. Of course, I miss the lover too, but really, she was by best friend in Toronto. She told me I should write her a letter. I told her that I have, in fact, written her many things that I could never bring myself to send, and poetry too. I’m even working on a slam poem to her, one that I may post later. I told her that every time I sent N/A a message in the past, I got short answers. I felt like she was using the fewest words possible – to be polite, but dismiss the conversation as quickly as possible, but now I’m not so sure. The actress told me that if she doesn’t want to talk to someone, she tells them. There’s no reason to assume someone doesn’t want to talk to you when they don’t say anything of the sort. Maybe I read too much into things. She suggested I make this into a screenplay. I just don’t know how it would end… yet. She says I should talk to her, but at this point, I don’t know. I’m afraid. If I message her, I’ll want her back for sure, and I’m convinced she’s dating the bass player from her band. I don’t want to come crawling out of the woodwork now, because if she’s happy with him, I want her to stay that way. I also don’t want to know, you know? Haha… I have a date on Monday anyway. If it goes well, I’ll tell y’all about her.

You know what? It’s the end of a long day, and I’m in a generous mood, so I’m going to confess something that actually might reach the right person, but I suppose only if she cares enough to check back here every so often. A few weeks ago, a friend of hers posted an update about Nurse Betty on one of my 2009 entries.

My actress friend says she wishes more guys would just let their feelings out. Far too often, she says, guys pretend not to care. Personally, I’ve found that letting all my feelings out has tended to backfire in the past, creating tension and distance between whomever I wanted to get closer too, (an unfortunate self-destructive tendency of the “nice guy” – which is part of why women wind up dating jerks – and ladies, they act this way because they know they can get away with it, so this men are entirely your own fault, just so you know), but at this point, I’ve nothing left to lose, so I just thought I’d admit this.

When I got that message from your friend, I cried. I almost never cry, but I cried when I thought about how much I regret everything. I thought I’d finally forgotten you, but one mention of you, and all my regret came flooding back – my regret that I upset you with my blog, and my regret that I could never make up for what happened to you. I thought I didn’t still care about you, but I clearly do, and I probably always will. As long as I’m alive, anyway.

Progress

2010-05-21T11:10:00.002-04:00

I went on a date last week that I think went I rather well. I say this because we are still talking, which is good sign number one. I can’t say for sure how I feel about her, but she is fun to be with. We went for food, and then because I liked her company I asked her to the pub. I even paid for her drinks. I actually felt like it. I had believed until recently that I was a bad idea to pay for a woman’s food etc. on a first date, but lately a number of women have told me I’m wrong. At first, it had been my mother and grandma Depressia telling me this, but now women in my program have been advising me the same way. Perhaps they just want free stuff – I don’t know. I’m sure women have enough of they demons to fight. A wise friend of mine recently said you should be nice to everyone because everyone is fighting some kind of battle.

I also acquired my G2 level on my driver’s license, which means I can drive on my own, which means my mother is now training me to become Depressia’s new chauffeur. She just turned 91 this month. She is the matriarch and oldest member of my family.

I haven’t made much mention of this here, but for medical reasons, my father doesn’t drive very often anymore. More an more I’m going to be taking over that responsibility. So you know how I made “the list” in May of ‘08, of my regrets. Well, now I can cross off #5. Looking back at the list, I realize how silly most of them are, but I’d still like to make up for them all. Some day.

Also, accepted a scholarship, and a teaching assistant position for grad school in the fall. Until then, I guess I’ll just keep on doing what I do.

Women!

2010-05-12T02:59:00.001-04:00

New Rule! From now on, no woman that I’m actively interested in may ever read this blog. I’ll never tell her, and you won’t either. If you do, I’ll find you. >:D

(Note to self: Insert diabolical laughter here.)

I’ve been good thus far. I haven’t told anyone since Scrapbook Girl. Even in her case, I’m not really convinced she ever gave enough of a shit to read this damn thing anyway. I can’t say for sure though, since anytime I tried to talk to her, she just ignored me. Even in front of our own friends, as if she somehow didn’t hear me. Sometimes she’d act like she couldn’t even see me, and I’d have to holler her name just to get her attention. Sometimes she shot me the dirtiest looks. I was never anything but friendly to her, and honest with her, and I never harassed her or anything like that. That didn’t matter. I’ve since decided she must have some rare form of mental illness, one that is triggered specifically by me for some reason, and moved on.

One thing that still nags at me though; we were friends before I told her. Now, after so many attempts to reach out to her, and get past the whole awkwardness of a rejection, she’s useless to me. We’re in the same program, have some of the same friends, (some of whom are literally my neighbours and ask me about her. Why they think I know anything more than they do about what she’s doing, I don’t know), and we were even in the same class last term. A class I actually had to take! Otherwise I might have just switched out of it. The first time I tried to hang out with her and another classmate after class, she couldn’t make eye-contact with me, and looked like she was couldn’t get away from me fast enough.

At first I thought maybe Scrapbook Girl was trying to spare my feelings, but then I guess I came to realize she just couldn’t see things from anyone’s perspective other than her own. She was presumably miffed at me for putting her on the spot like that. But the words “sorry, I don’t like you that way,” would have been a stellar diffuse the situation. Or “lets just be friends for awhile and see.” Or hell, “fuck off” – I mean, saying ANYTHING would have been an improvement. I had the courage to say something to her. I was the one who would have to feel rejected, right? RIGHT?

Why she then decided that ignoring me completely was the most appropriate response I deserved, I will never know. I think she’s such a coward for it. All she had to do was talk to me, and she’d realize how easily I could forgive the rejection. Hell, I half-expected it in the first place! I get so much rejection that I barely care anymore. That’s as a lover though. She was my friend, and I felt there was value there. There’s usually only one boyfriend slot in a woman’s life, but there’s a virtually limitless supply of slots in one’s life for friends. You have to really hate someone to feel the need to friend-break-up with them.

I had to reject a girl of my own recently, a little under a month ago. Somehow, over the course of the last school term, she managed to develop a crush on me. I’m calling her “Treasure Hunter” because she used to play this repetitive facebook applet with digging and treasure in it during one of our English classes, instead of listening. She is, in fact, also a slam poet, and she was, in fact, in the same class I shared with Scrapbook Girl, but that’s just a coincidence. There were a lot of girls in that class – even Parasite Eve and Bright Eyes were in it. My goodness, do the girls ever love crushing after our pretty-boy professor. Even I think he’s kind of hot – the bastard totally knows how pretty he is – but I digress.

The point is, Treasure Hunter had the courage to tell me she was interested in me, so I, in turn, made a point of showing the courtesy of suggesting we spend some time together doing something, so we could see if there was anything to that. She told me she thought we were similar, which I found a remarkably odd observation, since I couldn’t see it. I arranged a date for us the week after our final exam, during which she spent most of her time babbling about her stupid job that she hates, but, without being interesting about it. I tried asking her about any of my interests she might like, and she generally didn’t even know what I was talking about, which in some cases, was amazing. I finally asked her to tell me about her interests, and all she could come up with was “facebook.” I joked that we’re all a little guilty of spending a little too much there, and then she added that she liked writing poetry. I’ve seen her perform some of it – it’s what I might describe as teen-angsty, which is fine I guess, if you’re still in high school. At the end of the night, I told said “I don’t know how to say this, but I don’t really think we have anything in common. Did you kinda get that feeling too?” She agreed. I knew she wasn’t quite satisfied, but I figured this was the nicest way to tell her – and show a little bit of courage and actually fucking tell her! So, at worst, I had pho and played a few games of pool with a girl I’ve no interest in. At best, I might have been wrong, in which case we might have hit it off that night. It’s amazing how just a little exposure can tell you what you need to know about someone. This is, again, why I think Scrapbook Girl is a total coward. But that’s another rant I needed to get past to talk about what’s really bothering me.

What’s bothering me is the precedent set by these rejections from friends. I like another one of my female friends, you see. I have for awhile actually, and even some other slam poets have asked if we were dating. I can’t say for sure how she feels about me though, not without explicitly asking. (And if I do that, the cat is sort of out of the bag, isn’t it?) As it was with Scrapbook Girl and Nurse Betty, I have every reason to believe she should like me, and I’d treat her like a queen. She makes me smile, which not a lot of people can really do. (Ema always can, but I somehow don’t think that I’m his type. Anyway, he just celebrated his 4-year anniversary with his girlfriend.) Maybe part of it is that I’m doomed to fall for wounded women – I think I suffer from Florence Nightingale effect – falling for women because I feel sorry for them, and think I can heal them. This has, in fact, been what caused me to fall for all of these women – N/A, Karma Chameleon, Nurse Betty, Scrapbook Girl, Diary Girl, Ballet Girl, and the list goes on, but you get the idea. I fall for these women because I feel sorry for them. I feel like I can heal them. For each and every one of the aforementioned women, I felt I needed to prove to them they could be loved by a man who would always treat them with respect, always come up with new ways to make them smile, and who would love them for who they really were, and not who they felt they had to pretend to be. (Scrapbook Girl, for instance, had noted at one point that she had to downplay her intellect to keep guys’ attention. I always thought her intellect was the best part.) I wanted to prove that I could always be there when they needed me. I’d even be there for them if any of them needed me now. That’s just my nature, but as far as relationships go, I can’t afford any more charity cases. Sorry ladies, but if you’re going to continue to get used an abused by assholes, it’s your own fault. Those men continue to behave that way because they know it gets them laid, and they never have to deal with the consequences, you do. I know you’re all intelligent enough to get past it.

Anyway, the reason I even bother to mention all this is that I like another one of my friends now, but after Nurse Betty, and Scrapbook Girl, and Lilith, etc, I’m tired. I’m tired of losing friends because I develop feelings for them. It’s the weirdest thing. It’s like falling in love with them was the biggest insult to them, and they all seem to just hate me for it. Who could have ever thought such positive feelings could have such negative effects with such disgusted reactions. Often I think I must be missing something obvious, but when none of them are willing to talk about it, it is difficult to discern.

I do not want to tell my friend I love her because I do not want to lose my friend. As it stands now, when it’s just the two of us, I feel like I can tell her anything, particularly when it comes to dating, and I can get the woman’s perspective on things. She, in turn, can get my perspective on the guys she and her friends are seeing. Typically, as you might imagine, I think she can do much better than the assbags that harass and text her constantly, but she never has the heart to get rid of them either. I try to encourage her to tell them she’s not interested, because that is exactly what I would want to know, were I the guy. And also, I wonder what will happen when it is my turn. The very thought tires and depresses me.

For now, and in fact, as usual, I have a few other prospective women lined up. I have two dates scheduled this week, both of whom I met online, but who nonetheless can carry on a relatively unstupid conversation. I don’t have terribly high hopes for either of them yet, as the internet is a terrible place to meet women, but you never know for sure, and anyway, the longer I’m distracted from trying to convey to my friend I love her, the better off I’ll be.

It occurs to me at this point that this friend deserves a name. I’m going to call her Social Girl, because she goes to tons of social events, particularly concerts and poetry slams, so we know a lot of the same people. She’s also really fond of Broken Social Scene.

That about wraps up my dating situation these days. I’ve other more exciting news, but for now, I’d like to limit this entry to one “broad” topic. (There’s a little pun there. Did you miss it?)

Putting Words Together

2010-05-09T10:35:00.003-04:00

I’ve been putting off blogging for the past little while, because I’ve been thinking of permanently putting it down. I’ve put up with it long enough to realize that it puts off the very women I might have hoped would someday put out. Now the only thing I find myself putting out are the fires I started years ago when I first put this up.

Maybe I thought I was putting on a show for people anonymously, but gradually, I put together a list of readers who knew me.

This blog is me. My blog of dirty secrets. My blog of successes. My blog of excesses.

I was recently reminded of all of this – of a woman I put off with this blog, because she felt the stories I chose to put up were all about putting her down. I had wanted to put things right, but she was never willing to put away our differences, so she put me on her block list instead.

I had wanted to put this blog down for good, but for now, I guess that the blog can stay put.

The entry in which I declare that I am now officially a slam poet, the founder of an upcoming poetry magazine, and a prize-winning screenwriter!

2010-03-04T18:29:00.003-05:00

I make no apologies for being a negligent blogger. Anyway, I’m back now, aren’t I?

Managing a magazine is a lot of work! Here’s the scoop on that project: I’m basically in charge of ten people now, and that doesn’t even count contributors, so I’ve got a lot of delegating to do. BUT – I think it’s worth it, particularly since I’ve put together a web team. So now, not only are we going to produce a poetry mag, but a complementary website too. I can barely contain my excitement. We’re even going to include videos of slam poets. (I’ve a few slam poets in mind I’d like to ask for submissions from. Two have already agreed. We’re even going to have illustrations and music.)

This brings me to another thing I’ve neglected to mention, having been gone so long – I am now officially a slam poet! At least, I am, in the sense that I’ve participated in one poetry slam. I’m performing at a second open slam this Saturday. As such, I am no longer a poet hiding in the attic, writing in the dark. (Well, I do still write in the dark sometimes, but you get the idea.) I am now a poet who speaks out, on stage, in front of real people. It’s pretty thrilling, I must say. Thrilling and terrifying. It’s terrifying because, for those of you unfamiliar with slam, it is essentially a spoken word competition, with judges.

Incidentally, Scrapbook Girl was one of my judges, as if things needed to get any more terrifying. She’s a slam poet too now. That’s about all I can say on the subject though, as we haven’t really talked since I wrote her that poem three months ago.

Finally, you remember that 72-hour film challenge I entered? Well, my film WON! I’ll post a link to it soon, if there’s some demand. That’s it! Those are the highlights of the last five weeks. I’ll try to post some of the poems I’ve been working on later too.

Time Flies Like an Update

2010-01-28T21:45:00.002-05:00

(Pictured above are (respectively) the star, cinematographer, and director of the film I wrote for the 72-hour challenge. Sorry there aren't any shots of me at the typewriter, pulling out my hair and cursing myself for losing scene six, but our star is almost as pretty as me, so this should do.)

“Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.” – Groucho Marx

Sorry I haven’t had much time to blog this month, but I’ve made some progress since the last post.

I’ve managed to write my statement of purpose for grad school, as well as get letters of reference from three profs. In the end, I got them from my old favourite prof, (whom I’ve known since 2001 – she knows my sister too and claims to be quite fond, though I gather my sister does not return the sentiment), my fresh-from-Ph.D. Theory prof (who thought his word wouldn’t be worth what another profs was, so I had to convince him he was an equal to them, not only as far as I was concerned, but frankly, as far as credentials are concerned. At least that’s what the faculty supervisor had told me late last year.) And also, the guest professor from Ghana. This is all due by Monday, and after that, it’s out of my hands.
The poetry presentation on Roberts was a huge success. We got an A.
The group for the Anthology is getting pretty big. I think there are 7 of us now to put the magazine together, and more students have already submitted poems.
The 72-Hour film challenge is over! I wound up writing two screenplays. I wound up having to trash the script for “Cock Talk” when we got our challenge worksheet. There was simply no way the script would have worked, so that night we all brainstormed, and then I went home and wrote the script instead of sleeping. This way, the team was able to start planning and shooting the next day. I haven’t seen the finished film yet, but the production stills look awesome. I won’t say much about it now, but it’s chalk-full of Back to the Future references.
I haven’t written a slam poem yet. Not one that I intend to memorize and perform, anyway. I did go to a workshop though, and did some slam exercises. I even still have the poems written out on scrap paper. I’ll transcribe them and post them shortly.
Still gotta write a poem for Goblin Fruit, unless the "Sir Gawain" poem is good enough. But I dunno; it’s kinda short.
Zombies in Camelot – Have not done this one, as feared. I’ll give myself another month, because I’m cool and I can do that.

So Little Time

2010-01-11T23:49:00.000-05:00

Oh my freaking hell! I had no idea January would be throwing so many projects my way so quickly! I barely have time to blog (and should not be, in fact, as I have a presentation to give tomorrow, worth 30%!)

So this entry may read more like a shopping list, but I need to work through all this somehow, as I’ve got to finish it all sometime this month.

Major Project to complete:

Grad School Application – I need to find three profs who will vouch for me, and write me a good letter of recommendation. I should also see my guidance counsellor stat! If I don’t get this in by February 1^st, I can’t be considered for funding as a teaching assistant.
Poetry Presentation (30%) – This is tomorrow. I signed up for it because I like to get presentations out of the way. The downside is I’ve had little time to prepare. I’m actually pretty excited about it though, as I have a great group comprised of girl who started her own sorority, (making her month arguably busier than mine), a cancer survivor, a really nice handicapped girl I took notes for last term. These ladies love the poet we got too – Sir Charles G. D. Roberts – because he loved nature, and he had many torrid love affairs in his day.
Poetry Anthology (60% at end-of-term, but I’d better start now.) This is actually in the same poetry class, and I’m pretty excited about this. You see, our prof is rather liberal in the way she marks her students, in that she’ll let you do just about anything as long as it involves poetry, and you’re passionate about it. So this other girl and I have started collecting submissions from the rest of the class, and our project is to get them all published with the help of our prof! How cool is that?
72-Hour Film Challenge – I just found out about this. Two weeks from now, I’m entered into a contest to write, shoot and edit a film in 3 days. I’m the team screenwriter, so it actually starts with me. I told them I’d send them some malleable ideas so they can start securing locations for that week-end. I have this idea about a man with a talking penis… I’m tentatively calling it “Cock Talk.”
Write a Slam – It’s over a year now since I started writing and reciting poems. I think it’s about time to compete, and I’ve started befriending some really awesome poets.
Write a poem for Goblin Fruit – Ema mentioned this to me, and really, I should be starting to get my stuff published elsewhere other than my own blog.
Zombies in Camelot Outline – I already talked about this a few posts ago, but I haven’t worked on it since, and I’m starting to worry that I may not find the time.

Anyway, wish me luck on my presentation tomorrow!

Gawain the Demon Knight

2010-01-04T22:34:00.000-05:00

Up from Hell
came Gawain
with the blade of evil’s bane.
Half still well,
half insane,
he clove the undead lord in twain.

New Year’s Vow in 2010: Publish a Book

2010-01-01T12:54:00.002-05:00

“Twenty-Ten!” I just love the way that sounds! It’s like being in a sci-fi novel.

I have a new project for 2010, a fantasy novel, which I’ve given the tentative title “Zombies in Camelot.” The title pretty much describes the book. My niche genre(s) at this point are Dark Fantasy / Arthurian Romance Satire. Ideally, anybody who likes fantasy, (particularly dark fantasy), or horror, (particularly zombies), or comic fantasy, particularly with Arthurian characters should like this book.

I have been developing a bible for the main plot, characters, creatures for several weeks now. I never know how long the blueprints for a writing project will take me, but when it is done, I should be able to write the book in 30 days. (Roughly 2 chapters per day). However, since I only have experience writing screenplays this length, my estimation might be off.

I also still have more reading to do. Thus far I’ve read some of William Morris’ Arthurian Poems, (which deviate from every known text, so they’re confusing), Culhwch and Olwen, (which is a great way to frame Arthurian tales, though the frame story itself had a very arrogant, selfish and whiny protagonist, whom Arthur should really have had dragged off to his dungeon and had beaten), Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, (a translation, which I disliked at first, but its rich symbolism is growing on me, now that I’m reading some criticism), and I’m currently working through Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur. Next on my list is T. H. White’s series.

So, in a nutshell, here’s my plan:

January: Finish research and outline

February: Write the first draft (I’ll aim to have some overlap in January, to give me a full 30 days, at 2 chapters per day.)

March: I anticipate I’ll have lots of papers due this month, but hopefully I can edit it (polishing 2 chapters per day.)

April: Show it to some friends and try to get as much criticism as I can, then polish it again.

May: Send cover letters and a small sample to publishers.

That’s it. That’s as far ahead as I can plan. Anyone else have an interesting resolution? Oh, and happy new year!

Turning Thirty

2009-12-23T11:58:00.000-05:00

Turning Thirty,
In my kitchen, peering out at the snow,
Watching the snowbanks grow.
In thirty years,
What have I learned?

I peer over at the dog my grandpa left behind
His last legacy
Lying on her side
She looks as though she’s waiting to die. (Don’t all geriatrics?)

She’s the dog I lovingly call “the fudge-snacker”
Oh, you find that offensive?
Well, she eats her own shit.
I find that offensive.
She whines, she wobbles, with arthritic hobbles,
Then she vomits up the turds that she gobbles.
The piles look a bit like hamburger
And smell like death.

And as I walk the old bitch,
Still those mouth-breathers say
“Give me a kiss.” (She licks the man’s face.)
“I love dogs.”
“For a boxer, she sure is pretty.”
Right.
She’s pretty ugly, and pretty stupid.
And awfully smelly, whoa Nellie, I tell ye,
She’s ancient
And she grows older still.

The end of life is horrible.
The beginning is pretty bad too.
But that doesn’t stop us from making it a little worse anyway.
(Why not, right? Preparation for the REAL world. But what is the real world? I mean, aside from mindless cowards victimizing the weak? Or is that all we can aspire to?)
Who is the sick fuck that dreamed up circumcision?
I want a name.
So I can piss on his grave,
With my incomplete dick.
I hope he’s rotting in hell now,
With a circumcised face.

I suppose I should be grateful.
I suppose my circumcision was my first birthday present.
And it lasts a lifetime.
Chocolate orange, eat your heart out.
No way I’m doing that to my son.
No way.

Traditions are just like any other life.
They die.
I’m going to watch this one die.
I’m going to make it die.

We all do that, don’t we?
We come up with ways to do a better job than our parents.
Because no matter how hard they tried,
We can do better.
We think we’re so goddamn smart, don’t we?

A mother screams at her eight-year-old son
because he doesn’t know McLeod is pronounced “Muh-Clowd”
She says I didn’t read enough
But you have to learn something before you know it,
And you can’t read sounds.

Year after year, she sent me to camp,
And year after year, I kept telling her not to.
But, as she told me,
“Camp is not a punishment, it’s a privilege.”
Well you could have fooled me.
She tells me about the fun she had at that same camp, thirty years earlier,
And I realize she simply didn’t have the mental capacity
to distinguish between my childhood
and her own.

The kids made fun of my pale skin.
Even the counsellors did.
They said I didn’t tan enough.
But it’s something I could never change.
Believe me, I would have if I could have.
Even my mother made fun.
Something about burning out her retinas when I took off my shirt.
Yeah, right.
I wish.

Now it’s my thirtieth birthday,
And they ask me,
What do you want for your birthday?
And I tell them I just don’t care anymore.

As I look up now at the grey sky,
As the snow descends, forming mounds of cold crap we have to move every day,
But we tell ourselves to keep fighting the good fight,
So we grab our coats, and our shovels
And we trudge outwards
The drudgery
It’s the drudgery that really gets me.

And the dog farts again.
(Fudgery?)
Just no more shit-barf, okay?

Turning Thirty,
And all I’ve got to show for it,
Is this shitty poem.

Mendicant’s Lament

2009-12-18T08:17:00.001-05:00

You were right, Shadowthorne, and you too, “best bud”! Why should I be bothering trying to help other people’s relationship when I can’t seem to do anything right in my own? Maybe it’s easier to give advice than to take it. Then again, the advice I gave the Mendicant last night was the same advice I would follow, assuming I’m ever even in a relationship situation again.

Mendicant called me up and asked me if I had spoken to Wolverine.

“No, man. I’ve seriously not had the time. Like I said, though, I can make a point of speaking to her now, just to see how she is, but I don’t see her online now.”

“Thanks, man. I’m really torn up about her.”

“I know.”

“Just tell her I really want to talk to her.”

“Doesn’t she already know that?”

“Yeah, but she won’t talk to me. I tried telling her I wanted to talk to her, and she said it was a trap, that I’m stringing her along with some secret that I won’t share unless I see her. She says if all I want is closure, she’s not interested.”

“And you don’t just want closure, right?”

“No, man. I just have so much I want to say to her.”

“Yeah, like what?”

“I don’t know. Lots of things, man.”

“Name one.”

“I don’t now. I miss her.”

“You want her back?”

“Yeah, I do. I love her, man.”

“So tell her that.”

“I can’t just say that.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well if you can’t tell her how you feel, what can you do?”

“I don’t know. I just want to talk to her.”

“All right, listen. Here’s what I think you should do. Tell her you want to say some things to her, and promise that, once you’re done, you’ll stop calling. Write out a list of all these things you want to say to her, so that you don’t feel like you forgot anything. Make your list, check it twice, just like Santa, and then have it in front of you when you speak to her.”

“But it’s not even her I get when I call, it’s her parents.”

“Oh. Well that is problem. Okay, well, send her an e-mail then.”

“I don’t have internet right now.”

“Then write her a letter, put it on a disk, and take it to an internet café, or somewhere else with internet. Or hell, do it the old fashioned way and send her an actual letter. Just find a way to get your words to her.”

“Okay.”

I don’t want to interfere any more than that, but I am a little curious as to why she dumped him. I mean, the guy’s like her dog. She kicked him. Hard, apparently. And like a dog, he’s trying to come back, saying he’s sorry.

I do not like Wolverine at all anymore. I can see why so many people get swept up by her antics. She’s pretty, and she’s reasonably intelligent, and she certainly has the capacity to be civil, but that woman has deep sociological issues.

What bothers me is how like each of them I am. Do I sound like him when I’m pining over a love interest, like he did? Did I run from a perfectly good, perfectly loyal lover, like she did? Well, I think so, but I’m learning.

Playing Cupid

2009-12-16T08:56:00.001-05:00

Now that I’ve just finished exams, and am looking to start some new projects to occupy the next two and a half weeks, some odd ones dropped into my lap. Namely, a guy friend and a girl friend of mine are both smitten with someone, and they want my help.

The first is the Mendicant. Remember the Mendicant? Wolverine moved in with him a short while ago, and last I had heard, everything was fine with them. The Mendicant called me up on the week-end though to ask if I’d heard from her, since I’m their only mutual friend. I told him I’d not seen her online, and so he asked if I could give her a call and see how she is. They had a fight apparently, and the result was that Wolverine moved back in with her parents, and now she refuses to take calls from him. Unfortunately, there was drinking involved, so he’s fuzzy on the details. So for this mission, I’ll have to start from scratch. I told the Mendicant I’d make a point of speaking with her after my exam, if he wants, and he said he’d think about it, and call me first to confirm. (I missed his call yesterday, unfortunately, but it’s on my to-do list.)

The second is a girl from my critical theory class. She’s an ethnic mix, a devout Christian, and she fervently believe that a thousand years from now everyone will look like her. (Brown – I think that was the extent of her argument. I don’t totally agree, but then again, I usually don’t argue to fiercely with people who believe in invisible men.) Anyway, I’m calling her Manifest Destiny. He’s Slavic, and he’s into martial arts and UFC, so I’m calling him the Slugging Slavic Secret Weapon. Maybe I’ll call him Triple S. I met with both after our exam at a pub on campus. We spent 7 hours at the bar overall. I don’t know where the time went. My cell didn’t get a signal in there, and that, paired with a glass of beer that keeps getting “topped up,” it is impossible to keep track of time. We got into which girls and guys in the class were hot. I piped up immediately, admitting that, at least in the summertime, I had a big crush on Parasite Eve. (I also told them both I only had eyes for Scrapbook Girl. I didn’t actually tell them who she was – just that I liked her, and that she knows. I don’t want to embarrass her.) Anyway, Destiny said that she liked our prof. I know, typical, right? He is a good-looking guy. But anyway, when Triple S left to use the washroom, Destiny admitted to me that she liked Triple S. So I made a mental note of it, and when she left, I asked Triple S what he thought of her. Specifically, I asked her if he was interested in her. He said he might be, but that, given enough time, he’d probably forget her. I found that a little discouraging, but workable. After all, if you want to get technical, everyone can be forgotten. Then next time I got her alone, I said I thought he probably would be interested in her. After all, she’s really pretty, and she was actually one of the smartest girls in the class. She told me she didn’t feel pretty enough to be with him. She pictured him to belong with Bright Eyes. (Remember Bright Eyes? Apparently I’m not the only one who noticed her.) I found her lack of confidence in her own worth disheartening, but, I took into account that she said she’d only feel right if her made the first move, and really seemed interested. I suppose, she, like most of us, didn’t want to be embarrassed, or rejected. So finally, the next time I got him alone, I asked him again. I didn’t tell him why, but I told him he should go for it. Ask her out. Frankly, I don’t know he could do better, because I don’t think there IS better, no matter how inferior she feels to Bright Eyes. She’s just as intelligent and just as pretty, though admittedly, Bright Eyes has cooler bangs. (She’s sort of known for her bangs the same way I’m known for my mutton chops. Oddly enough, Destiny told me *I* should go dressed as Wolverine for Halloween, because of the sideburns. And who am I to argue with destiny. Oh man, there are way too many puns inherent in the names I chose.) Anyway, when it got late, Triple S politely asked me to take a hike so he could get some alone time with Destiny. I was happy enough to oblige.

Love is a Poem

2009-11-26T20:23:00.001-05:00

Sorry for not blogging in awhile. Lately I’ve been very reclusive. Not that I’m much of a socialite anyway, but, well, some of you may recall my ranting about dating. I’m sick of dating. I hate dating. And yet, Scarlet the Spy suggested I turn it into a segment for Apt613 – and I wanted to, I really did, even if it was just fictionalized, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to do it. I’ve been too preoccupied.

Some of you may have recall that I’ve been gushing about this woman that I’m enamoured with. Someone whom I adore so much that it hurts – and I mean “hurts.” It got to the point that I thought I’d have a panic attack if I didn’t find the words to tell her how I feel. So I took some time to write her a poem, and yesterday I read it to her, and now she knows.

When I finished the poem, she didn’t know what to say. I expected that – for the past two months I’ve been careful to guard these very feelings from her. Why was I torturing myself? I guess I didn’t want to come on too strong. But, of course, with the crush getting bigger and bigger each day, it became unbearable. I even found myself unwillingly dreaming about her. One night she told me she was really ill, and I had nightmares about it.

I told her I didn’t expect her to say anything. I just want to see her more. She said “we’ll work on it.” So I gave her the two pages I read her. She said she’d read it over. She said “thank you” and gave me a hug. It felt very good to hold her. You know, before this moment we’d never actually touched? Anyway, she was very sweet about the whole thing. I had hoped she would be.

I have not spoken to her since last night. I don’t want to pressure her. I want to give her time and space to think about it. I’m just glad she didn’t hate me for putting her on the spot like that, and for listening. It felt so good to get that off my chest. Now I feel lighter than air.

I don’t know what will happen, but I will say that if things don’t work out, I’ll probably always be her biggest fan. She is probably one of the most talented writers I know, and I feel lucky to even have met her at all.

Underexposed

2009-11-12T01:40:00.001-05:00

Working
In the darkroom,
Gazing through the dim red glow,
I make your picture perfect face out nice and slow,
In peace and quiet.
I hear the music in my head,
And I think about the life we might have led.

Living
In a dark gloom,
As my mind goes to and fro,
Like a cancer, this love continues to grow.
I can’t deny it.
I remember how you bled,
How I cut you with those careless words that I said.

Lying
In my dark tomb,
See your pictures row on row,
See my life pass by without your loving glow,
Forever quiet.
I think it’s time I cut the thread
And accept my place among the living dead.

Dead Poet Sobriety

2009-11-09T18:08:00.002-05:00

Where are you taking me, Allen Ginsberg?
How much have we had to drink to-night?
Are you trying to get into my head?
Or my pants?
Either way, I’m too far gone to fight.

And so we wander the solitary streets,
With the pale, yellow, bulbous lights
You thought it would be funny to pee into
That Starbucks cup we found in the street.

Tomorrow someone will find it.
Still yellow, foamy, or perhaps
Brown, salty, dried-up in the sun.
Maybe that’s why it’s so funny.
You’re thinking about the future.

Chaos.

So we sit in a circle,
Beating off with twenty-nine generations of poets.
Thirty if you count mine.
Do you?

Frost doesn’t.
We read our poems to each other, and all he can say is:

“You might want to check your meter.”
Check this, you pretentious cunt.

But now I can’t take my eyes off Emily Dickinson.
She fingers herself in the full-moonlight
She howls.
Look at her go.
She would not stop even for Death.

Coated in starlit, murky, love-syrup.
We are as one now.
Children of the night.

Wordsworth agrees.
“We are thirty.”
We are all dead.
Yet we all live.

Each night, we raise the dead
With our poetry,
And we read to one another
Deaf and bland.

Remember, Remember, the blog of November

2009-11-09T10:07:00.001-05:00

This past week-end, I saw Wolverine and the Mendicant again. They live together now. I’m over Wolverine, and this visit proved it. The only reason I went we to get my jacket back. There were five of us this time, and throughout the night, I couldn’t help but notice how maladjusted we all were. The Mendicant and Wolverine tried to molest me again while I more or less did defence. Amazingly, having a hot girl try to grab your ass over and over gets old pretty fast. Twice as fast when there’s an ugly, oily, hairy fat dude trying to grab the other cheek. He also tried to molest Thor, which was a mistake. He’s rather homophobic – having just moved to the city from Hicktown, Ontario. Thor spent much of the evening talking about how tough he was, and how he’d never hit a girl, and how the Mendicant had better not do whatever gross-ass thing he did again. There was also a girl with us who told us a lot of stories about how she and her 39-year-old cop-boyfriend got drunk and got into these really brutal fights with coke heads, and then went drinking with hookers. I won’t bother giving her a name, because I don’t plan on spending much time with her. We went to an old pool hall, and then to an old bar, where aging punks with ugly-ass Mohawks still hang out, even though some of them must be pushing fifty. And Nasty Nick was there. Apparently he’s always there. I learned from the Mendicant that when Wolverine tried to break up with him, he locked her in a room for a little while. I’d say that warrants an ass-kicking, but that isn’t my problem. Maybe some time she can sick Thor on him. Seedy bar culture gets old very quickly. I’m sure it would be cooler if we had vampires like in the Sookie Stackhouse novels, but we don’t. We do occasionally have cross-dressers, but they don’t have fangs. Anyway, this concludes my series on Wolverine.

Not Quite a Match

2009-10-27T01:59:00.000-04:00

Mostly, I’d say that we’re not quite a match.
But I can’t deny that you’d be a great catch.

It’s the way that you smile,
Or get others to smile.
It’s a pleasure to watch your keen social style.

I could stare at your face for hours and hours.
Such insight! Such prowess! Such inspiring powers!
You’re queen of the ball,
Yet not proud at all,
You’re genuine, open,
An inviting call.

Mostly, I’d say that we’re not quite a match.
But I see a slightly torn heart I might patch.

Perhaps it is yours.
Perhaps it’s my own.
Perhaps an addiction, to which we’re both prone…

Perhaps I am wrong; the attraction too base.
Maybe I’m just in love with your face.
Your perfect, beaming, smart little face
I pray that naught ever dare mar that face.
No rashes, No more pimples
I’ll allow a few dimples.
The principal purpose put proudly in place.

O Time! You need no more things to defile!
All I want to do is make that face smile.

Mostly, I’d say that we’re not quite a match.
But I’d have to be stupid, not to try anyway,
Even if it doesn’t quite fit.
Because I can’t think about you and not smile.

The Blind Date

2009-10-23T15:06:00.002-04:00

I went on that blind date yesterday. It took her and I a few tried to find each other, as we didn’t actually know what the other looked like. We had our cell phones though, so we were able to do it. When I finally saw her, I thought to myself, “fuck, she’s WAY too pretty.”

“The Polish ones always are,” says my mother. “Even those who aren’t know how to make themselves look pretty.

She’s certainly deserving of a name, so I’m going to call her Polski Lalkę.

We both made a point of making the date extra casual. I think I did most of the talking though. Here’s what I gathered about her though – she’s a masters student of international business, and she has her doubts about it. She’s a Catholic, but she has her doubts about that too. She’s an only child and still lives with her parents. Both her parents are from Poland. So is she, but she grew up here, and has no accent. She likes to exercise and stalk people on facebook. Who doesn’t? So I told her we could stalk each other and see where things go from there.

I also told her I keep a blog, and even my theory that this kills my chance with every woman who reads it. I told her about Nurse Betty, and Scarlet the Spy. I’m praying now that I’m wrong though. I did not give Polski Lalkę this blog address. That’s where I’m stopping short. Yet she’s not the one who’s on my mind today.

She was gorgeous. Actually, she just added me on facebook. She’s stupidly gorgeous, and she’s easy to talk to too. So why am I thinking about someone else? I was thinking about her on my way to meet Polski Lalkę too.

I suppose if Polski Lalkę is actually interested in me, I should give her a chance. I would have to be stupid not to. I can’t help but want who I want, though. This other girl doesn’t even know I like her, and I don’t know how I’m ever going to find the courage to tell her. But invariably, I seem to find that courage, don’t I?

Wet, Wet Poetry

2009-10-22T12:25:00.001-04:00

I went to a poetry reading last night, by Daphne Marlatt. Her poetry seems to revolve around the town of Steveston, which was once a prosperous fishing town. Now that the world has changed, it has become a bedroom community for Vancouver. I gathered that this depressed her, and that this is where all her poetry was coming from. I couldn’t help but think “get over it.” There are worse things happing in the world than the decline of a fishing town.

So, her poetry wasn’t great. It was actually kinda flat, 2-dimensional, but she the reading actually was. She’s got a good reading voice, but what made the reading memorable was the inclusion of two experimental musicians playing water-phones, saws with violin bows, and even a water-filled turkey baster for ambient aquatic sounds. It was like listening to poetry under water, without getting wet.

Afterwards, while I waited at the bus stop in the rain with Scrapbook Girl, she brought up the fact that her poetry prof was the one who organized this, and that she has a very closed mind when it comes to poetry. Marlatt is important to her prof because she defended her thesis on her, and from what I gather, Marlatt is kind of a big deal when it comes to feminism, at least in this city, in the 70s. The problem with Marlatt’s poetry is that it hyper-focuses on the decay of Steveston, which, if you haven’t been there, doesn’t really impress anything upon you. She brought up a writer who condemns poets who write all their poetry about one particular place that is significant to them. It’s fine if the poetry is just for you, but if you want others to relate, you might try aiming for themes that are a little more universal. Otherwise, you’re just another Wordsworth, and I don’t care how close to nature you think you are when you’re near Tintern Abbey.

It’s funny though. As depressing and hopeless, if not a little spaced-out as Marlatt’s poetry was, I left the university feeling uplifted. I walked home, whistling some cheery tune I made up, in the rain. Apparently I seemed so happy a few strangers couldn’t help but start talking to me. Something put me in a good mood. Maybe I like Marlatt’s poetry after all. Or maybe I just like walking in the rain.

Thou Shalt Not Kill. Unless it’s Homos. Or Anybody Working on the Wrong Day.

2009-10-20T02:47:00.002-04:00

Yesterday, a friend posted a link on facebook with the quotation: “There's a schism in the world of atheism. New atheists — led by Richard Dawkins — insist that religion is stupid and dangerous. The old guard may not believe in God but are willing to work with religious liberals on shared goals.”

This spawned a debate, which of course, rapidly regressed into an idiotic comparison between Moses and Hitler. Godwin’s Law. I started to respond, but then I decided, with the amount of work I was putting into this, that I might as well make it a bona fide blog entry. So here goes:

I usually like to note that there is a difference between atheism and anti-theism. Atheism is just not theism, just like asexual is not sexual, or asymmetrical is not symmetrical. You don't see amoebae protesting sex, and you don't see oddly-shaped polygons boycotting squares. Not often anyway.

Dawkins’ brand of atheism seems to be anti-theism. I will never understand why any sane atheist would bother engaging in a head-on debate with a theist, or a creationist. It’s like telling a dog to stop thinking about food. That dog is going to go on thinking about food as if it’s somehow going to get food as a reward for staring at you until you get blue in the face, and give up talking. Believers in “the good book” don’t hear logic, just like most dog don’t hear most English. Their minds don’t work that way.

I’m with the school of atheism that sees theism as a mental illness that will sort itself out over time. Sooner or later, people are just going to give up on religion entirely. Because the truth is, it is stupid. It doesn’t take very long to figure out that you can’t depend on the bible for anything. Its argument collapses because of its own incoherence and inconsistency. Allow me to illustrate:

Exodus 20:13 says: don’t kill. Leviticus 20:13 says: kill homos. There. Bible debunked. What? You’re not satisfied? Very well…

According to bible scholar Dr. Reuben Alcalay, the exact Hebrew wording of Exodus 20:13 is lo tirtzack, which actually translates to "no killing of any kind of whatsoever." In other words, forget about that rule about only killing kosher, or not eating pork – you can’t kill anything. You can’t swat flies. Now that we know about microscopic germs, we can’t scratch either.

Exodus 31:15 says: kill people who work on the Sabbath. The Sabbath, by the way, is Friday for Muslims, Saturday for Jews, and Sunday for Christians. Guess what? If we were to put just this rule to the test, there would be no one left. (Unless, of course, we advocate a 3-day week-end, which frankly, would be kinda cool.)

Of course, you’ll astutely notice that this really only attacks the Torah, or the “old testament,” which Christians love to excuse with the junk expression: “Well, that’s the old testament. When Jesus came along, he absolved us of that.” Did he really? Where in the bible, pray tell, does it say that? They don’t have an answer for this of course, because they’re full of shit, and they’re obviously making it up as they go along.

Okay, I’ll be fair. After much scouring, there may be something in Acts 13:39. I’m not convinced this means that Christians no longer have to obey the laws of Moses, particularly the Ten Commandments. That seems counterintuitive.

It’s late, and I think I’ve strayed from my original point – so I’m actually going to end this rant on that weak note. Consider it an invitation to perhaps enlighten me as to how none of the logic issues I’ve raised are a problem. I doubt it, but you’re welcome to try.

Going in Blind

2009-10-19T11:13:00.000-04:00

I’m going on a blind date on Thursday. It will be my first truly blind date in five years. Okay, I don’t mean that one of us is literally blind, but I mean it in the sense that neither of us has seen the other’s face before. I know nothing about her. I don’t even know how I know her. She’s a friend of a friend of a friend of my grandmother Depressia. So naturally, this is some kind of Polish networking thing. Anyway, I called her this morning, and she seems bright, and has a cute voice. About all I know aside from that is that she moved her from Poland when she was ten. I guess I’ll tell you more when I know more.

Driving Me Crazy

2009-10-18T17:44:00.002-04:00

I can’t help but wonder today about where my life is headed. Every time I utter that I want to be a teacher, or a prof, I believe it a little bit less. As an English major, language is important to me, but somehow, whenever I try to put what I want into words, it just seems to dissolve. And the words that do come out, can’t possibly be true. I want to make a difference – this much I know, but I don’t know how, or where.

I also want my god damn license, so I can start thinking about applying for all those job I would supposedly need one for. But I can’t because of the steelworkers union strike.

There are 550 members across Ontario striking. I booked a test back in August, but they’ve been stroking ever since. I wondered what could possibly warrant their striking this long, so did a bit of reading, which is a little difficult, because when strikes so on too long, it tends to drop out of the sight of the media.

Apparently they want better job security. Many of them work more in the summer and often get laid off in the winter. I suppose this is an understandable concern, but I’m increasingly taking the frame of mind that unions take these things too far.

Yes, their job security sucks. Whose doesn’t these days? Meanwhile there are hundreds of thousands of people who are in limbo who can’t get jobs at all, let alone security, because of the 550 shit-heads whining about their own job security.

I’ve said it before, I’m sure, and I’ll say it again. “We have the right to strike” does not make a strong case for you. You should not have that right. I believe that people should absolutely be paid well for their work, and treated with respect, despite the fact that I myself have had several jobs where I had low and no pay, and little or no respect. I never got to join a union, and in one case I got stiffed for three solid months of labor. I don’t hold this against unions, but they’re taking it too far. Unions should be used to protect workers from abuse, but not to allow them to cause it.

Blogtoberfest

2009-10-16T00:25:00.003-04:00

Recently I got an invitation to do a segment for a sister blog called Apartment 613. The invitation came from none other than Scarlet the Spy herself. At first I was thrilled by the idea, but then many doubts cam to the surface.

I met with a few of the other editors and contributors a few weeks back. We all went to a pub and shared a few drinks, and talked about our ideas. They seemed good at the time. Scarlet was not there, disappointingly, but she still appears to be my chief contact with the group.

The idea is roughly this – each month, I write an exposé on my romantic exploits, or more accurately, the failures. I seem to be spectacularly good at confessing failures. On might even think I’m proud of them. Some of you may have noticed I have spent a lot of time swooning over one girl in the past, or going on random dates with women I meet on the internet that I have scarcely nothing in common with. But lately I’ve been trying to change. I haven’t even logged onto a dating site in longer than I can remember. I’m just tired of it. I wasn’t kidding when I poured my heart out about it to Wolverine. She said that I was describing her. And I think she was right – I think I symbolically gave her the load on my mind from all the women that have wasted my time. I haven’t really thought about her since that night. I’ve either been too busy, or I just don’t give a good god damn anymore.

Also, the more I think about it, the more I don’t ever want to feel like I’m exploiting anyone other than myself. I’m okay with self-deprecation, but it is another thing entirely to mock someone who trusted me. By the way, Nurse Betty, if you ever check back here, I’m still sorry. Not just for what I said, but for everything. Even the stuff I wasn’t involved with. That was the only thing I really wanted to impress upon you all along anyway. I hope things are better for you now.

I think I’ll take the week-end off. Maybe I just need some peace, which is why this week-end it’s just as well that I’m going to Ema’s place to look after his cats while I’m gone. It’s gonna be nice to have a place all to myself – quiet. No people. Maybe I’ll watch as many of his shitty movies as I can while I’m there. Ema collects the worst movies, that it takes a special kind of sick mind to love.

The Real Epidemic is Stupidity

2009-10-14T13:22:00.002-04:00

Hey everyone. Sorry about my absence. It took a break for Canadian Thanksgiving, and on top of that, I had to prepare for a big presentation yesterday with Parasite Eve and this other girl, who as it turns out, lives four doors from my house. Small world. Our presentation was awesome, by the way, because we did our reading, and I’m a charismatic genius, but I didn’t sign in today to brag about that.

I’m writing this because a witch hunt is going on right now. I don’t know what’s going on in the rest of the world, but here in the national capital, we’re talking about H1N1. It was on the front page of the news today, it’s been on the radio for months, and I’ve been getting really sick of the way people keep talking about it like it’s the next cold war, the next communist-witch-hunt. All people talked about during the break of my second class yesterday was how they’re going to find time to get their H1N1 shot, and who’s going to pay for it. Everyone seems to be missing, or perhaps ignoring the obvious. Do we have no bigger stories than this? Do we not have poverty on our streets? Do we not have an economy which could perhaps use a little more maintenance? Do we not already have under-funded, overcrowded healthcare facilities?

Did I miss something? What the hell is going on here? Everything about this screams of wasted money, and wasted time. Do we not have bigger issues to deal with that H1N1? Even saying the new name for it is a waste of time. We changed it from “swine flu” because the farmers complained that the pigs would be offended – or something like that. Okay, that’s a small joke, but the idea was that they worried that people would associate pigs with illness. I’m surprise the farmers didn’t also take a swing at the Jewish community while they were at it. Jews, as you may well know, have been not eating pigs for a long time. So even this name change seems like a gross, bureaucratic waste of time.

But it gets so much better. Swine flu, as an epidemic, or a pandemic, is a joke. It kills far fewer people than regular flu. Sure, it kills people, and that’s a bad thing, but the flu kills over three times as many. Why isn’t that on the front page? The front page today says our national death toll is 79. Out of 33.2 million people, that’s nothing. Heck, if it was only 79 people in Ottawa, people would hardly notice. Not compared to the amount of rape, cancer, murder and traffic accidents we get. If it were 79 students at my school, then maybe people would start to notice. Then again, the school is pretty overcrowded, and some students are awfully stupid, so it might be a blessing. Particularly if one of them is me.

So, I’ve written this rant here, because I get the sense that something is very wrong here, but I don’t know what. Someone wanted this to be a big sensation. Someone is trying to distract us, manipulate us. I just don’t feel I know enough to figure out who, why, or from what.

One-Armed Time-Bandit

2009-10-07T13:28:00.000-04:00

Life is like a slot machine.
You pull the arm.
Sometimes you win.
Sometimes you lose.
In the end, you always lose.
You end up broke.

No one can stop the slot machine of life.
No one can remain in the one moment they love.
Time will urge them to pull the lever.
Just one more time.

If I could, I would cash out.
I would find you.
I would run to you.
I would say, “I’m sorry.”
I would hold you, and I would not let you go.
I would cash out.

Minute Man

2009-10-07T07:59:00.001-04:00

I took a minute
to take this Polaroid
of a sketch
of the man
I used to be.

The Mirrors of Life and Death

2009-10-03T23:58:00.005-04:00

Do you ever just discover someone, and then you feel like you’re looking into a mirror? Well tonight, that happened twice.

In the year 1989, Frank Cole crossed the Sahara Dessert alone on camel back. In the year 2000, he attempted a second journey, but was murdered 60 km from Timbuktu. Tonight, I attended a documentary retrospective on his life at the National Archives. Everyone was there. His father, his brother, his ex-lover, his best friend, (a writer who teaches at my university), and the filmmaker who never met him, but became his biographer. They each spoke of the mystery surrounding his obsession with death.

Cole did not grow up here; he grew up all over the world. His father was a Canadian diplomat. He did go to the same post-secondary schools as me, possibly at the exact same time as my parents. When I told my father I was going this evening, he asked me to get him a copy of the book, Life Without Death.

Early in life, Cole had said that he planned on committing suicide at age 30, but while studying filmmaking at Algonquin College, and making a documentary about the his grandmother’s battle with cancer, something changed him. He developed a new idea about prolonging his life, as long as possible – even if only an additional 20 years, out of say, 100, it made all the difference. He developed a rigorous diet in the name of slowing the aging process.

He was one of those people you either adored or detested. He drew in numerous lovers with his passion and drive, and lost them again to those same obsessions. They were always second. He would oust them from his life if they got too comfortable. Nothing mattered but his film. But what was he trying to say?

I remember that my ex, Karma Chameleon, once said to me, “I realize that I will always be second, and I accept it.” I am sorry, KC. We were too young, and we never understood each other. I always loved you though.

I wondered what Cole was looking for out there in the Sahara Desert. Then I recalled he said something about a feeling he had out there. He said to his father that he felt more alive out in the desert than anywhere surrounded by people. He felt most alive when he was most isolated. He felt most alive when taking that one gulp of water when he was nearly dying from thirst. It was a euphoric feeling beyond the stresses of our senseless “Western” busy-work life. It was pure survival. I looked at the images of vast desert, and I tried to place myself in his weathered shoes and torn jeans. In the desert, you can see nothing but more desert in all directions. And I thought – that’s it. That’s why he liked it. You can see in all directions, and never get any sense of an end. It would seem an eternity of walking in a desolate wilderness. He would never die, and he could walk the desert forever. When he did finally get home, he was already planning to get back to the desert.

In the end, it was in the desert that he found what he feared most: death. He was murdered by bandits and left to decay in the desert for two weeks. When they finally found him, all that remained was his skeleton. But, as per his final request, they cryogenically froze him anyway, I suppose in the hope that they someday find a cure.

He is like me, and yet he is nothing like me, just as I am like you, yet I am nothing like you. When you read my blog, you see some of yourself in me, and when I saw his film, I saw some of myself in him. What I saw was a man away from everything most people cling to. In a moment of weakness I ran from my life with N/A in Toronto. Yet we can never escape who we are, no matter where we go. She will always be part of me, and I will never be able to forget. Cole is part of me now too. And I am part of you.

The second person I “discovered” tonight was my co-president from ELS. You recall I did not feel ready to give any of them names yet? Well, now that I’ve had time to get to know her a little, I feel she deserves one, and I’m calling her Scrapbook Girl, because she keeps the most adorable little scrapbook, with poems, notes, ideas, and thoughts. It’s a very oldschool writerly habit. I love it! Though I hadn’t spoken to her much before the meeting last week, I have noticed her for quite some time. She really does love to talk; we probably didn’t have one moment of silence all night. She’s brilliant, really. Her mind must move at a hundred miles an hour. I found it inspiring. She told me at one point that she’d been on a hermitage for three months in her little apartment. She just wanted to get away from people, and their petty little opinions and idiotic beliefs. Well okay, those are my words, not hers, but still, I felt like I was looking into the mirror. She writes poetry and has a blog too – and it occurs to me that she may be getting a link to this soon, so I should probably watch what I say, lest I offend her like I did Nurse Betty. Then again, what can I say against her? I’m actually quite fond of Scrapbook Girl, and I am glad to have made a new friend. I owe tonight to her, too. Had she not invited me out tonight, I would not have looked into either mirror.

President Blackheart

2009-09-25T16:02:00.002-04:00

Yesterday, I went to the first ELS (English Literature Society) meeting for students in my program. It turns out I’m the president.

Actually, there are three of us. The way this all transpired is this; one of the first orders of business was to select a president to help organize events, motivate students and spread the word. You’re probably thinking, “great; three things Blackheart is bad at.” Well, when one of the two organizing profs asked who would be interested, there was silence. I waited for someone else to put their hand up, because I didn’t want to do it by myself. So a fellow student I’ve been in class with since I start English put her hand up, and then I was glad to.

At the exact same time I threw my hand up, another girl put her up as well. We hadn’t seen one another until this point, and I was pretty much overjoyed to see that it was this really brilliant (and admittedly gorgeous) young woman I’d met at some functions before.

We were given the option of working together or going head-to-head in an election, but I would be crazy to turn down the opportunity to work with them. Both my co-presidents are beautiful, in mind and body, so I’m happy. I love the male-to-female ratio in this department!

After the other thirty or so students left, we three “presidents” sat with the two teacher-advisors to discuss the coming year. I won’t give anyone names just yet, but one of the two profs is Professor Mom, which also makes me happy. We’re trying to come up with some fun literary or non-literary themed events, as well as maybe establish a blog. One event coming up is the PEN Canada recite-a-thon, which is the event at which I read “I Like Cheddar, I Like Brie” last year.

I laugh when I look back at my last entry. You’d think I was bipolar. And you might be right.

One of Those “Moods”

2009-09-23T13:14:00.000-04:00

Do you ever have one of those days where you feel totally worthless? Well for me, that’s every day. On most days I am okay with it. Today, not so much. That’s right. Today is going to be another one of my rants, so if you offend easily, please, PLEASE, keep reading. I’m glad if it can make you laugh, but I’ll enjoy it all the more it offends your shabby sensibilities.

I’m in one of those “moods” that women get to pretend is PMS. Not that I’m jealous of ACTUAL PMS.

I’m sitting in the university library, just after a 3 hour lecture on Renaissance Drama. I’m not going home because it’s pouring rain, so I set up in the library foyer. I have another class in three hours time anyway, in Victorian Literature.

I keep thinking, “What’s the point of all this work I’m doing? Why can’t I just find a decent job and move out of my parents’ house? Why does the government only hire mindless assholes?” But I’m the one with no value. No economic value, anyway.

I suppose I could just level with you all and admit that this “mood” probably started last night, just before I went to sleep.

I was chatting with Wolverine online, ranting about women, specifically my weariness of trying to date them – really it’s the same as with looking for work. It’s too much work, with no payoff. Women on the site can get hundreds of messages with no effort, and in fact, no picture. So I didn’t really feel like she understood. Anyway, I think I may have offended her, because she said, I probably shouldn’t say that to women I’m interested in. So I told her that I normally don’t, but in her case, I saw no reason to hide. She either already liked me or she didn’t. So, in short, she said “not that way” and I said “good to know” and then neither of us said anything. So it goes.

It struck me as odd, though, because all the evidence suggested otherwise, but then again, maybe I was only seeing what I choose to see. So it goes. Maybe I should stop stealing Vonnegut’s mantra. Bah, he’s dead, he doesn’t need it.

I keep trying to tell myself “who cares? You can’t have been serious anyway.” There are so many other signs against too. All those scars, the creepy ex-boyfriend, her fickle treatment of my own friend. She thinks circumcision is a good idea. She has no female friends. She barely has ANY friends. Just suitors. And anyone can tell you that male suitors are cheaper by the dozen. I keep trying to tell myself, “Malice Blackheart, you’re too good for her.” But still, I’m bothered.

I feel like I’m trapped as one of those guys who just gets ignored, and nobody has the heart to tell him he should just give up and accept that you’re out of the gene pool. I feel like I was never really in it to being with. They say, “Don’t worry; you’ll find love. You just have to stop looking.” Right. I stop looking, and I stop dating. Then I’m just doing nothing. They say “There are plenty of fish in the sea,” and I say, “Have you seen how many God-damned hooks there are in the sea too? There’s six of the motherfuckers sticking out of Wolverine over here!” They say “you just have to lower your standards.” Right. Look at the women I’m dating now! They’re mostly civil servants, for Christ’s sake! The scum of the earth! If my standards get any lower, I’ll be fucking slugs in my back yard!

Speaking of civil servants, there’s this girl in my renaissance drama class who asked me to be in her performance group. This was yesterday. So this morning, after class, she says to me that she’s going to go “print out all the plays on government money.” That irked me a bit, but I asked “what do you do there?” She said, oh, nothing. It’s the department of Justice, so nobody there does anything.” Right. You’re one of the deadweight people in my father’s department who doesn’t do any work so that he has to do extra.

She’s in another one of my classes too. She’s yet another estrogen-powered wonder in my increasingly over-estrogenated Literary theory class. I swear to God, I feel like I’m about to sprout a pair of ovaries! She’s the sack of sour eggs who sits behind me and talks about how much she hates the other stupid people in our class. At first, I thought it was cute, but now I just find it annoying.

Now all I can think is, “you fat, ugly, self-loving sack of liposuction extract. How dare you profane my classes your presence?” Lazy bitch probably gets paid more than my prof to do nothing. I’m in such a fowl mood today that I’ve decided I hate her and I’d rather work alone.

Paradise… Found?

2009-09-22T18:56:00.003-04:00

Hey, did I mention that Parasite Eve is in one of my classes this term? Well, she’s in my Literary Theory class, the same class as Bright Eyes. Truth be told, that class is full of beautiful, bright young students. The female-to-male ratio is probably something like 5-to-1, no exaggeration. The same is true of my class with Professor Mom. Anyway, apparently Parasite Eve saw my name on the presentations sign-up sheet, so she came up to me after class and says will be working together I’m excited. She didn’t even know what we signed up for, but I guess she chose to trust my judgment. So I told her we’d be presenting on Roland Barthes. She asked if he was any good and I was honest with her, I told her I couldn’t remember. But his name kept coming up in Film Studies, so I should probably make a point of reading him. There is another girl in our group, but neither of us knows her yet.

Also, apparently Wolverine put the Mendicant back on her friends list on facebook, so I guess this means we can all be friends again.

Cutting Ties

2009-09-21T17:59:00.002-04:00

Later on, yesterday, I got an IM from the Mendicant saying that he caught Wolverine sneaking out of his apartment. Apparently she told him she never wanted to see him again, and has already removed herself from his facebook friends list. He wanted to know if I could remember what she might have been upset with him about, and I told him that they both had seemed in high spirits when we parted ways at 2:30 in the morning. Evidently something happened between then and the time she snuck out of his apartment for the early morning bus home.

So I spent a bit of time chatting with Wolverine yesterday, never touching the subject of the Mendicant, but getting to know one another a little better. I asked her if she perhaps wanted to hang out sometime minus the other guys, to which she responded.

“Right. You say that, and then you never actually do anything with me.”

And then I remembered saying that night that this happens all the time. Every day I run into somebody I haven’t seen in years, and we say “we should totally do something,” and then we both immediately forget. But neither of us cares enough to make it happen. So I assured her that my offer was genuine.

Ema came over today and we chatted a bit about what’s been going on. Apparently he foresaw an event like just like this happening, almost to a T. Knowing that the Mendicant and I have similar taste in women (i.e. the sexy and dangerous ones, the femme-fatales, though I think the actual word he used was “crazy”), Ema predicted that the two of us would fall for the same girl, and hang out more. Lo and behold, this has come to pass.

Ema warned me that the Mendicant will probably start asking me what’s happening with Wolverine, and I suppose that’s when I’ll decide what to tell him. But who knows? I may never see her again. But if she wants to see me, it will happen.

Ema suggests that what happened was, the Mendicants worst fears came true. Wolverine likes me better, and that’s why she won’t scratch me. The Mendicant wanted a relationship from her, but she reacted by saying that wasn’t part of the deal, and pulling out. Now he has nothing left to remember her by, but the scars. I also noticed that she brought him back all of his bondage gear. I thought it was odd that she would bring that stuff, given that she planned on sleeping on his couch that night, but evidently she planned on returning it so he wouldn’t have an excuse to come looking for it.

I cannot say for sure whether this is the case, but that does seem to be the case from my angle as well. It’s just been such a long time since anyone has wanted my badly enough to ditch who they’re already with. In fact, this has happened once before, in high school, and a year later she would dump me for the next hot guy she wanted – our tae kwon do instructor I think, but at this point who can be sure? And who cares? I did, however, get the sense that Wolverine resented the Mendicant for being there, trying to touch her, when she wanted me to move in. I think she feared that he was ruining her chances with me, and I think my leaving them abruptly that night confirmed that fear. So she immediately cut ties with him. It’s the only story I can think of that fits.

Hangover Hang-ups

2009-09-20T23:55:00.003-04:00

It is amazing how much an altered state of mind can bring new perspective. I drank more last night than I have in years, and it took me to a dark, dark place, thinking and feeling in ways I thought I no longer could. I wonder how much brain damage one has to receive before worshiping invisible assholes seems like a good idea.

My brief explanation for the preceding poem is that it was inspired by a trip to synagogue with the family. I did not want to go, but I did so to humor my mother. Natural the three wasted hours I spent there reminded me of why I never want to go. It was three hours of prayer, all in Hebrew, but essentially the same prayer said over and over again, saying that God is eternal, and we are not, and that we will die. This morbid fascination with death is a waste of life. And this solace in an eternal god who will live after us is a delusion we don’t actually need. I also gather that worshipping an invisible guy who never helps you is supposed to be a bonding experience, but there is nothing more alienating than sitting in a room surrounded by people who are told not to question ideas that obviously don’t hold together. That was Yesterday morning.

Last night, I went out to play pool with The Mendicant, Wolverine, her two friends, Mohawk, (who has a Mohawk), and Thor, (a stout, bearded, powerful fellow, who looks like a thunder god aught to), and three other male friends who will remain nameless, because before long, those three bonded, and left together. It was what guys like to colloquially call a “sausage fest,” which is always fine by Wolverine, who revels in being the only girl.

Now, I had said two weeks ago that I was worried I might be a little jealous of The Mendicant. Well, after that night I had pretty much forgotten my crush on her, but in the two weeks to follow both she and The Mendicant kept reminding me about a big pool night coming up, and I decided that I like the game, so I was interested in going.

Early in the night, before we had left the pool hall to go on our drinking binge, Thor, Wolverine’s oldest friend caught his buddy Mohawk ogling Wolverine, so he said to him, “don’t hit that.” He’s a man of few words. Actually, they both are, but anyway, I overheard this, and I knew what he meant. He knows, and I know that she has a history as a man-eater. The Mendicant has the scars to prove it – for the most part, they’re healed now, but the scars are there to say. If you’ve seen Rambo, his scars look just like that. And I think it’s only now setting in what he has really done to himself. At this point, Mohawk muttered something noncommittal, but I took Thor’s warning to heart, as well as the others who have warned me against her – such as, The Mendicant, Ema, and her ex-boyfriend, Nasty Nick. On a side note, Wolverine told me that after my run-in two weeks ago with Nasty Nick at “the Dom,” he sent her a long e-mail detailing why she should take him back. I can see why he would miss her, though, and why The Mendicant would be so gaga over her, and why she gets so much other male attention. She is what men like to call “a 10,” she has a body that is total poison to a heterosexual man’s better judgment. And she knows it.

The Mendicant spent the night trying to find excuses to touch her, and she kept finding excuses to touch me. At least that’s how it seemed. Anyone who knows me will tell you I’m not the touchy-feely type, even when I’ve been drinking, but there was a lot of that going on. She flirted with me a lot throughout the night, and I won’t lie, I liked the attention. The Mendicant and Wolverine both seemed to have an agenda for me last night. At first, I thought it was only to get me drunk, but I later gathered it was more, at least for Wolverine. Actually, I believe only she wanted to get me drunk, but he wanted to get her drunk. Why not do both?

The eight of us staggered through the streets for awhile, before we came to our next pub. That’s when the three amigos who bonded took off, leaving our numbers at five. Come to think of it, those three probably gave up on Wolverine’s party to go find some girls they might have a chance with. Well, that’s what I’d like to believe, but they probably just went home.

We went to a pub called “The Highlander” – a place from which she had apparently been banned sometime ago – I didn’t really get that full story, sorry. But since the waiters there don’t last long, it didn’t matter. We had a few more drinks, and The Mendicant and Wolverine sat me between them. They had jokingly decided they each had ownership of one side of me for humping purposes. Apparently I did no get a say in the matter. The Mendicant complained that he still hadn’t recovered from Wolverine’s tearing at his flesh. He asked me to feel his back, which felt pretty bumpy. Wolvering said that he had healed by then, so to contest, this is when he showed the rest of us his back. That’s when I said he looked like Rambo. I thought that’s the nicest way I could put it.

I do not remember at what point in the night I said this, but it would make sense for it to have been here. I said to her, “You may absolutely not scratch me like that, ever.” And she said, “I would never do that. I like you.” And then she touched my arm in a really gentle way. I wasn’t sure what to make of that. But I got the sense that The Mendicant felt like he was losing. But he still smiled and tried to play along.

At the Dom, (which is perhaps an ironic name for the pub, given this particular context), the nails came out again. She had cut them, and they weren’t the vicious claws they were two weeks ago. Still, she could scratch, and so she did. This time, Thor was in on it. He’s a bit of a macho man, which I’m in no position to judge; a man of his build can certainly make it work. He held out his arm and told her to give it her best shot. So she drew blood, and his arm looked pretty hellish. Then Mohawk, starved for attention I suppose, insisted that she do him as well. This made no sense to me. She asked him first if he had a girlfriend. I remarked that this was a sign that she was mindful of such things – she said she would be furious is some strange woman left marks on her own boy. (Toy?) Then again, she immediately proceeded to tear the living hell out of his arm, as soon as he assured her that he had no better half.

As we prepared to head home, all of us very tipsy, The Mendicant and I went to use the bathroom, and he said to me,

“I really like her, man.”

“I know,” I told him. “Everyone knows.”

“Mal, be straight with me. Do you like her?”

“I don’t know,” I lied, after a paused. Maybe it wasn’t completely a lie, but the truth would have been too difficult to explain, and he is an open book, who cannot keep a secret. If she’s going to learn that I like her, she’s going to learn it from me.

The truth is, I had not been thinking about her. For the past two weeks, I have been crushing after another woman I met at a friend’s party. In the end, I suppose you always know who you really want, by who is on your mind. Alas, I don’t even know if she’s single, or if she is really interested in me, but her actions and words seem to suggest that she is. I won’t be able to find out until she confirms a date that we can go have pho and talk. If she does not give me the opportunity soon, then I suppose I will have my answer.

But after all we’d been through last night, and seeing how good she looked that night, my resolve to hold out for the other girl was wavering. And I saw something else in Wolverine too – something I hadn’t seen the last time, and something the other guys seemed to miss, or at least seemed not to acknowledge. She seemed to be more than just… a woman who scratches. Perhaps she felt ashamed, or perhaps she was smitten with someone. Perhaps it was me. Perhaps it was nothing.

Afterwards, Wolverine came out and got into an argument with The Mendicant. I overheard my name, and the word “threesome,” and I gathered that it’s something she wanted, and something he did not. Again, I apparently had no say in the matter.

But I did. As soon as we parted ways with Thor and Mohawk, I made an excuse about it being late, and I left. If The Mendicant had felt he was losing, this was me resigning before things got ugly. I knew they had issues to work though, and I had my own too, and I just wanted to go home.

When I got home, I cried. Not over Wolverine, or the other girl – who I still wish to give a fair recount of, but for now she’ll remain nameless. I thought about N/A, and though I haven’t cried in years, or seen her in years, I cried. This is what the bottom of a bottle gets me – my worst fear, which came true, because I made it so. If this is what alcohol gets me, then I’m through drinking. I never want to feel that way again.

A Hymn to God, Who is, Well, Just So Much Better than Us Wretches, And I Thought He’d Like Even More Shameless Groveling.

2009-09-20T22:13:00.000-04:00

O God,
Compared to you, I’m so lame.
I don’t feel worthy to utter your name.
I’m just very sucky, and you’re just so very great!
I feel so very lucky I can call you my mate!

Compared to you I’m small,
Smaller than a fly,
Smaller than a kitty to a six-foot guy.

Compared to me you’re big.
Bigger than house!
Bigger than a lion to a really small mouse!

Compared to me you’re cool.
Cooler than can be,
Cooler than ice, or iced tea.

Compared to you I suck,
Like a little leech.
I suck like sand-in-the-eye sucks, at the beach.

O Lord, we thank you,
For allowing our people to continue to grovel in your presence,
And kill one another in your name,
For thousands of years,
And for thousands more,
Our actions being their own reward,
As it is written.

You are a wise god.
And we all suck.

Amen.

Year Four, Day Four, Class Four

2009-09-16T05:55:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was my first day of Canadian Literature, with the same prof I had for Can Lit last year. She’s pregnant now, and expecting in early January. It’s like she’s timed it perfectly to go on leave for the second term. I’m very excited for her. She’s gonna be a cool mom. Know what? That’s what I’m going to call her. “Professor Mom.”

The focus of Professor Mom’s class is “Loss and Mourning.” Sounds like a real up-beat class, huh? It’s a pretty small class – only 15 students I think, so we’ll have more time to present. Each of us has to teach the class for 20 minutes, either on one of the five books we’re reading, or on one of the supplemental readings. We were allowed to choose our own dates, so I took the very first one. I met as well get it over with, right? So in two weeks, I’m presenting on The Disappeared by Kim Echlin. This means I should probably buy it and read it ASAP.

Fourth Year, Day Three

2009-09-15T09:32:00.002-04:00

Yesterday was the third day of school, though I didn’t have any classes. So instead I went to buy books and go to a poetry reading hosted by the English Literature Society. I can’t say whether it was bad or good, because I didn’t understand it. It was a Nigerian poet describing his experiences in new places, like Germany and Toronto. Now, I used to live in Toronto, so I recognized the landmarks, but that was about it. For the most part, I was glassy-eyed, and trying to stay awake. I only went to this meeting because a cute classmate of mine said she was going too. And two of my profs were there too, so that was cool.

At what point in our foojed-up history did poetry become about alienating your audience completely? I swear, this poet reminded me of Joseph Conrad.

At one level, I understand there’s a desire to generate and read a text that is densely packed with layers and symbols, to be decoded and interpreted in a variety of ways. But when it gets to the point where anything could mean literally anything, and it takes ten times as long to make sense of the poem than it did for the poet to actually write it, then it begins to remind me of two things: religion, and bullshit. Yes, despite their similarities, I’m keeping those two things separate today. I have enough to rant about.

I just believe that things should make sense as you read them. It’s all well and good that it can make MORE sense later, after much cogitation and reflection, but for the love of Jebus, and all that is Boly, it should make SOME sense when you first read it. But no – it’s about that feeling you get when you hear the words. The sights matching the sounds, and the sounds matching the sense and all that. Those associations you may, or may not have. In my case I almost never have them. I’m all for the sound matching the sense, but my question is: Where did the sense go?

I think, in the end, I did find his poetry inspiring, (as seen in the poem published a half hour ago, but perhaps only in spite of it. Actually, there is one thing in his poem that I liked. He compared the 9/11 terrorist attack on the twin towers to the circumcision of a baby’s penis. That’s right. Osama circumcised New York!

I Found an Angel by the Bookstore

2009-09-15T09:01:00.001-04:00

Last night,
The rain came suddenly heavy.
I had no umbrella, no coat, no warning.
Though myself I was silently scorning.

The rain fell, erratically stalling,
Sometimes stopping, sparsely falling.
Sometimes heavy, heavy, heavy, cold.
I stood where student’s books are sold.

I found an angel standing there,
On her cell, to borrow a car.
She was a vision, to be sure.
Her eyes blue as the sky,
Her hair gold as the sun,
I asked of her a favor, and in a word it was done.

I knew her through a friend.
He left her late last year.
Why he did this, I don’t know.
Her complexion’s white as snow.
Her smile is always full of cheer.
It drives me ‘round the bend.

When he gave her the keys,
And made a joke at her expense.
I thought of the girl I left,
And could not recompense.

Now that his money is his own to spend.
He shows off his new game controller.
It’s childish, and stupid.
But I understood.
Baffling, laughing.
Crafty packaging.
We left him to his devices.

There we sat, driving home,
Sheltered from the rain.
She says was glad she caught me.
I was glad of many things,
But saddened by them too.

I wanted to say something nice.
I wanted to know what happened.
I wanted to ask her about it.
But I did not.
I know well enough not to open old wounds.
Especially when they’re my own.

But last night,
With beauty like Helen of Troy,
She became my angel on four wheels.

“Helen Wheels”?
Sure.

She Says

2009-09-14T14:13:00.001-04:00

She says, “Can I walk home with you?
I want some time alone with you,”
She says.

She says I’m meant for such great things.
She loves my witty ramblings,
She says.

She says that I waste too much time.
To waste my talents is a crime,
She says.

She says, “Don’t make me wait too long,
‘Cause I’m not feeling very strong,”
She says.

She says she hates my ramblings.
“You laugh at very stupid things,”
She says.

She says she’s sleeping with my friends.
She feels she need not make amends,
She says.

She says I can’t just leave it there.
She says she’s sick of my inaction.
She says she needs to know I care.
She says she just wants some reaction.

She says “How dare you look amused?”
She says I make her so confused.
She says she wants to be refused.
She says she wants to be abused.

She says “I’m so in love with you.
“The problem is I hate you too,”
She says.

Waiting for the Big Cripple

2009-09-14T13:15:00.000-04:00

We amass scars.
Big and small,
Physical and emotional,
Ugly and uglier,
We amass scars that remind us of how stupid we were.
Forever, they remind us, as if we could forget.
They remind us that one day, the big one is coming,
The life-shattering one,
The big cripple.
And when that day finally comes,
We’ll say, “I told you so.”
And we won’t cry,
Even though we’ll want to.

Blackheart of Darkness

2009-09-11T23:04:00.001-04:00

Today was the second day of school, and the second of my five fall term classes. I didn’t even know I had registered for Post-Colonial African Literature until I got to class today, which was a little embarrassing, since it’s a fourth-year-seminar, and our prof asked us all to introduce ourselves, explain what African texts we were already familiar with, and tell him what induced us to take the class. I chalked it up to a night of heavy drinking and a torrid fling with a hooker from Botswana. Okay, no I didn’t.

To be honest, I had only stuck this course in a place-holder, hoping to get into first year history, just to see if I want to do a minor, but now I’m thinking of sticking with this class.

Our prof, I believe, is originally from Ghana, and then got his degree in the US. He seemed to be very excited to be in Canada, and particularly praising the fantastic libraries we have in our two major universities. (Those in this city, that is. Canada has more than two universities. This may come as no shock to you. We also don’t all live in igloos. Unless absolutely necessary.) He smiles a lot and seems to really enjoy books and literature, and wanted to impress upon us that he doesn’t want a master-slave relationship with us (his words), but rather to be the oldest student. (And the one who gets paid.)

So he suggested some supplementary readings to give some background for the books we’ll be reading, Joyce Cary’s Mister Johnson, Graham Greene’s The Heart of the Matter, and, (ugh), Joseph Conrad‘s Heart of Darkness. (It seems like I just can’t escape that bloody book!) The three African authors we’ll be reading, in case any of you care, are Chinua Achebe, Ayi Kwei Armah, and Ngugi wa Thiong’o.

Apparently in 1975, Achebe called Conrad a bloody racist, which caused quite a bit of controversy. Now, I don’t know about Conrad being a racist – I took HOD to be an anti-Imperialist text, but really, I don’t much care for Conrad’s writing either. He wrote Heart of Darkness in this weird fairy-language that he invented himself, and fits nowhere in history. And I don’t necessarily mean that as a gay joke. I just mean it belongs with the fairies, wherever fairies live.

“Some people say that the novel originated in Africa, others disagree. I say it does not matter. What matters is, does African literature bring anything to the form? We are all interconnected, into the same cultural stream. No culture is free from the influence of other cultures. Achebe was a student of Joyce Cary, and he wanted to write about Africa with his own voice. Do you think Things Fall Apart is an honest text?”

Anyway, there was one major point he wanted to leave us with, or perhaps more of a key term: “Narrative.”

“We all have a narrative,” he said, “or a story if you will. But who tells your story? If you let other people tell your story, they will tell it to their advantage. And they will destroy you.”

First Day of Fourth Year

2009-09-10T23:39:00.000-04:00

If was my first day back at school today. It doesn’t really feel like I was gone, cuz I was there all summer. My strategy is working though. I’ve jumped from first year to fourth in only one semester.

I haven’t heard back from Rose in awhile, and I suppose of sort of forgotten about her, but not completely. I’m wondering why the hell she hasn’t called me back since she genuinely seemed to want to. I’m really mad at her for this, because she was either stringing me along, (which I suppose should seem obvious to me), or worse, she is interested in me, and she’s just incompetent.

Anyway, in my first class today, literary theory, (I know, - *puke* - but I have to take it to complete my requirements), who should arrive and come sit next me, but Bright Eyes. She was looking well as ever. She still hasn’t finalized her courses, so I recommended her my favorite prof for Victorian literature. Our prof divided us up into groups at the end, to discuss what our most hated book was. It didn’t take Bright Eyes and me, and the rest of the ladies in our group long to single out Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. There’s something about the language that is used – nobody talks like that. Every third word is some strange word no one need ever use, much less know. It was like a Ukrainian with a thesaurus gone wild. Also, his use excessive of ellipses makes the book frustratingly…

My hero though, was the girl who presented the bible as her all-time most hated book. I’ve thought of her as a bit of a hero ever since she made an ass out of a student rep who came to speak in our class last year, a woman who was totally asking for it. Basically my hero pointed out that she was drinking bottled water, which directly conflicted with the issue at hand. Oddly, I forget what the issue itself was – I think it was having water fountains on campus. Anyway, she made me laugh out loud, and I had to shake her hand then and there. Well anyway, she did it again with the bible. I immediately wanted to change my answer, but I had already gone. There has never been a book quite so popular, and so badly written, that has done so much damage as the bible. None. Not even Harry Potter, though according to yet another group in our class, it comes close.

Anyway, there are a number of my old favorite classmates back for this class, so I’m looking forward to the coming term.

Two Dates in One Day

2009-09-08T21:57:00.002-04:00

Sometimes I think if I give myself enough time to think and make sense of it all, all will become clear. Sometimes the more clearly I think, the less sense it all makes. This will turn out to be a long one, but it’s juicy.

I went out on two dates on Saturday. Neither of them were exactly date-dates, but rather hang-outs. I met both of these women online.

The first woman, 34, I met for scrabble in the park. I’m going to call her “Ugly Betty,” not because she was ugly, but because she looked like Ugly Betty. We hung out in the park for perhaps two hour. She told me about how much she hated her boring government job but how much she loved having the benefits and pension and everything. She wants to leave after she has her mortgage paid off, but she likes the pension too. “They call them golden handcuffs for a reason,” she said. Civil servants make me sick. I’ve probably mentioned that before. Perhaps I’m just jealous. Anyway, I kicked her ass at scrabble a couple of times and then took off. Actually, she did have one interesting story – apparently another date showed up with a gift for her – a loot bag that said “congratulations on the baby.” Whether this was re-gifting, or symbolic of a brand-new relationship, I cannot say, and anyway, I’ve since lost interest.

The second woman, 22, I’m going to call “Wolverine,” not because she’s ugly, nor because she bears any resemblance to Wolverine, but because of the following story. I had actually already named her Cue-T in my last post, but I hadn’t met her yet, so this is a much better name. We met at a pool hall that evening, along with an old friend of mine. Let’s call him The Mendicant, because, he is a bit like a mendicant. Sometimes. Anyway, I met the two of them at a pool hall, along with two other friends of hers, and I got to know her better. We played a few rounds of pool, all of which I won, despite not having played pool in five years, and despite how wickedly-good everyone else purported her to be. I might get the feeling she was letting me win, but then again, I think my ego prefers to think of it as prowess. Likelier still: it was just dumb luck, but I digress.

Almost as soon as I arrived, I noticed some rather nasty scratches on The Mendicant’s arm. When I asked him what happened, he responded that he nodded toward Wolverine, who was engages in another game, hinting that “she did.” I told him it looked like he had come in second in a fight with Wolverine, and he said that wasn’t far from the truth. So I followed him outside as he went for a smoke, and got some more details. He told that he and Wolverine are into the same “scene.” He asked if I knew much about it, and I told him, not in detail, that yes, I was, and once dated a professional domme. He told me then: “I’m playing with fire, my friend, and I think I like it.”

We went out to a favorite pub of his, we three, (the other two friends dispersed), we shared a few pitchers and got ourselves nicely buzzed. As the night progressed, I had a thumb war with each of them, at the same time, I guess as an excuse to touch her hand. She dug her nails into my hand, and as I said something about how sharp her nails were, The Mendicant doffed his shirt, revealing an entire torso of scabbed-over scratch marks. He looked like he’d been tortured, and everyone at the bar noticed. I’m pretty sure those marks will be permanent, though they’ll fade over time. I looked at my hand again, and picked off the bits of skin she’d loosened, and then I grabbed her hand to inspect her nails. She actually sharpens them. I had never seen anything like it, save one kung-fu partner I once had, who was perhaps a little nuts. But that’s a different story.

The two of them got up to go to the bathroom, so I got up to speak to another friend of mine that I recognized, who shares my love of chess and Final Fantasy Tactics, among other things. With him was a plump guy with an unkempt beard wearing an Evil Dead T-shirt. You know the type, I’m sure. Great big B-movie nerd. So I struck up a conversation with him about crappy movies, as I have a soft spot for them myself. I asked him if he has seen a movie called Die You Zombie Bastards!, which had come by the recommendation of Wolverine perhaps a week or two prior. Well, he’d seen it, and he proceeded to ask me about the woman I was with.

I’m going to call him Nasty Nick, because I found him rather nasty, and his name was Nick. You’ll have to forgive me if my creative juices are running a little low. Nasty Nick did what I like to call a psychopath move. Perhaps several. At first said he vaguely recognized the girl I was with, and ask me her name. When I told him, he added the last name and asked if it was her. When I confirmed, he laughed and told me they had dated. I found it odd that he would give the pretense of not recognizing her, and I can’t remember if I called him on it or not. Anyway, he decided to tell me that “since things don’t seem to be going so well for [me] tonight,” that he’d tell me it was just as well. This is the second person that night telling me she was a dangerous girl. When my friends came back, they both got me away from him. When I tried to talk about him, Wolverine asked me not to. I gathered she wasn’t proud of having dated Nasty Nick, and I can’t say I blame her.

After that we three went back to The Mendicant’s place. They both dry humped me along the way, and also when I got there. I wasn’t exactly sure if I was being molested or mocked. I suppose I didn’t care.

My grandmother Depressia just called me to remind me to eat breakfast. Or I’ll get swine flu. Even though it’s night time – I can put a box of cereal out to remind myself in the morning to eat. Because otherwise I’d forget, right? *shakes his head*

Throughout the night I felt like Wolverine was speaking to my dark side, and I was probably also speaking to hers. What really weirds me out is that The Mendicant seems to be goading her on to do this, when I would expect he would want her for himself. Perhaps that’s because *I* want her for myself. He had told me days before that he liked her, and I’m painfully aware that he’s already far more familiar to her and intimate with her than I’d be willing to get this soon. Then again, I did sleep with that pole dancer the very same night I met her. God, I hope my mom isn’t reading all this. Also, he kept trying to make out with her that night, and she kept pushing him away. I got the impression it was just about scening, and not necessarily dating.

What I really want is not to be jealous. Anyway, as for what will happen next, I’ll have to see. I know that The Mendicant wants her too, and at this point, I’m inclined to say that his antics have earned her. The Mendicant slept over at her place last night, and was still sleeping behind her as I spoke to her on msn this morning. I decided to outright ask her: “So, are you two an item, or do you just need a scratching post?” She replied smartly that she supposed she needed a scratching post, and that The Mendicant, in turn, needed to be one. Poor boy.

Anyway, that’s enough for now. Well, one last thing. I met *another* woman at a party a few days back – a culinary student, who is studying with a few other Chinatown friends of mine. She doesn’t speak to my dark side, but she does speak to my humorous side. When I went on my usual tangents of making silly conversations even more silly, she played a long. She just seemed to get me. And she seemed very maternal – it’s difficult to explain without sounding cheesy, so I won’t bother. Let me just say that I’ve just asked her out, and I’m hoping she doesn’t have a boyfriend and/or freak out on me like Nurse Betty, or Makeup Girl, or Lilith, or whoever else thought a simple “no” wasn’t good enough.

Later, voyeurs! (You know I love you.)

There Stood Stanly, Staring Down

2009-08-30T02:51:00.000-04:00

There stood Stanly, staring down.
Stopping, sounding,
Heartbeat pounding.

How long will it take to drown?
Bubbles troubling,
Doubt is doubling.

Life abound with mounds of sound.
Lost and tossed, and never found.
Gowned and bound, put underground.
That’s the future he has found.

Grooming gloomy groveling knaves,
Gathering gravely for their graves,
Pointless prayer never saves.
But there’s peace beneath the waves.

Four Hot Women

2009-08-29T20:29:00.002-04:00

It’s time for another update methinks. Just to let my two and a half readers know what I’m up to. I’m wise enough to know you’re not here for my shitty poetry. You’re here for the juicy stuff. So here it is. You sluts.

I’ve just finished summer school. I took British and American literature. This is how I spent my summer, reading books, playing PSP, going to lectures, chasing hot girls, and most importantly, not finding work. I’m exceedingly good at not finding work. It’s a shame it’s a skill that isn’t in high demand.

Right now there are 4 women I’m interested it. In no particular order, they are: Rose, Cue-T, Buffy and Orchid. (I sense a flower theme today.) Rose, I’ve mentioned before. She SO hot, and such a sweetheart, but she’s VERY elusive. Since I last mentioned her, we actually went on a date and it was GREAT fun! We just wandered around the market, and parliament, and made fun of the soldiers on parade. I suppose if I had to pick a favorite, it would be her, but she’s terrible at calling me back. She’s said again and again that she wants to see me again though, so I’m inclined to believe her.

The other three I accumulated over the summer. I met all of them on a dating site, and we’ve been chatting off and on. Cue-T likes to play pool. She’s also quite cute, hence the name. We actually have a mutual friend already, which is bound to happen, even in a capital city such as this. Buffy likes the show of the same name. We may go see the movie together on Monday. She also kinda looks like Buffy. Orchid arranges flowers, and is an ethnic mix that reminds me of several of my exes. People used to make fun that I seem to like ethnic mixes the most, particularly when they’re half-Asian. I won’t confirm or deny that, but it certainly looks to be the case, at least in hindsight. They’re all equally attractive and intelligent in my books, so it isn’t like there’s a clear victor. If one of them turns out to be a vampire, then maybe she’ll win the contest. Hell, she’ll probably eat the competition. I’m going to make an effort to meet them all in the next week and a half

I’m finally ready to go for my drive test, to get my license, but now the lazy wankers are striking. What could they possibly be dissatisfied with? They get to sit in a car all day intimidating new drivers, failing them if they’re having a bad day. I don’t see what the fuss is about. Small minds love to abuse small amounts of power. They have small minds, and they have their small amount of power. I always think of Selma (or is it Patty) from the Simpsons when I think of drive testers. Jesus Christ, give me 60 grand a year, so I can grow a fat ass to sit in a car and tell people they suck at driving; I’ve been on the road; I know how much fully-licensed people suck at driving.

You know I’m not making fun of fat people, right?

Anyway, I said I’d give you an update. Well, there it is. Now – back to the shitty poetry...

Nostalgiaratu the Vampyre

2009-08-19T14:46:00.001-04:00

Nostalgiaratu, the vampyre…
He comes into your home in the middle of the night…
And sucks on your junk.

Wait, a minute, that sounds wrong…

Rosewater

2009-06-25T03:14:00.000-04:00

Over the past month I have read more books than I have in the first 28 years of my life. Yesterday I read three book, cover to cover. (For the record, they were The Picture of Dorian Gray, Gulliver’s’Travels, and Breakfast of Champions. I didn’t read any of these for school either. I just wanted to read on my first day off in awhile, then couldn’t stop.) This is a new record that surprises even me. I was even surprised when I read two in one day two weeks ago. (They were Of Mice and Men and Slaughterhouse-Five. Incidentally, I’ve become quite the Vonnegut fan.) It turns out that the trick to getting myself to read, was to admit that I hate it, and I stopped trying. I hate reading, but I love literature. I hate history, but I love learning about the past. I love women, but I hate dating them. And so on.

Incidentally, I also spoke to Rose a few days ago. You remember Rose, the woman who stood me up two weeks ago, right? Well, we spoke on the phone, and I really like talking to her. We must have spoken for 40 minutes before I had to let her go and get back to an essay I was writing. (The essay was titled “Why do babies have to die?” and it was a 4000-word monster about how A Farewell to Arms, Catch-22, and Slaughterhouse-Five deconstruct the old American myths of patriotism and war, and create new myths of their own. Frankly I think it’s one of the best damn essays I’ve ever written – possibly because I actually read all of the texts this time.) Well, the day before yesterday, Rose stood me up again. I remember sitting there at the pub, alone, nursing the pint of beer I wouldn’t finish, watching some well-to-do middle ages man stroke the legs of some young, attractive, blonde, while I kept staring at my phone, then around the pub, knowing full well that she wasn’t coming. Why was I such an idiot for letting her do this to me twice. I’m ashamed of myself for that. She’s made no attempt to contact me since then, and I’ve no desire to contact her. I think she’s gorgeous, but I’m so cross about this. So yesterday, I took to reading. Maybe that was part of why I did three in one day too; I needed to keep my mind off Rose.

Every Rose has a Thorn

2009-06-09T21:04:00.000-04:00

I spoke to Rose over the phone yesterday and arranged to have a date with her tonight, over the phone – and I must say she seems fun and has a very cut voice. However, today I got an e-mail to her in the early afternoon asking if we could have it earlier and relocated to a more convenient place. I didn’t get the e-mail until the evening, so I replied saying that was fine, and that she should call me to reschedule. When I did not hear back from her, I decided it might be prudent to show up for the date anyway, in the event that she did show up, since it’s only a five minute walk from home anyway, and since I just bought myself a copy of Dispatches by Michael Herr, which I brought along to keep me entertained in the event that she did not show up. When I got there, I immediately ordered a beer as big as me, and began reading. 45 minutes later, I paid for my drink and left, feeling a little dejected. I don’t like feeling like I’ve been stood up, even though it isn’t clear to me whether or not I was stood up, as the line of communication is a little fuzzy now. I know that she doesn’t have a cell phone of her own, and I’ve surmised that she probably lives with her mother. I figured this out yesterday when her mother answered the telephone when I called yesterday, but would not disclose who she was. But Rose told me, and really, I thought it was rather cute that she and I would be in similar living situations among other things, and that her mother would try her best not to disclose that. Anyway, I don’t think she needs to know that I sat there and drank alone, waiting for her like some lovesick pussy. I’ve resolved to wait until she contacts me and tell me when we can reschedule.

Yet another Lunch with Depressia

2009-06-08T13:31:00.003-04:00

I had lunch with my dear old grandma Depressia today, and as per usual, she was obsessed with death.

“The woman across the street died.” She meant the women across the hall from her room. Why she’s been consistently confusing “street” with “hall” is not entirely clear to me. “She was young.”

“What do you mean she was young?”

“Well, she was a young grandmother. Her daughter was young and her grandchildren were babies.”

“Right. Okay.”

She handed me a handwritten list of news headlines that she said she copied down from the TV. Most of them were about death. My grandmother is obsessed with death.

“I copied this out so that you could read the news.”

Wow, that’s really crazy, I thought.

“My handwriting is terrible now. It’s because my hands shake. It’s just dreadful, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. I’m ashamed to be called your grandson.”

She laughed at my joke. I was pleased that she got it.

“I think it’s your parents’ fault that you don’t read the news.”

“Sure, if you say so.”

When it was time to go, she insisted I take her handwritten headlines with me so that I could read them. I obliged, and as soon as I was out of sight, I threw the paper in the garbage. It’s a shame she felt compelled to do so much pointless busy work, but there’s no reason for her to know that.

On my way home, I ran into my scriptwriting teacher from a few years back. I’ve always referred to him as “The Beast.” The Beast asked what I’m up to these days, and I told him I’m back in university, taking English. Apparently his daughter is doing the exact same thing, and when I asked her name, I realized that she’s in my class, and that I’d already talked to her. Small world. When I had spoken to her, I found out she worked at Stinky Wrinkles, a place that used to employ me, and the place where Ema currently works. It is a small, small world. His daughter’s hot, too, but I think she’s taken. I think she has a baby on the way, too, but that’s only something I think I overheard. Anyway, I was happy to see his face again.

Myth and the Hollywood Hero

2009-06-07T13:21:00.001-04:00

You may all think I’m incredibly foolish for this, but for the first time in my life, I finally feel like I actually understand myth. It’s not that I never knew about it at all, it’s just that I didn’t quite understand its gravity on modern life – on my life – even though I’ve never really believed in the myths. Not since I was a child, anyway. At least I didn’t think I’d believed in any myths, until I started that American lit class a few weeks ago. Ever since the first class, when Professor B started in on her overall thesis of the course (or its focus, if that’s more accurate), which is myth, the American dream, and the male ego, I’ve had something of an awakening.

You see, the American dream isn’t actually everyone’s dream. It was concocted by a bunch of white, male slaver-owners who claimed they wanted justice, liberty, and that pursuit of happiness (or property) for all. It’s been fed to me at every turn, and I believed it.

Ever since World War II – Everybody’s wanted to be American, the Japanese, the French, the Russians, even the Canadians, and especially me. Why? Because they’ve established this dream. Why? Because they’ve had more success. Why? Because they stayed out of a war they felt was none of their business for three years while the rest of the world had a complete breakdown. Because let’s face it, that’s what war is – a complete breakdown of civilization. In war everything is backwards – instead of instinctively avoiding pain, men are trained to seek it. In most of the countries involved – its people didn’t want to fight. No one really wants to fight – not unless they’re insane, or buying into a myth of patriotism.

So the Americans became a super power, with the only surviving large economy in the world. All the while, Hollywood became stronger, and stronger, and stronger, and for years it’s become this odd kind of mythical standard, to which we all aspire. For years I wanted to get to Hollywood. I wanted to live the dream. I wanted to be among those who made the dream strong.

Why is that coming out of me now? I don’t know. Nine years ago, an old film prof gave a class on myth and ideology, but I didn’t get it back then. Maybe I wasn’t ready for it. To be honest, I didn’t get most of what was taught to me by my Film studies BA, and I think it’s because my mind was too isolated from the proper contexts to truly understand. Or maybe when I was 20, I was just really stupid, but I don’t think so. Maybe I was too caught up in my dreams of becoming a Hollywood Hero to want to break it down.

A few days ago, my mother told me, “I didn’t get my appointment again.” I didn’t ever know she was still trying to become a judge again, but I was sorry just the same. They got their woman judge for now, from among the defenders. And she’s really waspy and tough. The next appointment might not be for years, and then they’ll want a crown attorney. I’m paraphrasing somewhat, of course.

Now the US has a black president, and the myth is stronger than ever. Now more than ever, people seem to believe that if you work hard, you can persevere, and achieve your goal. But for every success story, there must be at least a thousand failures, or at least, a thousand tales of compromise and acceptance of something far less that you’d originally dreamed. Perhaps my mother and I are realizing this at the same time, or perhaps we already knew – but we were happier in denial.

My dream has been shrinking every year. When I was ten, I figured I’d be something awesome, like the prime minister or maybe a movie star or something, and then I got to be the lead in my school musical. Big deal, so what, who cares? In my teens, I decided I wanted to write, direct and star in movies. And I really did make a few, but once my Film BA finished, I was still a nobody, and I was still in Canada. At 23, I figured I could write the next great screenplay, and dash off to Hollywood and woo them all with my brilliant plots and witty dialogue. I studied screenwriting for a year, and I really did get good at the form, but I didn’t know anything of real substance – so I moved to Toronto, wrote a few mediocre screenplays, made very little money, and my worthlessness continued. But at least I had a girlfriend, and she believed in me. And I still had this dream of having children.

It was all myth, and it was my myth that I’d written for myself, but now I feel like everybody knew it was a myth, except for me. Now I’m 29, I live with my parents, and I know I’m a big joke to everyone – because that’s what we all do, isn’t it. That’s also part of the myth. We make our failures feel bad about themselves. We teach our children to fear failure. I still have a haunting memory, at age eight, of my dad telling me that if I didn’t do my homework, I’d be a loser with a shitty job, or no job, married to “a fat mattress of a woman.” On one hand, I can appreciate he was trying to help push me toward success, like his scary dad did to him, but that again, I never responded well to scare tactics. Their effect was always the same. As a child, I’d shut down, and now, as an adult, I retaliate. The homework kept piling up, and I was still expected to do it all, and it became terribly daunting. “Everyone else did theirs,” they told me. “Everyone else has a job. I got one.” they tell me now, and of course, if you really look around, it isn’t true at all. It’s a myth. I know lots of people who don’t work, can’t find work, and/or settle for low-wage jobs they can’t even retire from. The homework assignments were stupid and meaningless, and we all knew it. It’s easy for those with government jobs to criticize the rest in this town. They think guys like me are lazy, stupid, and a drain on the economy, and funnily enough, that’s exactly how I feel about them too. They’re actually paid to sit around and do nothing. I’m not.

We were all born indentured to our ancestors – to the extent that our entire reality is constructed to keep us from really understanding that. I’m not saying we shouldn’t work. I’m not saying I shouldn’t work either, but given the current structure of society, simply putting on an apron and going out to a job I hate, making minimum wage to prepare food for lazy investors who do nothing all day, and civil servants who do nothing of particular value to society all day, who spit on me, or call me lazy, is no way to live. Now it’s no longer whites doing it to blacks, or men to women, but we’re still doing it to each other. Now we perpetuate the myth that if you work hard, you can change that, but it’s a lie – and those who profit need you to believe that lie, so they can continue to collect their dividends, and their pensions, and so that people like me, can’t. And they’ll lie to you as long as they can, because they’re callous, ignorant, lazy, and satisfied, as long as you keep calling them sir, bringing them a plate, and cleaning the toilet after they’ve pissed all over the seat. (And yes, I’ve had jobs just like this.) And they say “If you don’t like it, go to college.” I’ve been to college. It’ll be three times when I finish this English degree. It’s a lie.

The other day, my folks told me that more years spent in school only translates to marginal increases in salary, statistically speaking, and that a Masters and PhD actually loses money in the long run. Of course, this isn’t exactly true – I mean, it may well be technically true – but it isn’t the correct way to think about it. You see, today, I really feel like I’m on the verge of something with this degree, but it has nothing to do with my personal success, and I think that’s okay. I’m tired of it all being about money. I am tired of people telling me to succeed, without really knowing how – just trying to get me to be neurotic about my current state, by telling me their own stupid story about how they essentially lucked into a job, thirty years ago, or fifty years ago, as if these tale bore any resemblance to useful information.

What I’m getting from this is knowledge, not money. But really, what got us all to where we are today is knowledge, not money. Well, money had its hand in it I suppose, but for the first time, I’m in university actually enjoying what I’m learning. I’m actually interested in what I’m learning. I’m enjoying studying the American authors who spoke out about the myth, even if they may not have fully understood it themselves – the implications are all there, in their writing.

Ironically, in becoming the mouthpieces of dissent in their respective generations, they too, became part of the myth. That’s okay. That doesn’t make them wrong, and it doesn’t make them hypocrites. It just makes them pragmatists and opportunists. And that’s okay. Maybe Professor B, the woman who opened my eyes to this myth, is also part of it. She’s got a sweet job, and she can skip off to Florida for a week and have a PhD student fill in for her, while she gets a sweet tan. And that’s okay. And maybe I’ll even find a cozy position someday, and succumb to the dream, and that will be okay. Heck, that’s what everyone else around me insists they want for me too. But I mustn’t ever forget this responsibility that we all have, to deconstruct this dream – and if I do, I’m going to need someone to remind me, or the cycle will never be broken. Until it’s a dream all people have a fighting chance at sharing, it’s nothing. It’s false hope, and I’ve never had any patience for false hope. Not when I know that there’s real hope.

To Wait, of not to Wait, for Rose

2009-06-04T21:19:00.002-04:00

I originally wrote an extremely long entry today, but I’m going to sit on it for now – because it needs work. My American lit class has opened my eyes to something.

For now, I just thought I’d share that I just gave my cell number to Rose in an e-mail, and I asked for hers too, so we could arrange something, but this time, she read it, deleted it (which is usual), but didn’t reply (which is unusual.) She already said she wanted meet me for a drink, but now I’m left wondering if she changed her mind at the last second. I’m having a WTF moment, but somehow I wonder what else I expected, as this kind of things has happened so many times before – girls that I seem to connect with, but never bother to meet me – and for no apparent reason. Actually, sometimes they say it’s because someone died. I don’t even know what to say to that. I would think they’d reject me after meeting me in person. You can’t really know until you spend time with someone, right – and this is after we’ve already established we can carry on decent conversations without anything getting weird. Anyway, this doesn’t always happen, but it is frustrating when it does.

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe she’ll call me tomorrow after all, and we’ll meet. And then maybe it will be great, or maybe one of us will feel compelled to spill our drink on ourselves and use it as an excuse to bolt. But I really don’t feel like waiting by the phone, just to see if she calls. Of course, it’s a cell phone, so really, it waits by me.

Not Your Problem

2009-06-02T20:39:00.003-04:00

I tried to save a bird today. I think.

But first, a little update.

I had last week off school, and with all that spare time, naturally, I did no work. I’m now weeks behind on my readings, and as terrible as it sounds, I’m going to try to catch up on them by watching the movie version, and reading what Wikipedia has to say about them, which usually, isn’t much. I know it seems like I’m cheating, but, well, the only person I’m really cheating is myself, and anyway, at least I’m being honest.

It’s not like I did nothing at all. I participated in two gaming sessions with Ema, and as a result, am chipping away on a post-apocalyptic fantasy story, that so far, I’m actually rather pleased with. It’s being written according to what we do on the campaign, but it isn’t simply a journal of our adventures. It’s a gothic tale about light and dark characters grappling with the demons of the world, and their own demons too.

I’ve also been a little more proactive on the dating circuit. I’ve been in touch with a few women in the last little while who seem quite nice, and oddly, find me quite nice too. I’ve only had one actual date recently, but I’m hoping on two more soon. One of these women I’m waiting on is a PSW who works with kids with autism. I’m going to call her Rose because of a charming little photo she has on her profile, of her smiling, with a rose in her mouth. And for the past week or so, I’ve just been gushing over her. I’ve also been thinking about doing some volunteer work, but not for companies, and not with the hope of finding work either. That’s not part of my dream – it’s part of the typified American dream, that my parents, uncles, etc. have been trying to ram down my throat. I know I don’t fit in, but I’ve been working on it. Anyway, I’m interested in volunteer somewhere where I can actually help people. That’s it. I don’t fancy working for low wages at a company that shells out toys to already spoiled children. I want to be on the other side of that. And I have a few ideas, but I’m not going to get into them right now either.

I saw Parasite Eve for the first time in about two weeks. To be honest I’ve been trying to distance myself since she disappeared from my facebook list. Completely. I thought for awhile that she may have somehow found my blog, read it, and become thoroughly creeped out. Then again, maybe that was a very egotistical assumption on my part. Her account resurfaced the other day with her saying “I hate facebook!” and promptly disappearing again perhaps a day later. So I gather there’s a larger issue at hand than just me. When I spoke to her today she seemed distant – sad. I asked what she’d been up to over the break and she said. “nothing.” As stimulating as the following conversation might have been, I opted to lag behind in the hall, getting a drink of water, and go talk to a girl that was cuter and a little more upbeat anyway. It’s not like she waited anyway. I spoke to that other girl for about ten minutes about, you know, the usual absurdity of not knowing what the hell to do with our lives, and studying English, of all things.

Then I passed Parasite Eve again, just sitting on a bench outside. She looked like she was on the verge of tears. And that’s when it hit me. Whenever I see a sight like that, there’s a little voice in my head that says “not your problem.” But I hate that voice. So I asked if she was all right. I asked if she wanted company, but she said it was okay, and I just left. I was somehow reminded of Nurse Betty, and how as much as I wanted to help with, whatever it was, that what she probably just wanted was for me to go away. So I did. After all, it wasn’t really my problem.

Then after class, I found a small sparrow fluttering around the main foyer of the building. As the other students just ignored it, and as the voice in my head once again said “not your problem,” I peered around to try to solve this little puzzle before me. Another sparrow fluttered around outside (the foyer is completely surrounded by glass doors, which seemed terribly confusing for the trapped bird,) as if it were also trying to solve the problem to get its friend out. The doors don’t hold themselves open, so I looked around to prop one of them open. The only thing available was a large trash can, so I dragged that over to hold one of the doors open and then tried to usher the bird over, but then I gave up and left. I figured it was likelier to leave without me there anyway, (again, just waiting for me to leave), and I said to myself, “well, I did my part.”

Well, that’s my anecdote for the day. I’m not entirely sure I can give you a definitive point, but if you want to derive one from it yourself, by all means, feel free, because now, it’s not my problem.

After the Rapture: Jack’s Prologue

2009-05-22T14:57:00.002-04:00

Jack looked on as five bandits terrorized several families. The parents’ hands were bound to their feet, and they were propped on their knees. The children were all huddled together, cowering and crying. No one else had seen Jack approach, and if he left that moment, no one would know he’d ever been there. Jack didn’t want to get involved, but he somehow knew he was going to.

It wasn’t that Jack was a fatalist, nor was he particularly god-fearing. Jack had never cared much for the “divine plan.” From what Jack understood, God’s “plan” was to send all the bad folks to hell, send the good ones to heaven, and leave the rest who weren’t worthy of either place, people like him, in this barren wasteland to fend for himself. What kind of shit plan was that?

The Rapture had been some ninety years ago. The once bustling metropolises were now graves and junkyards. The landscape was littered with cracked, unusable roads, broken-down vehicles, ruins of buildings, and trash, everywhere. All that could be known of the old world were stories told by his ancestors. Jack knew only what his father had told him, which had been learned by rote from his grandfather, which had been taught by his great-grandfather, supposedly a police officer in the pre-Rapture era. It was perhaps this cop instinct, passed on through the generations, that would inform Jack’s actions.

“Please,” one of the fathers cried out, “just take the food! Take anything else you want too, but let us go.”

“Shut-up!” shouted a red-faced bandit. “Did I say you could talk? I’ll say when you can talk. One more word, and I start capping kids!”

“Jesus Christ, man,” started a fellow gunman. “They’re just kids.”

“Don’t you get all moral on me, you whiny little pussy!”

“Hey!” came an authoritative voice, presumably the ringleader. “That’s enough. Nobody dies ‘til I say so. Let’s see what we’ve got first.”

As the bandits rummaged through the families’ effects, Jack recalled the first time he’d crossed paths with bandits.

It was fifteen years earlier. He was only eight years old. Those were the days when he and his father roamed this American wasteland together, in the hopes that they might someday find his mother. He remembered the countless times his father told him about how beautiful she was, and how perfect everything would be once they reunited in a quaint little village called Haven. They would find a home there, and be nomads no longer. For a time, Jack believed they would someday find this place, but as time dragged on, Haven increasingly seemed to be nothing more than a mirage on a barren, broken horizon.

Jack and his father had been making their way through a wood when they had heard a woman scream. Cautiously approaching, they saw a man holding a woman at gunpoint. Her hands were tied behind her back. She was begging for her life. At the time, Jack was too young to realize what he had planned for her, but old enough to understand the distress she was in.

As they hid in the brush, they also spied a second bandit who had a man tied to a tree, dousing him with something out an old jerry can, presumably gasoline. As the bound man begged the second bandit not to burn him, the first bandit dragged the woman into a tent.

“Son,” his father said, “I want you to stay here and don’t make a sound, you understand? Here, take this.” His father handed him a pistol. “If something happens to daddy, you just stay here, and don’t do nothin’ unless they see you, understand? And if they see you, you just start shooting, you got me?”

“No.” Jack grabbed his father’s arm, tears in his eyes. “Don’t go, pop. This ain’t a good idea! What if they hurt you too?”

“That ain’t gonna happen, son. Trust me. We’re gonna save those folks.”

“Why do you have to go?”

“It’s the right thing to do, son.” This would be the answer that would ring in Jack’s ears for the rest of his life.

His father really did save those folks. He started by shooting the douser, right as he was about to strike a match. The shot rang out through the air. Everything froze. The man tied to the tree looked like he might pass out from either surprise or relief at this impossible rescue. Jack’s father’s eyes glanced around for movements elsewhere, but mainly, he was focused on the tent. He kept his pistol trained on it while he pulled a knife with his free hand to cut the man free.

The gunman came out of the tent, using the bound woman as a shield. He said he’d shoot her unless Jack’s father dropped the gun. So his father slowly lowered his gun to the ground, never taking his eyes away from the panicky gunman. Jack’s father calmly stood up, his hands in front of him.

“Now let the poor lady go!” he said calmly.

“Yeah, right!” The gunman hollered, shoving the woman to the ground. “You’re dead, shit-for-brains!”

What happened next was completely a blur to Jack. What actually happened was, the instant the gun had left the woman’s temple, Frank ejected a quick-draw pistol from his sleeve, and shot the gunman through the forehead. The bandit’s gun fired a shot into the ground, partway between where the woman lay, and Frank’s feet. Jack smiled. His father was the fastest gunman in the west.

The couple was so overjoyed that they traveled with Jack and his father for several weeks, sharing what little in the way of rations they had to offer. They finally parted ways when the couple found a cottage on a riverbank, with a steady supply of fish and a working stove, where they wanted to stay. Jack’s father wanted to move on in his quest to find Haven.

Two weeks later, Jack and his father doubled back to the cottage, hoping they might be able to rest there for a few nights. Instead, they found the couple deceased. The place had been ransacked, and their bodies lay in pools of blood. They had both apparently been shot, and had bled to death, side by side. That was the only time Jack ever saw his father cry.

“What the hell’s the point of doin’ right if it just comes to this? Are you listenin’ God? Them people ain’t never done nothin’ wrong to nobody! Nothin’, you hear me! How could you let this happen? How could you…” and he trailed off into quiet sobbing. “Why is God doing this to us?”

Little Jack wasn’t sure what to do. He was crying too, but that was a daily occurrence for Jack. He took another look at the bodies of the two lovers. They were holding hands. He wondered what was that last moment must have been like for them. Did they feel love? Were they just taking consolation in not having to die alone. No one should die alone, Jack thought. Nobody.

Seeing his father like this scared him, but it was this moment that Jack realized that his father was just a man. He was tough, loyal, and courageous to a fault, but he couldn’t save the world alone. No one ever could.

Jack snapped back into his present situation.

“We gotta kill them all,” one of the bandits insisted.

“What, the kids too?”

“Yeah, We don’t wanna break up any families.”

Jack thought about his own family. He looked down at the crucifix his father had given him. He would never have thought a man like his father could ever die, but in a world with no running water, no doctors, and bacteria everywhere, the smallest infection often meant death.

Now all Jack had left of his father was the dream. Haven. This was the only thing that kept Jack going. Jack believed that if he could find his mother, that his father would never truly be gone. He would have someone to remember his father with. His mother. He didn’t even know what she looked like, but he somehow felt that he would know her when he saw her, and that she would know him too. Jack didn’t know if Haven was real or not, and even though finding it wasn’t even his own dream, it was the only dream he had, and the only thing that kept him going.

“If we let them go, they’ll tell their people we’re here. You’ve seen that village! There’s like ninety of them there. There’s five of us. You do the math.”

“We got guns though, man.”

“You think they don’t?”

His father’s words kept echoing through Jack’s mind. It’s the right thing to do. Haven could wait, and if Jack died doing this, then he supposed it would just have to wait forever. Jack stood up, and revealed himself.

“I think y’all better just let them folks go,” came Jack’s loud, unwavering voice.

The red-faced bandit went for his gun. With lightning speed, Jack pulled a pistol from his coat and fired a shot into the red-faced bandit’s head. Jack swiftly pointed his pistol at the ringleader, whose hand was on his gun, but it was still holstered.

“You got kind of a slow draw there, amigo. You sure you wanna do that?”

The ringleader took his hand off his gun.

“Here’s the deal. I’ll put my gun down if y’all put yours down too. Let’s talk about this like men.”

“Fine,” said the ringleader, and they all carefully put their guns down. “Now, who are you, and what do you want? You want a cut or something?”

“No, I don’t want no cut or nothin’. I just can’t stand by and let y’all do any more harm to these here folks.”

“Oh yeah? Just who the hell do you think you are, anyway?”

“I’m Jack Frost.”

Jack Frost had also been his great-grandfather’s name. Some clever irony had gone into the name, yet its humor would be lost on Jack. It would also be lost on the men who stood before him.

“I don’t care if you’re Billy-fucking-Holiday. Nobody tells us what to do. Nobody. You understand?”

Jack remained perfectly still, except for the raising of a single eyebrow. Jack clearly wasn’t impressed. Neither was the ringleader.

“I guess you think you’re some kind of idealist hero, huh?”

“You could say that.”

“You willing to die for those ideals?”

“Sure am.”

The ringleader snapped his fingers. Everybody went for their gun, and a chaotic barrage of bullets ensued. The entire fight took less than a second, and at the end of it, the terrified families saw the five gunmen collapse, and Jack standing perfectly still with his pistols drawn. Jack surveyed the scene, allowing his eyes to catch up with what his hands had done. Five gunmen were dead, bleeding out, lifelessly.

“’Course, it ain’t like that’s my only option.”

Jack twirled his twin pistols and re-holstered them. He untied the parents and made sure they and the children were all right. They offered him food, but he declined.

“Nah, you got growing boys and girls with you. They might need extra.”

“Why don’t you come with us?” asked one of the fathers. “We could use a fighter like you.”

“Nah, sorry, friend. I got somebody I’m looking for. I ain’t gonna stop ‘til I’ve found her.”

“You should come with us to Haven then,” one of the mothers replied. “There’s a community there. Maybe someone will know something. And you look like you could use a decent meal and a change of clothes too.”

“Haven, huh?”

Jack needed no further convincing. For the first time in his life, Jack finally felt like his years of wandering were coming to an end.

The Quitter

2009-05-17T19:28:00.000-04:00

Quitters never win, they say,
And winners never quit.
All I do is run away.
I’m such a chicken-shit.

As I recall, I had my licks.
A job and girl I knew were mine.
I had it all at twenty-six,
And sweet fuck-all at twenty-nine.

When I look back at what I lost,
I think about the hidden cost.
It’s her I’m really going to miss.
I guess I’m not cut out for this.

Backward Progress

2009-05-17T14:02:00.001-04:00

People came from miles around
To look at Darwin’s freak.
If all the world loves a clown,
Why should it have to sneak?

Where might Caesar find the cause
Of Pantheon’s delight,
When I cannot shake all the flaws
Of this disgusting sight?

Who’s the King of Timbuktu?
What’s the longest mile?
How much would a woodchuck chew?
And why the crooked smile?

The Pattern

2009-05-16T08:42:00.005-04:00

I found out last night that Parasite Eve has a boyfriend. And a painfully handsome one too. I’d made an assumption that since she was just visiting my university for the summer term before moving out west that she wasn’t attached to anyone. These assumptions of mine have a tendency to get me into trouble. “Never assume,” as they say, “because it makes an ass out of Ume.” I’m pretty sure that’s how it goes. And I’m not sure who this Ume guy is, but I’d rather stay on his good side. Anyway, on the bright side, I’ve made a new friend.

Yet I can’t help but feel a bit down about it, nor can I shake this sense that I’m perpetuation some kind of pattern in my life. I can’t seem to find work, not that I’m willing to do anyway, and I can’t seem to find love, not that I’m willing to do, anyway. I suppose there are crappy jobs that I could take, but they’re just a band-aid – a dead-end, and for the money I make, it doesn’t change anything. There simply isn’t enough financial incentive for me to care. On these salaries, it would take me 40 years to pay for a house. Oh yes, I did the math. That means I’ll be 70 when I’ve paid for my own house. Then I’ll promptly sell it, because I’ll be completely senile, and all that money will get pissed away in a retirement lodge, where they’ll treat me like crap and talk to me like I’m a baby.

Yesterday at my grandma’s lodge, an old codger came up to me and asked, “Can you tell me where the car is? The car that brought the babies?” And I remember thinking, ‘What? Oh, right. She has dementia.’

“I left the car in your room. Go back to it.” No I didn’t, but I wanted to. I just told her we didn’t have a car, and then she moved on to the next person to ask. I kept hearing her husband saying to her, “There is no car, Agnes. We live here now. We have our own room here at the lodge.” He said this over and over. What kind of an existence must that be for him, I wonder. I’d go crazy if I had to tell me wife the same shit over and over. And nothing ever stuck. Grandma Loopy is tedious as hell to deal with too. At least now she does really talk anymore. She just makes weird gestures.

Also, my Auntie Flo is coming in from out of town, and her 15-year-old dog just died, so I’m sure she’ll look and feel her best when she gets here, and I’m sure she’ll be extra friendly, and not in the least bit bossy, tedious, annoying, bitchy fucking asshole that she always is. Damn, now I feel like drinking.

I want a woman of my own, but I don’t actually think I like them. I’m certain they don’t like me. I want to have a job, but I don’t want the jobs I can have. I’m stuck in a paradox where nothing seems to be good enough, yet conversely, nothing is worse than something.

One might accuse me of being picky, but the last two women I dated, were women that no one wants. And they turned me down. How is that supposed to make me feel. If I lower my standard, people seem to think even less of me. Fuck my life.

The thing that annoys me the most about the patterns is that I’m aware of it. I just don’t know how to break the cycle.

Knights Before Bishops

2009-05-12T16:41:00.004-04:00

I enrolled in two classes today: a third year class in British Literature, and a second year class in American Literature. I went on campus beforehand and asked for a course overload, so I could take two classes, and then before heading to class, I agonized over what to take.

You see, I’d been talking to a “friend,” (a hot girl befriended on a dating site, who never took the time to actually meet me in person, I’ll call her “Coach”), who teaches ESL on an Indian Reservation. (By “Indian” I mean native, but I resent that term, because *I* am a native. I was born here too, and I sure as shit don’t have a home in England. And unlike “natives” I don’t get a free education. Lucky bastards… grumble…) Anyway, she told me she made 60K a year, plus benefits, and I thought, “damn, now I really don’t feel like going to another country to teach English for the equivalent of minimum wage. Not when I’m this close to going to teacher’s college. So I’m going to keep pushing through the prerequisites I need.

I still haven’t decided whether I want to teach small kids, teens, or just go all out, get a PhD and teach university kids. And if I want to teach high school, it’s strongly recommended, (if not required,) to have two teachable subjects. (Coach only has one, but she teaches on a reservation, so the rules are probably different. You know, like all the other rule for “natives.”) A mere English B.A. would only give me one, so I’m trying to figure out what to do about a minor. I’m considering psychology or history. There are merits to both. But I was torn today about which to commit to. So of course, I didn’t. I took two English classes, because I realized that I could follow a simple principle: Knights before Bishops. When you have known and unknown steps to be taken toward a goal, you take the known ones first. This may seem rather obvious, but today, it was exactly what I needed to solve my dilemma. In chess, when you’re making your first grab at territory, there really is only one ideal square for the knights to jump to. The knight almost always open towards the center. Since you’re going to do this anyway, you may as well do it first, because there are a number of different logical places to put your bishops, and which one is best may not become apparent until later on.

We went over the syllabi in both classes today, and pretty excited about the reading list. Our Brit lit professor is actually contemplating changing one or two of the readings to suit what we haven’t read, or would read. I thought that was a nice touch. We’re going to be analyzing poetry in that class too, which should help with my craft.

Also, there is this girl that I noticed, (isn’t there always?), in both of my classes. So after the second class, I thought, “perfect that’s my ice breaker.” And so I broke the ice with her and we talked about our decisions to take these two English classes, and how unsuccessfully we’d been thus far at getting our educations to work out for us. We parted ways at the bus stop, were she said she was going to the comic book shop. And so I thought, “nerd!” It turns out this girl also has every modern console system, and she… is… GORGEOUS! She’s like the ultimate nerd’s wet dream. I’m going to be sitting right next to her in Thursday’s class, without a shadow of a doubt in my mind. I’ve decided to call her Parasite Eve. Some clever video game humor went into that one. Anyway, though I’ve only just met her today, I have a mad crush on her, and though this will probably only end in tears, for now I choose to enjoy it.

Fix It, Fix It, Six Foot Stitch

2009-04-25T20:02:00.001-04:00

How long will we feel this itch?
Fix it, fix it, six foot stitch.

See the leopard,
Eat that shepherd,
Shredding claws.
Locking jaws.

Mother Nature, you’re a bitch.
Fix it, fix it, six foot stitch.

Tender meat is everywhere.
We use dainty silverware.
Closets get an empty stare,
When we wonder what we’ll wear.

Poor man, poor man, strikes it rich.
Fix it, fix it, six foot stitch.

Feet like a jackal,
Coat like a grackle,
This here smack’ll make you rich.
Clouds look holy,
Nose bleeds slowly,
Fix it, fix it, six foot stitch.

Where’s my pension?
No attention.
Wedding bells.
Shocking shells.

Reset, reset, there’s a glitch,
Fix it, fix it, six foot stitch.

Market’s dropping?
Let’s go shopping!
Hearts keep stopping; life’s a bitch.
Live for hire,
Then retire.
Fix it, fix it, six foot ditch.

I Don’t Like This Poem

2009-04-13T21:24:00.001-04:00

I don’t like this bar…
We’ve come too damn far.
Too drunk to drive home.
I can’t be alone.

I just like your smile…
It’s so filled with guile.
Reminds me of that time…
We drank too much wine.

I don’t like to go.
Makes me feel so slow,
Stagger down the street,
I can’t feel my feet.

I just like that skirt.
My mind is full of dirt
I can’t move, I’m scared,
I’ll fall from my chair.

I don’t like this song…
It’s just too damn long.
My head is spinning ‘round.
‘Round the whole dang town.

I just like your eyes.
Wide with wise surmise.
Tell me your deep thoughts,
I wanna know ‘em, yeah.

And – I don’t like my life…
Hungry for a wife.
Why would you say yes?
I puked on your dress.

I just like you near.
I don’t like this fear.
This can’t be the end.
Please still be my friend.

Personal Aspirations in J-Pan, #4

2009-03-23T01:27:00.000-04:00

As my first year studying Japanese comes to a close, I shall consider, one last time, the goals I set out at the beginning of the year.

Goal #1: Be able to have a simple conversation with my sister entirely in Japanese. I am now able to pick out many more Japanese words than I might have expected. I can even, to a very basic extent, pick up conversations of Japanese people as they pass. I passed a Japanese couple on the way to school last week, and I knew every word they used. (Granted, it was only a few seconds of conversation.)

Goal #2: Play through a dialogue-intensive Japanese game, and actually understand it. I still don’t quite feel I have a handle on the kanji to handle a text-heavy, plot-heavy Japanese video game. However, my ability to read hiragana is just fine, and there’s a lot to be said for context. Also, I can pretty much always figure out what every katakana word means in the Japanese games I’ve tried playing, as they’re almost exclusively taken from English words or names. My theory is, the Japanese love English culture, and frankly, I think we love theirs too.

Goal #3: Watch a Japanese cartoon, with no subtitles, and actually understand it. Not only is language still a bit of a barrier when watching these cartoons, but I think culture is too. I can usually figure out what’s going on, but some of these Japanese cartoons are pretty weird. I like them though, particularly Doraemon. Grave of the Fireflies was also really good, but it made me want to cry, probably because I have a little sister of my own.

Goal #4: Apply to the JET Programme, and teach English in Japan. As I stated earlier, I got rejected by the JET Programme, but I now have a TESOL United certificate instead. At this point, I’m thinking of looking for work teaching here, in the city first. I may continue on in my Japanese studies next year, or I may not. To be quite honest, I am not particularly attached to the idea of teaching in Japan anymore, but I still might.

Goal #5: Write a short story in Japanese. Aw crap, I still haven’t started. I keep forgetting about this one. Actually, we have a free writing session in class tomorrow, so unless there are particular subject restraints, perhaps I can write it then.

Black Hole Girl

2009-03-12T22:14:00.001-04:00

To me, your love is like a big black hole,
A force that pulls towards a loveless void.
If I’m a lonely spacecraft on patrol,
You treat me like a lifeless asteroid.
I’ll orbit one last time your sightless snare.
In awe of your event horizon’s might.
I’ll probe for any signs of life in there.
But nothing comes back out, not even light.
I longed to see that light of yours for years.
And with you watch the music of the spheres.
Now I must go, or be crushed by your core.
While I’ve still fuel, I need to go explore.
I know someday you will become a star,
And then, I hope I won’t have gone too far.

Ask Doctor Blackheart

2009-03-11T07:43:00.000-04:00

This month, a local newspaper is running an advice columnist competition, and I thought seeing as I kept an advice blog for an entire month, that I’d be up for the challenge. They post a new question every day at midnight (Eastern Standard Time), and readers are invited to post their answers. The winner of the competition get a one year contract with the paper. I don’t think I need to tell you that this would be an amazing job, at least for a guy like me. Thus far, I’ve submitted six entries, one for each of the six most recent questions. If you’re so inclined, feel free to check out some of my answers to these questions.

The Long Way Home

2009-02-28T16:05:00.000-05:00

I’ll take the long way home.
I need more time to roam.
I’ll stroll down memory lane,
Out in the pouring rain.

I just need more time by myself,
Before I’m put back on your shelf.

Our house is warm and dry,
But I will pass it by.
And though I’m getting wet,
I just can’t face you yet,

Though you’re the woman I adore,
When I’m with you I miss you more.

So when will we discuss
This black cloud over us?
It seems that you’re content,
Just paying half my rent.

It’s been so long since I have heard
You say a single honest word.

The rain can hide my tears.
It’s been that way for years.
When did it all go wrong?
Or was it all along?

Maybe if you came out again,
You’d recall how we felt back then.

That’s how it all began.
We didn’t need a plan.
They thought we were insane
Kids kissing in the rain.

It’s cold outside; that much is true,
But colder inside next to you.

Personal Aspirations in J-Pan, #3

2009-02-22T23:30:00.001-05:00

Now it’s time for another special edition of my aspirations with the Japanese language. I’m not really in the mood for lengthy introductions, so without further ado, here is where I’m at with my five goals.

Goal #1: Be able to have a simple conversation with my sister entirely in Japanese. I’m closer to this for sure. The conversations are still quite simplistic though. We have kind of a running joke right now that we use certain Japanese verb tenses to end our sentences in English. “Are you going to school today, ka?” “Why don’t we go eat breakfast masenka?” Somehow, it provides us with endless entertainment.

Goal #2: Play through a dialogue-intensive Japanese game, and actually understand it. I still haven’t started on this one, and really, at this point, it seems a little childish and stupid. This isn’t to say I won’t still do it, mind you.

Goal #3: Watch a Japanese cartoon, with no subtitles, and actually understand it. Well, in class, we’ve actually begun watching several movies without subs, and I must say I’m understanding next to none of it. I recognize a few expressions here and there, but for the most part, I’m getting about as much out of these movies as I would if the sound were off.

Goal #4: Apply to the JET Programme, and teach English in Japan. Well, I got rejected by the JET Programme, so during the break I enrolled in the TESOL United course, and got myself certified over the break. In a way, I’m actually glad I got rejected, because instead of being an assistant language teacher (which basically means being the token English gaijin in the classroom), I’ll be able to teach my own class, and design my own course. This is, of course, something I would have no idea how to do, had I not taken this course, but I have, and I do. I’m not entirely sure where to go from here, because I can start looking for work immediately, or I can loiter around the city another a year and continue my studies in English literature and Japanese here. There are merits to both, and I’m sure, strictly speaking, that there’s no wrong answer.

Goal #5: Write a short story in Japanese. I haven’t started yet. And now, time seems to be running out. In some free writing classes, we all get to try our hand at story telling, but in the time provided, we tend only to have time for about twelve sentences, if that.

Báthory Erzsébet

2009-02-16T01:08:00.004-05:00

Goolzabet, Kroolzabet,
Báthory Erzsébet
Queen of the tower of
Torture and pain,

Authoritarian
Mistress and countess whirls
Distress at countless girls;
She’s quite insane.

Step into the Ring of Fire

2009-02-14T02:30:00.000-05:00

Come dance with me. Now step into the ring of fire.
Smile and kiss me. Now step into the ring of fire.
That’s cute. Acting coy. I know you want this. You liar.
Undress for me. Now step into the ring of fire.
Now let me bind your hands behind your back with wire.
I’ll set you free. Now step into the ring of fire.
On your knees. I own you. I’ll use you. Call me sire.
Come worship me. Now step into the ring of fire.
Lick me. Bite me. Tell me all the things you desire.
Come. Excite me. Now step into the ring of fire.
I want to make you giggle, beg, moan and perspire.
Give in to me. Now step into the ring of fire.
Love is violent, and its consequences dire.
Black hearts have we. Now step into the ring of fire.

Competitive Poetry: Sonnet vs. Sonnet

2009-02-13T15:59:00.001-05:00

The contest has officially come to a close, and Inkpot has posted her sonnet too, titled: Mal Content, so go ahead and check it out. It’s quite good. Who is the real winner of this contest? Well, the way I see it we’re both winners, since we both wrote a sonnet this week, while obeying a number of restrictions. Or, if it tickles your fancy, you can pick a winner.

That about wraps it up for sonnet vs. sonnet. I rather like the notion of having weekly challenges – something Inkpot came up with. Therefore, I hereby extend forth an invitation for anybody to challenge me to a writing duel. I prefer poetry, as they tend to be fixed forms with fixed lengths, but I’m open to just about anything. So bring it on, people! Attack me if thou durst!

The Crow

2009-02-13T00:38:00.002-05:00

Murdered the night before we planned to wed,
Our dreams faded entirely out of sight.
A year has passed, now I’m back from the dead,
And in the sky, a single crow takes flight.
I left my calling card upon the wall,
A bloody caricature of a crow.
A killer once, but victims aren’t we all?
That’s one down now; just three more left to go.
A lonesome girl sat huddled in the rain.
Cheer up, old friend. It can’t rain all the time.
I think of Shelly’s thirty hours of pain,
And promise to avenge this heinous crime.
This town has seen the last of Devil’s Night.
At last, I have returned to set things right.

Competitive Poetry: The Rules

2009-02-10T19:48:00.005-05:00

As I mentioned before, I’ve challenged my good blog-friend Inkpot to a poetry duel. The deadline is Friday, and the rules are as follows:

The poem is to be a sonnet. The subject of the poem, is a favorite fictional character. The third rule, which has yet to be decided, (depending on whether Inkpot likes it or not), is to include all three words from any one set listed below. (These came from random people I know, some of whom are some of my readers. You all know who you are.)

JP: butterscotch, wildly, forego

Sis: caricature, lonesome, entirely

Akv: irrumatio, gourmand, vulgarly

Ema: drastic, Socrates, syphilitic

KK: tools, calligraphy, rock

I have a sinking feeling irrumatio isn’t a real word, but I thought it would be unfair not to list his submission.

The Farmer's Daughters

2009-02-09T13:43:00.003-05:00

Sitting in the cafeteria today with some of my Japanese classmates, (whom I will henceforth refer to as the “Nihongoers”), I heard a very funny joke, (from a guy I’ll call “Jackhammer” because of its perfect blend of subtle cleverness and over-the-top lewdness. If you don’t know why it’s lewd, I win.) The joke rhymed, so I thought it appropriate for my blog. (Not that I’ve ever deemed anything inappropriate anyway!) Also, I’m sitting in the campus library between classes, and though I probably should be working on a research assignment, I… don’t… wanna! Anyway, here it is:

A farmer, a single father had three daughters who had just reached the dating age. He was a stern man, and generally overprotective of his daughters, and he thought it might be effective if he greeted each of his daughters’ suitors with his shotgun.

The first suitor comes knocking. The farmer answers, his shotgun loaded. He says nothing, and lets the young man speak.

“Hey, I’m Freddy. I’m here for Betty. Were goin’ out for spaghetti. Is she ready?”

The farmer thinks he seems like a nice enough guy, so he lets him in. Then comes the second suitor.

“Hey, m’name’s Joe. I’m here for Flo. We’re goin’ to a show. Is she ready to go?”

The farmer deems him a decent enough guy, and lets him by. Then comes the third.

“Hey, I’m Chuck –” Blam! The farmer shoots him dead. I guess there was really only one way to go from there.

Of course, now I find myself wondering, what was the third daughter’s name?

Pestering Sleep

2009-02-09T01:03:00.000-05:00

You keep your distance, you pestering sleep!
Out from the darkness flew pestering sleep.
I dare not dream of rewards I will reap.
I have no time to do pestering sleep.
Lay waste to all of it, now in a heap,
You are a wrecking crew, pestering sleep.
Nag about promises I failed to keep.
I’ve nothing left in lieu, pestering sleep.
The love that I lost, the cuts they run deep.
This I don’t want to view, pestering sleep.
Up with a start, and then I start to weep.
Silence is nothing new, pestering sleep.
I’ve no resistance, you festering creep.
So keep your distance, you pestering sleep!

Scarlet and the Poison Blog

2009-02-08T14:07:00.002-05:00

I went on a date yesterday, that wasn’t really a date. We went on a few dates in the past, and then she told me that *I* didn’t seem interested in *her*, so I just gave up. I couldn’t quite get my head around arguing with that. And since generally I assume any kind of negative answer actually means that *she’s* not interested in *me*, I gave up. I figured that she was trying in some strange way to be nice about, to make it seem as though us not seeing one another was my idea.

So later, I ranted about it in my blog, clearly having completely forgotten I’d told her about it. When I look back on it, I should have known, because usually, I blog about the dates I have, and there was empty space where her entries should be.

Anyway, I already wrote a poem about this, but in a nutshell, she read it, (oops), and we started talking again. It was apparent that we both still liked each other. “Liked” is the keyword here, because it isn’t clear that it will ever be anything more.

On Thursday, I asked her out again, and her answer was “I don’t know. I read your blog.” This matches the first response I got from Nurse Betty verbatim. And I just thought to myself, “Okay, that’s it. I’ve had it. No more telling the women that I’m interested in about my blog.” While I enjoy my blog, as presumably do you, my reader(s), it has had a tendency to poison my chances with any woman that reads it.

Scarlet doesn’t believe me when I say I’m interested in her, because I still talk about Betty. She thinks that I’m desperate and that I’d go out with just about anybody. I’m not convinced we share the same definition of desperate. The fact that I’m looking for a girlfriend does not make me desperate, or if it does, then I know an awful lot of desperate people. A lot of lonely people too. And since I know you’re reading this, I might as well address you in first person.

Yes, I’m interested in finding a girlfriend, and yes, I’ve tried my luck with several others before you. Yes, I haven’t had a girlfriend in a long time, and yes, I still miss my ex tremendously. Yes, I still *like* Betty. I want to talk to her again. I want her to be my friend like before, because there really aren’t so many people whose company I enjoy quite as much as hers, and fewer still who like sushi as much as I do. You’d think more people would like sushi. Yes, I fell very hard for her, but that was after you turned me down. Yes, I don’t know everything about you. How well is well-enough? How do you know I don’t already know enough to be interested? Yes, I’m impatient. Yes, I’m using the word ‘yes’ too much, and yes, I’m interested in you.

I think you’re smart, I think you’re pretty, I think you’re fun to be with, and if you give me excuses, I can only conclude that you don’t feel the same way about me. And that’s fine. But don’t tell me I’m desperate, and don’t tell me I’m not interested in you, because I may be no genius, but I’m not stupid.

Sublime in Darkness

2009-02-07T04:13:00.001-05:00

You were once my bright star. Now I’m in darkness.
Your voice to me is like a chime in darkness.
My words pass over you like cumulus clouds,
I feel as useless as a mime in darkness.
No, please don’t tear-up; I should never have asked.
I want you to forget your time in darkness.
Hands tied, mouth gagged, and a knife held at your throat,
You held your breath throughout that crime in darkness.
You’re so brave, and I’m so grateful you’re alive.
Somehow you faced that lonely climb in darkness.
Let your tears wreck my shirt; I won’t let you go.
Not until you feel safe, sublime in darkness.
I want your light to come back. But if it won’t,
I’ll write your kind black heart this rhyme in darkness.

Poetry Challenge

2009-02-07T02:18:00.002-05:00

I hereby challenge Inkpot to a duel!

No, there won’t be swords or pistols involved. This time. It will be a war of word and wit. Okay, so we’ll each write a poem, that’s it, but our honor as writers is on the line. Okay, no it isn’t, but the winner gets bragging rights. Okay, so I’m not entirely sure how a winner can be determined with something like poetry, but I’m sure we’ll have fun with it. I believe the deadline will be this coming Friday.

But wait! We need a fixed form, and we need a theme for the poem. So, any suggestions?

Groundhog Day

2009-02-02T22:19:00.003-05:00

I don’t know how to spend today.
Is there no way to end today?
I may not be a god per se,
But time itself will bend today.
“I got You Babe” begins to play.
My radio I’ll rend today.
What once was fun has gone to gray.
It all begins to blend today.
There’s nothing left for me to say.
I’ll watch the snow descend today.
I now see pain I might allay.
I’ve started a new trend today.
The choking man, the child at play,
I’ve all my life to lend today.
Though in my arms, he passed away.
I did my best to mend today.
I want my feelings on display.
So I will not pretend today.
It’s cold tonight. Will you please stay?
My black heart needs a friend today.

Ghazal Puzzle

2009-02-02T18:53:00.002-05:00

Well, it’s officially the middle of winter today. Groundhog Day. I wouldn’t say today was a cold day, though, and it’s been a great way to go skating on the canal. I live around 300 meters from the world’s largest skating rink. That’s right, the Rideau Canal is the longest in the world, and it runs right through the place I call home.

Anyway, last week I went to a poetry workshop where I was introduced to a new form, called the ghazal, a rather reflexive form that tends to honor the predecessors that inspired the poet. As such, the references can get rather obscure, but I’m quite intrigued by the structure and the rhyming scheme. Ideally, the ghazal fits together like a puzzle, (pardon the silly rhyme), in that it is comprised of many couplets that revolve around the same theme, but could also work perfectly well as a poem on their own. Their combination however, (typically at least five couplets), should work towards giving a deeper meaning. This form, as with most poetic forms, is not necessarily meant to be understood, but rather, it is meant to immerse the reader into a mood, with something not quite tangible, the way music might affect someone.

The original ghazals were intrinsically linked to a kind of ambiguity between the love for a sexual partner, and the love of Allah, the idea is that it should be open to interpretation, and that any part could be interpreted to be the love of a lover, or the love of god. Obviously, as an atheist writing in this form some 1500 years later, in an entirely different language, one might argue that what I’m writing isn’t a ghazal, and that it’s an abomination of the form, and of Arabic and Persian culture. Guess what, Islam. This is my caring face. I already know what you think of me. So without further ado, I’m going to make my first attempt, hopefully later tonight, in the tradition of Groundhog Day.

REJECTED!

2009-01-31T16:49:00.002-05:00

The school workload can get heavy pretty quickly. Thursday I had two essays due, and an early morning test, all in one day. Things are pretty quiet now, though, so I figure I better make an entry while I still potentially have one or two readers left.

Update #1: Against my better judgment, I tried talking to Nurse Betty again, to see if she was still mad at me. She was, and now I’m on her block list. Apparently she actually did bother to read my last blog entry about her. I asked her what was so unforgivable about what I did, and her reply was merely “I’m annoyed now.” And then she blocked me on facebook, too. Of course, I’m smart enough to find my way around that. She’s only blocking one identity, but I’m also smart enough to realize there’s really no point. The bottom line is that she’s made a decision about me, and he mind is set. Everything I say to her, whether its an apology, or an argument, or even just hello, is annoying to her now. The thing that bothers me is, that I still like her. I’m not even sure why anymore. In all likelihood, I will probably forget her, eventually.

Update #2: I got rejected from the JET Programme. I can’t really say how I feel about that either. I think part of me didn’t feel ready to go anyway. Another part of me feels like I’m never going to have a job, and never move out of my parents’ house, and never have a girlfriend, and never have a life, etc, etc. Then eventually, hopefully, I’ll keel over and die. If I’m lucky.

There was a job fair on Wednesday at my university, so I drifted from booth to booth. There was two other companies for teaching English overseas. They actually sounded like better deals than JET. There were also some civil service jobs, apparently. I’m not really sure I buy it, because invariably they tell you to apply through the various government websites, which essentially means they can electronically receive thousands of applications without ever have to check them. Fuckers.

Update #3: The strike is finally over. Well, I suppose not officially – the busses don’t run again for another ten days. Essentially what happened is this; since neither the city nor the asshole union were willing to make any kind of concession, the federal government threatened to pass a legislation forcing the drivers back to work. You could just about see the moment the drivers wet their pants as they realized everything was slipping through their fingers, so they basically begged the city to let all outstanding issues go into arbitration. To be fair, the city was more than happy to oblige.

It’s left a pretty bad taste in everyone’s mouth. This is something they could have thought of much earlier. In fact it was suggested numerous times that they go into arbitration. Now people will wonder why they felt it necessary to deprive the entire city of public transportation for more than two months. People will be bitching, insulting, yelling, spitting, assaulting, and occasionally pissing on bus drivers now. And they know it.

“But we have the right to strike,” they say, “and it’s our union rep’s job to get us the best deal he can.”

“You shouldn’t have the right to strike,” I say to them. “Look at the damage you caused. I know that, as servants of the public, you have no interest whatsoever in public service. That’s why I’m going to put it in terms you care about. I know you don’t care about the thousands of people who lost their jobs over your stupid, petty, childish, and frankly pointless concerns. But here’s what affects you: If you didn’t have the right to strike, you wouldn’t have lost two months of wages, your busses wouldn’t be seizing up on you from time-to-time, the city wouldn’t hate you, and probably most notably, you wouldn’t be soaked in my urine.”

Then, before he has time to react, I whip out my super-soaker, and spray him with the two month-old urine I’ve been saving for him. I spray him at point blank. The pressure from the blast pushes him against the far window. He chokes as a little bit of the spray infiltrates his mouth and nose.

“I forgive you!” I shout, giggling and running away into the snowy hills.

Ahhh… I love you, blogging. I’ve missed you.

The Transit Strike

2009-01-23T13:17:00.003-05:00

So, after Japanese class today, and after the usual breakfunch (breakfast, lunch, exactly), gorge-a-thon with my favorite classmates, I figured my hair was getting kinda ratty, so I went to the barber to tell him I was sick of looking like a hobo.

The guy ahead of me, was a Francophone bus driver. Now, those readers that live in my city know all about the strike, and are probably pretty sick of talking about it by now. Personally, I avoid talking about it when I can. But for those of you who live elsewhere: Our city bus drivers have been on strike for 45 days now. It’s freezing cold, the roads are all ice, and many people have actually lost their jobs to the transit strike. When it’s -25 degrees Celsius, walking outside for two hours each way simply isn’t an option. Many have taken to carpooling, and for some, this is not an option either.

The barber, let’s call him “Lieutenant Dan,” and the bus driver, whom I’ll call “the bus driver,” were talking about how awful people are going to be to the drivers when they finally get back to work. So I piped up and suggested there may not be so many people riding anyway. At this point, the damage has sort of been done. Even Lieutenant Dan had to move to keep his barber job, which is good, because he’s awesome. But that’s another story. Dan was careful early on to point out that I was indeed talking to a bus driver, one of his regulars.

The bus driver was complaining that they only get 6 sick days. So I asked him how much vacation time they got to start. Three weeks, he said. To start. After eight years, you get four weeks. And I just thought, you whiner you. I’m no expert, but most people I know working in the government get two weeks. My dad only get two weeks, and he’s a senior lawyer. I didn’t say anything to the bus driver, and by my tone, I don’t even think he knew what I was getting at. Lieutenant Dan did. After the bus driver left, he told me he only got two weeks, and he couldn’t even take both weeks at once.

It occurred to me, while I sat there listening to the driver complain, before he left that is, that he really couldn’t put himself in anyone else’s shoes. Like all the other bus drivers I’ve heard speak about it, he had no concept that he already had way more privileges than almost any other civil servant I know of. (And in this city, civil servants top the list.) They get more vacation time already, better wages, better benefits, they make their own schedules, (though that one’s up for debate in the strike too), and their job is basically to drive in a circle all day. That’s it. I’ve had fun conversations with some of them, joked with some of them, and apparently Scarlet says one of them was singing Italian Opera for the whole ride. Really, it doesn’t look like a bad job at all.

They chose to strike during Christmas, even though we’re in a recession. So, no only is it insane to ask for more money, but they actually crippled the local economy. Most of the shop lost all of their bus-going customers, which is basically half the city, to people (like myself) who couldn’t be bothered and bought from a place that delivers. (Amazon in my case.) Half of my classmates have simply not shown up to class this term, which is really hurting their marks. There are 2,300 bus drivers in this city, but easily 500,000, probably more who have been left out in the cold. Look at the size difference between those numbers, and tell me the decision to strike during Christmas and the coldest winter months isn’t completely morally corrupt.

There is a debate going on right now as to whether they should be allowed to strike at all, or if like nurses or firefighters, their service be deemed “an essential service,” and they be ordered back to work immediately. Their concerns would then instead be taken to court by a representative for arbitration. I think it would be better for everyone, personally. We’d have our busses back, and they’d be able to collect their fat paycheques again.

When you think you have nothing to say…

2009-01-19T17:28:00.007-05:00

Sometimes when you have nothing to say, it’s the best time say it. I’ve been thinking for a long time. Too long.

“I’m sorry your girlfriend left you. I know how you feel man, and the best thing for you right now is to know that you’re a tall handsome stud, and if I were a chick, I’d bang ya.”

“I’m offended that you threw away your granola bar today, rather than eating it. Why would you suspect I would do something unhygienic to it? This is the thanks I get for guarding your stuff while you’re gone? I may make fun, but I would never do that. Especially not to a girl like you, who won me over last year with her bright pretty eyes, and your perfect bangs.”

“Stop telling me to bundle up. I’m 29 years old, and I know how to take care of myself. I may lie to you on occasion, but only because you force me to, with lines like ‘I won’t take no for an answer.’ You complain too much. But I love you.”

“You need to talk to me. I know I said I was so mad I didn’t want to talk to you, but really, though I myself wanted to believe, I think it was a lie. Anyway, you started it. Maybe you’re still mad at me. But I can’t stand the void that’s growing between us. Maybe you think it’s better that way. I know now that you never liked me in that way, but still, I wonder why we can’t still speak as friends.”

“Sometimes you think I hate you. I don’t, but you irritate the hell out of me. You don’t learn. Mom tells me that I should be more patient with you – that you never had children of your own, but really wanted them. Well, that’s sort of a non-sequitur isn’t it? Being a spinster is no reason not to play nice. But I think I understand. I can admit that, at this point, most of my hostility towards you is a Pavlovian reaction, knowing in advance that you’ll annoy me. I’m sorry that we don’t get along, just not sorry enough to fix it.”

“I’m sorry I broke up with you. Maybe some day you’ll come to know just how sorry I am.”

“The reason I lost all respect for you is not that you immediately insulted my last girlfriend, building up an unnecessary wall of resentment, with me in the middle. Nor is it that you took advantage of the girlfriend before that; because really, let’s face it; she was making herself available, and she’s probably the best you’ll ever get. I’m not even mad about the cat. What I really can’t stand about you, is this belligerent attitude you have about idealist politics. Or idealist economics. Or idealist whatever. You read one editorial, and suddenly you act like you’re an expert, when in truth, you’re just a surrogate for some other opinionated asshole. And you get away with it too, because most people don’t know what you’re talking about, nor do they know from where in the hell you get your information. I’m ashamed to be seen with you, and I’m a 29-year-old who still lives with his parents. Then again, so are you.”

“I think about you a lot more than I should probably admit, and it always makes me smile. And it’s not just because you’re pretty, though you are very pretty.”

“I love the fact that you wear thongs to class. There are a number of guys who would probably greatly appreciate it, if they were to notice. Which they haven’t. I admit I’m a little jealous of whomever you wear it for, but I appreciate it for its base beauty nonetheless. You vixen you.”

“You should probably brush your teeth a little more often.”

“You always know just what to say. I wish I was more like you.”

Tea, the Wonder Drink

2009-01-09T15:12:00.001-05:00

Tea is a fantastic drink
I’ll drink it black, or green or pink.
‘Tween ev’ry meal, the missing link.
Are those tea bags, behind the sink.

And when that pot begins to steam,
I have my tea with lots of cream.
I find they make a wondrous team.
It’s better than a lucid dream.

I like the fact we call it “tea.”
It rhymes with pea, and spree and brie,
I’ll have one cup, or two or three,
Before I really need to pee.

My Little Chocobo

2009-01-08T17:07:00.002-05:00

Bocobo, Cocobo,
My little Chocobo
Bounds through the kitchen with
Unbridled grace.

Mesopotamian
Feline of splendor, just
Don’t pick him up or he’ll
Claw at your face.

What Once Was

2009-01-07T10:57:00.003-05:00

Driving in my beat-up car,
I passed the house we used to own,
We don’t live there anymore.
You live up north now, all alone.

I walk along the many streets we used to walk together.
Now I walk them by myself in cold and stormy weather.
Remember that old gift shop with the angels on display?
When I pass, I still see us inside, and we’re okay.

Driving with my dear old pops,
He likes to point at all the shops,
He tells me what they used to be,
It doesn’t mean a thing to me.

Who cares if that old barber shop was once a hardware store?
Who cares how much a movie cost in nineteen-sixty-four?
Why must we always measure things by what they used to be?
The past is dead and gone, and still, I want you here with me.

Scenario #4: Gundead!

2009-01-05T23:17:00.006-05:00

The dead have risen, and they have GUNS! GUNDEAD!

Players: 5 (4 heroes, 1 zombie player)

Turns: 20

Set-Up:

Place the gun shop and graveyard tiles on opposite sides of the manor house. The other two tiles are random. There is an extra spawning pit on any space inside the gun shop, and another on a space adjacent to the manor house. Locate two revolvers and two flare guns, and place them in the discard pile. Firearms may be retrieved, instead of searching, by any player who makes it inside the gun shop or the manor house. Players without a designated starting location begin the game inside the manor house. The game begins in the rain. (Locate the appropriate card from the zombie deck, and leave it in play until a hero can cancel it.)

Objectives:

Heroes: Survive until dawn
Zombies: Kill 4 heroes

Turn Order:

Zombies

a. Draw zombie cards (hand limit 4)

b. Zombies shoot

a. All spawned zombies have guns, which they cannot lose.

b. Zombies’ guns are treated as revolvers, but only hit heroes on 5+.

c. Zombie heroes only have whatever guns they died holding. They also keep any other bonuses they had before becoming zombies.

c. Zombies move and/or attack

d. Zombies respawn automatically. (2D6)

Heroes

a. The conventional rules apply

Description:

Lock your door, turn on the light, and sign your life insurance, because the dead have risen, and they have guns. Gundead!

Scenario #3: Rescue Team

2009-01-05T23:14:00.001-05:00

Get in, Get the Babes, Get out!

Players: 4 (3 heroes, 1 zombie player)

Turns: 12

Set-Up:

Place the manor house in the center of town. The outer four tiles are random. All three heroes begin the game together on the same edge of town, determined by a random D6 roll.

Objectives:

Heroes: Rescue 6 (of 8) townspeople from the manor house, and take them out of town. If time runs out, the heroes lose.

A townsperson accompanies a hero the moment that hero enters his/her space. There is no limit to how many townspeople can accompany a hero.
When a player moves off the edge of the board, all accompanying townspeople are saved. That player has left the game, but may still assist other players with any remaining hero cards in hand.

Zombies: Kill all the heroes, or 3 townspeople in the manor house.

If unaccompanied, townsfolk defend themselves as unarmed heroes with one hit point.
If an unaccompanied townsperson survives a zombie attack and is still under siege, on the hero turn, the players may move that townsperson two spaces in any direction they choose, (but obviously, not through walls or other zombies.) This movement can be used to join a hero.
When a zombie wounds a hero, the zombie player may choose to kill an accompanying townsperson instead, so watch out!

Respawning:

Heroes do not respawn. If all 3 heroes die, the game is over.
Zombies – The conventional rules apply.

Description:

It was three in the morning when they got the distress call. Something terrible had happened, and most of the town had died, but there were still some survivors.

“Help us,” came a frightened voice over the radio. “We’re holed up in the manor house in the middle of town. I don’t know how long we can hold them off.”

“Stay where you are,” came a determined voice from the other end. “There are only three of us, but we’re coming to save you.”

片思いの俳句

2009-01-04T17:43:00.001-05:00

此の生活
海洋片思い
溺れ死ぬ

Blabulous, Quabulous, Scrabble is Fabulous!

2009-01-02T11:13:00.002-05:00

Blabulous, Quabulous,
Scrabble is fabulous!
Think of the many fine
Words it has got.

Some are quite long, they can
Span the whole board even,
Oxyphenbutazone
Is worth a lot.