From the Toronto Journals

March 11,6 2015: I am falling apart.

 Today my elbows fell off. I noticed them missing in the shower, and sure enough, when I checked the bed, one was under my pillow and the other had gotten lost in the covers. I had to reattach them with tape. Not even duct tape either, generic scotch tape. I hope they hold. How embarrassing would it be if my elbows came loose in the middle of a workshop!? I'll have to get some sort of super glue to fix them more securely to my arms.  Of course, this delayed my morning start and it looks like I may be late for work because of it.

A Valentine’s Day Carol

Part One: Not Marley's Ghost

After cramming in another 3 hour paper, I decided to take a short walk to the store. I congratulated myself on the balance of my purchases: cigarettes to contradict society’s condemnation of unhealthy practices, and rice chips to lose ten pounds.

You might say I’m a bit stubborn. I rarely follow good advice, and I’m quite stingy with frivolous emotions like excitement, and pity. These traits, I am convinced might’ve been somewhat charming on someone with a heart of shimmering gold, but with the added handicap of a heart of pure stone, I’m pretty much an asshole.

It’s no surprise then that I’m single. Not for want of suitors, or shallowness of feeling but because I couldn’t be bothered to invest the sort of emotions required for lasting human connection. It’s just too much risk for such speculative returns.

It should also come as no surprise that I am not fond of Valentine’s Day. I prefer to sneer at and make caustic remarks about canoodling couples, and though I like to blame my hermit-like lifestyle on my extended academic career, I know it’s really due to a loss of faith in humanity as a whole.

Imagine my surprise, when on Valentine’s Day Eve, just as I was getting in the elevator a sudden memory of some forgotten heartbreak. I wondered at the obscure remembrance and absently looked for my keys. The thought was still in my head when in the reflection on the deadbolt I saw a man in a diaper behind me. I spun around but saw no one.

“It was a speck in my eye, or a string from my scarf… it was only my distraction that made me think anyone was there,” I told myself as I jerked the key clockwise in the lock and hip-checked the door open.

I kicked off my boots and flung my hat, scarf, gloves and coat into the closet, tore off my top 2 layers of clothing and crashed into my couch in my long-johns and a t-shirt, unsure of whether to smoke a cigarette or bust open the bag of rice-chips. Hank, my new kitten, sling-shot himself around the room before attaching himself to my shin. I screamed out in pain, accidentally kicking him into the sliding doors.

He looked at me accusingly and stalked back towards me. I reached for the spray-bottle to head off another attack when the doors were thrown open and a tall white guy in docs and a cupid get up with dreads down his back scooped Hank up in his arms and tickled his belly. He pulled an arrow with a heart-shaped runner tip out of the quiver on his back and poked at the cat playfully. The man smiled as Hank sunk his teeth into the tip of the arrow chewed on it gratefully.

“G’day!” Trucker Gord shifted his weight and grinned at me expectantly. “I’m not here”.

“Oh my god! Gord you scared the shit out of me! What are you doing in my bedroom?”

“I’m not really here.”

I’ve known Gord a long time. When we were 6 years old, he refused to allow me to his birthday party. When we were 13, he grew a mustache, so he was the guy who bought beer for the neighborhood kids. When we were 24, he drove me to Nevada for Burning Man. When we were 30 he sewed someone else’s hair to his head in order to lengthen his dreads. He grew up to be a trucker. Just like he always said he would. He also managed to travel most of the English speaking world and then some doing it. He wore largely a variation on the same theme every day: black tshirt, black jeans, boots, a flight jacket, and a hat. Gord was one of the only guys I never thought about sexually, let alone imagined in a diaper.

“What do you mean?” I asked incredulously.

“Really watch. I’m not here”, then he was gone. Just gone. No fade, no pop no faint mist, not even the scent of diesel. He had just disappeared instantly, as if he was never there. The cat sat wantonly on the floor licking himself.

“Floop!” I yelped and felt the flesh crawl across my body. Hank bolted. I checked the ingredients on the rice chips to see what chemical I might be reacting to. Seeing that I had accidentally bought ketchup flavoured instead of BBQ as I had intended , I convinced myself that perhaps my delusion was due to red dye poisoning . I lit a cigarette.

“You’re still smoking?” I tried not to hear it. But I did. I looked down at Hank.

“He’s not here” I said to Hank.

“No, you’re right. He’s not.” Hank said in TruckerGord’s voice.

“I’m hallucinating” I took a deep breath and closed my eyes tight laying my head in my lap. Hank attacked my pony tail.

“You probably are hallucinating, but that’s not important.”

“It’s not?” I grabbed Hank and held him in the air staring him down.

“No, what’s important is that today is the day before Valentine’s day and you are a Valentine’s Scrooge!”

“What? Are you kidding me? What the hell is going on here and why do you sound like Gord?”

“Who the hell knows. Maybe cause its my birthday.” Hank squirmed out my hands and rolled to the floor. “Maybe cause I’m your oldest friend and you miss me. Maybe I'm the incarnation of cupid sent here to bring you a message. Who knows, who cares?”.

“Happy Birthday, by the way. I sent you a face book message.”

“I’m not really here.You realize that Right?” Seeing Gord’s deep rumbly voice coming out of tiny little Hank made me giggle.

“Ok I get it. You aren’t here. So what are you not doing here?”

“As I was saying, before you rudely interrupted me… On Valentine’s you will be visited by three ghosts. Expect the first at the stroke of one. “ Hank’s tail twitched ominously.

“Hehehe… you said stroke.”

Then without even a chuckle, Hank leaped onto a newspaper and walked sideways towards a squeaky toy. He didn’t say another word to me.

Valentines Day Humbug

Another year, another Valentine's Day. Every year carries with it the same holidays and quasi-holidays. Proper holidays are the days that you get time off to celebrate with loved-ones, and fill up on a good meal or two. Quasi-holidays are the days that are special, but not special enough to get you a day off. A lot of the quasi-holidays are awesome enough that you don't mind celebrating it even though you have to work the next day, St.Patrick's Day, or Halloween for example. These are quasi-holidays that I can really support. I think its really important that humanity be given special days to celebrate drunkenness and sugar-highs just for their own sake. There are of course quasi-holidays that are not celebrations at all, like Remembrance Day, Easter Monday, and Ash Wednesday. Of course, like everything else in the world there are quasi-holidays for elite groups of people. Some I can't argue with, Mother's Day, Father's Day, and Secretary's Day for example. These people work hard and probably deserve some kind of break for their efforts to manage the weak and disorganized portions of society. But Valentine's is the most insidious of the quasi-holidays. And to it I say BAH HUMBUG!

Humbug! To your pink paper hearts and cutesy teddy bears!

For shame! Of your naked cherubim! What kind of sicko decided a small naked boy would be the mascot of this twisted holiday? Not to mention the fact that he is far too young to be allowed access to dangerous weaponry like bows and arrows!

Curses! All ye bearing roses! They will only wither like the beauty of those you bought them for!

Bah! To the crowds that pack into restaurants!

And an evil eye to the couples canoodling in the dark corners of the bars...

G

Everything Under the Sun

As of my next birthday, I think I might have met almost everyone I'm ever going to meet.

Over the last few months I've really started to notice some eerie similarities between the people of my childhood to people I meet today. I've come to the conclusion that all the new people I come across are really just updated versions of someone I've met before. Therefore I now have the opportunity to make better decisions regarding new associations. I don't know why this never occurred to me before!

There was the guy who seemed really interesting until I realized all his most profound ideas came straight out of those sports movies about underdogs who always win in the end. Yeah, he's the only exception. I can't make that decision twice. But when I do meet High School Hunk2.0, all he's getting is a high five!


Then there was ThePrince O'Folly. The Prince O'Folly is so pathetic that he's almost endearing. He's always an hour late, and doesn't have a car(running... because his broke down, but he's got two in his garage); he can barely keep a job; he doesn't have a home, so he's always sleeping on your couch; he's super enthusiastic about everything for about a minute and will drop a fortune on a good party. Sometimes its hard to believe he won't ever get his shit together. Fun for a night of partying, but probably not worth taking out a mortgage for. Prince O'Folly Digitally Remastered: I gots my eye on you... I mean your IOU.

Who could forget that girl who was constantly in the middle of her very own after school special? Her life was always falling down around her ears. If it wasn't her parents, then it was a troubled sibling, or a cheating boyfriend. No fault could ever definitively be linked back to her, But I'm quite certain when the world ends, she'll be texting whoever brings it all down in the end. I know now when I meet DramaQueen the Final Chapter, to call the professionals and stand behind the police lines away from the falling debris.

There are wonderful people too. The Friend-O-Matic:there for you faster than you can say "Cake Batter";The Teddy Bear:A great snuggle, but too often forgotten on park benches; The Guru: Wax On! WAX OFF!; Zaphod Beeblbrox :deservedly the centre of the universe; and of course the World's Biggest Fan:you know who you are.


Thankyou

G




check out more funny comics!
http://www.savagechickens.com/2009/04/fortunes-fool.html

My Record Collection

For Christmas, I always ask for something I can use. Last Christmas my brother gave me a little portable record player and 3 or 4 records. The records were pretty random, a little Frank Sinatra, The Beach Boys and and Indie LP I had never heard of (but enjoyed). He painted the body white and told me I should paint it. I still haven't but I have gotten use of the little thing.

The sound isn't Hifi or anything, its a little tinny and has that aged wobbly sound, no matter which disk you spin. There's something calming and wholesome about the sound.

I'm not an avid music collector. I never have been. I went through my Columbia house phase, but during my next broke phase I copied all my CDs to my computer and sold the CDs for peanuts to cover a pack of smokes or two. I love music. However, I've never really taken music very seriously and so building a music collection has never been a goal of mine.

But when I was presented with this gift, I was presented with the task of finding records to play on it, and a record collection became necessary.

I went down to a local used record shop to see what I could find that tickled my fancy. After a brief turn of the lp section I realized I was in over my head. I do not know enough about music to know what albums are supposed to be in my record collection. So discouraged I sought out the bargain bin, knowing that the cheaper the record, the less guilty I would feel for preferring my ipod to my little music box. I no sooner found the dollar bin than I realized the purpose of my record collection: to salvage unwanted records.

I've now built a modest collection of everything from Raffi's Christmas album to the second half of The Wall. I've got a sprinkling of 80s pop, a few really good rock and roll classics, a couple folksy songwriters, a few standards, more Neil Diamond than I really should, and that one Indie album my brother gave me.

The other day I was invited to root through the unwanted bins in the basement of a record store. I nearly doubled my collection. So maybe, I'm still not the connoisseur of music that some other collectors are, but at least I listen to my records.

G

The Puppy Button II: Revenge of the Dogsitter

Dear Readers,

We at Proroguing Perfection regret to inform you that we can no longer endorse the "Puppy Button" (trademark pending) due to the fact that we can no longer guarantee that no puppies have been harmed by the use of said "Puppy Button" (trademark pending).

A few weeks ago I had the opportunity to test a Puppy Button prototype, and I am disappointed and ashamed to admit that Puppy Buttons are not that good for puppies.

I got to spend one glorious day with one of the cutest and sweetest puppies I have ever had the pleasure to shake-a-paw with. Though I'm not sure that she really ever caught on to what I was trying to do by grabbing her paw constantly.

We spent most of the day walking around in the sun and splashing in fountains, puddles, and quite nearly ended up in a canal. What little time we spent inside were mostly bathroom breaks (for both of us) and naps. By the end of the day we were both pooped.

More so for the puppy. I guess you can take a puppy for too many walks, cause I exhausted that poor thing. Apparently after applying the "No-Puppy Button" (which we still endorse) that sweet innocent creature was suffering nausea and diarrhea. The Official Puppy Button handler (my good friend and animal shelter volunteer) assured me the puppy's sickness wasn't my fault, but I felt guilty for trying to cram a 3 months' worth of puppy-time into one day.

I would have posted this week's ago, if it weren't for the massive weight of puppy-guilt, on top of the crippling shakes of puppy-withdrawal.

Yours,
Management (G)

You must be dreaming

I'm a dreamer, but not in the John Lennon, save-the-world sort-of way. I don't claim to dream about the future or alternate realities. I DREAM. I go to sleep and something in my brain lights up like a Christmas tree! I envy the people who say they don't dream.

On very special occasions I have knock your socks off crazy messed up dreams and nightmares that are so vivid that the details become permanently etched in my visual cortex.

When I was about 3 years old I had a terrible nightmare that I was creeping through a large aluminum cistern filled with sleeping bats. When one of the meanest and ugliest of them awoke, he began to chase me, calling after me. "I'm gonna getchya, and when I getchya, I'm gonna eatchya!" I screamed and a hand reached out of a trapdoor in the ceiling and pulled me out just as the bat (now turned hideous bloodsucking monster beyond description) was nipping at my Mary Janes.

When I was eight, I had a dream about a soldier's ghost that desperately needed me to do something about his grave because it was under a road and that didn't rest well with him. Somehow in my dream the road was moved, and that seemed to please him. In the dream, he was haunting an old antiques shop that my mother had once brought me to in order to buy a skeleton key for our old farmhouse. Years later I told the story to a friend who said that house was well known to be haunted by a British Redcoat from the war of 1812. (Cue Twilight Zone music)

I am living proof that when you die in your dream, you don't die in real life. I have dreamt of being shot in the back, having my throat slit, drowning, and even falling out of a 20 story window and hitting the ground before I woke up. If you die in your sleep its not because of what you dream.

I've also had a dream where I was hunting an axe murderer who was terrorizing a slumber party I was having, only to find out at the end that the axe murderer was me. Imagine my surprise when I chopped one of my friends into little tiny pieces!

A couple of years ago I had the most f'd up dream ever.

I was standing in front of my highschool with some friends of mine smoking cigarettes and watching yellow buses blow by us. I had just handed a friend of mine a small piece of jewelery, a pearl on a chain that I had taken for worthless. It was an overcast day. The clouds were hanging low in the sky. My friend pointed suddenly to a black spot that appeared like a scorch mark on one of the clouds. Soon I noticed that it was no spot at all, but a massive black spider gripping the clouds with his long beetle like legs... but no, it WAS a beetle suddenly and it was spreading its black wings getting ready for flight. Then as it began to descend it morphed into a monstrous black bird with a 50 foot wingspan. As it glided towards the grounds of the school, the students around me began to scream and run in all directions. But I stood there. The bird was nearing the ground, and I could feel the wind of its great wings on my face. That's when I saw the rider on its back. I couldn't tell if it was man or woman. But you can bet the rider wore all black, and rode holding on to the reins with only one hand. The other, of course, held a gleaming sword pointed at the sky.I knew what it wanted.

I called to my friend to return the small pearl-pendant but she was gone. I turned back, and just as the bird reached the ground it morphed again into a giant black mastiff (not unlike the sort of dog that Sigourney Weaver turns into at the end of GhostBusters, except WAY bigger), the rider still perched on its back - sword in hand pointed at me, the only person still standing in the vicinity. I was more curious than scared, and as I marveled at this fact, taking pride in my own bravery, I woke up.

I've thought about what this dream may mean, but I think I'd rather not know and simply sell the idea to a heavy metal band interested in a concept for a music video. Any takers?

Sweet Dreams!

G