“It’s when you hide things that you choke on them.”
-Charles Bukowski
I’m downtown Ottawa and walking around without any particular place to go. I’m only fifteen and not fully aware of what this whole late twentieth century life thing is all about. What pressing matters could I possibly have to attend to? I’m simply walking around, soaking the atmosphere in, as they say. My family and I are in town for my cousins engagement party. The main event being a lavish boat ride around the Ottawa River complete with a DJ, hors d’oeuvre’s, and complementary drinks of which I’ll have to surreptitiously steal without my parents knowledge.
I have a grand total of five dollars in coins jangling around in my pocket as I walk towards the Byward Market looking for whatever pre-cruise trouble I can get into. I’m wearing jeans that are ripped at the knees and my empty wallet that is tucked into my left ass pocket has a rather ironic seven inch chain dangling by my hip; I never have more than $10 in my wallet at any given time but it’s still comforting to know that I won’t lose it -- unless I lose my pants along with the wallet. My beige cardigan hangs open revealing a black Mudhoney t-shirt, the one where all four of the members’ faces are plastered onto the top of each instrument -- drums, guitar, bass and second guitar respectively. My black high top Chuck Taylor’s are beat up and the soles worn out but they‘re mine and they‘re damn comfortable. Kurt would be proud. My long greasy hair frames my face and I constantly wipe the grease build up off the rocky Mars like surface that is my forehead.
It’s a beautiful summer day, the sun shining down with a gentle breeze lapping at my face. I was free to explore a new city for a few hours before I had to be back at the hotel and shuttled off to the family cruise. I started walking down a main street and lit up a Du Maurier and continued down the street like I owned the joint; an independent man-boy, life being nothing more than the never ending horizon of limitless possibilities. What kind of shit can I stir up?
It wasn’t even ten minutes, I barely had time to flick away my cigarette, before a handsome, light skinned black guy with a pencil thin goatee walked directly up to me and simply asked, “Hey man, you have any zig zags?”
“Uhhh--” I stammer, “naw, don’t have any with me, but I’d love to smoke one.”
“Cool. Follow me. I live right around the corner,” the muscular, nicely composed black man says to me with a nod of the head in the direction of his place.
“You from around here?” the black guy asks.
“No, no. I’m from Brampton,” I tell him.
“What’s your name?”
“It’s uhh, Dan,” I tell him. I don’t know why I didn’t give him my real name, it felt sort of dangerous to use an alias.
“Nice to meet you Dan.” He reaches out his right hand and we look each other in the eyes and shake hands appropriately, not too hard, not too soft.
“Oscar,” He informs me.
“Cool, nice to meet you Oscar.” We release right hands just like you’ve done a thousand times before.
“I said to myself when I first saw you, “‘that looks like a guy who likes to smoke a little shit,’” he says to me with a warm friendly smile.
The quickest way to my heart circa 1996: Marijuana. It’s like an Armani tie to Patrick Bateman.
“Yeah, for sure man,” I say, feigning nonchalance. Boy! I just got into town about an hour ago and already there’s a nice older black man offering to get me stoned. What a capital! Fuck Brampton with a steak knife -- Ottawa is where it’s at! Not only are the citizens courteous and accommodating, but they’re packing buds. It was only last week I was walking down a path to get home and I abruptly turned around and started running the other way when I spotted four black guys with balaclavas walking my way. My instincts were right -- they immediately broke into a run after me but quickly abandoned the plan because a) I’m a quick runner, if only in short bursts; and b) thieves want a quick and easy score, the way a lion goes after an injured or young gazelle; and possibly c) I would have screamed like a banshee if they started getting close. OH my God! They’re raaapppiiiinnng me!
Oscar and myself are walking side by side towards -- I’m assuming -- his apartment or house, though probably an apartment or condo because we’re right in the downtown core.
“So, do you have an open mind?” Oscar asks me, I don’t even think it’s that weird, we’re just two guys looking to get stoned together, nothing more nothing less; just two guys who share a love of the ’erb. Before embarking on the trip with my folks, I did feel a pang or two of anxiety not having any weed with me, which at this point of my life, I’ll admit, was a daily habit. How am I going to get stoned? A little voice kept repeating over and over on the car ride northeast up the 401. Well, problem solved thanks to Oscar.
“Yeah, I totally have an open mind -- I’m into philosophy and I love The Doors, Jimi Hendrix, Allman Brothers,” I say excitedly, riding a pre-high high.
He smiles again at me. Now, I’m not a total fucking retard -- my parents taught me not to talk to strangers and especially not to follow said strangers to smoke marijuana with them alone in their homestead. I mean -- I know that. I threw caution to the wind, squeezed out a little space in the old noggin, a compartment, where I stuck a Rent-A-Cop, a chaperone, to watch out for little Taylor, make sure he doesn’t get in too much trouble. After all, he’s not chasing me.
His apartment was a in a three floor walk up. There wasn’t anything that stuck out about his one bedroom den of debauchery. Looked like most of the furniture was from Ikea; there was some sort of colour scheme going on, a lot of whites and blacks, checkerboard kitchen floor. I take a seat in the living room while my new buddy Oscar goes into the kitchen.
“Hey Dan,” he says while rummaging around, cups clinking, “You wanna beer?”
“Yeah sure,” I say. This day just gets better and better!
Oscar comes into the living room and hands me an ice cold bottle of Canadian. “So you like Ottawa so far?”
“Definitely, definitely. Going on a cruise later tonight with my family,” I say, like he cares. “So what do you do?”
“I work at a club just down the street from here, some dancing, that type of stuff,” Oscar says.
“Oh,” I say, thinking maybe like Electric Circus.
Apparently finished with his explanation, he walks over to his t.v., an older Zenith with bunny ears, and he tilts it closer towards his chair away from my prying eyes. There are no couches. Just a few chairs. And that strikes me as odd. Doesn’t everyone have a couch? A duvet? A loveseat? A chesterfield? A sofa? Etc. Oscar only has a few kitchen chairs. Satisfied with the angle between himself and the t.v. he sits down with a relaxing sigh.
“You don’t want to watch this,” he says. I just kind of shrug and we continue a few more exchanges of small talk. Friendly Canadian small talk. I thought it was a little strange that he invites me to his apartment and then angles the t.v. away from me, but I’m itching for some weed, and I’m tolerant of others’ peculiarities if they are giving me free drugs.
Oscar is holding a crunched up coke can, the type of makeshift pipe with a large divot in the middle peppered with pinholes. I’m not exactly impressed considering at home I have two pipes and one glass bong. And I’m only fifteen. Here’s this guy living on his own and this is what he smokes the sacred herb out of? He takes a long and hard hit off the pop can pipe and releases a massive plume into the air. Hmm…doesn’t really smell like weed. He then passes it to me and it’s then that I notice the white -- not green -- substance that is sitting in a small pile of ashes over the pinholes.
“That’s not weed,” I say declaratively.
“No, it’s something else. Even better. Believe me, just take a hit,” Oscar says reassuringly. “Inhale real deep and hold it.”
This isn’t going according to plan, but shit, I’ll swing at anything. I take the lighter he’s proffering and stick my mouth over the hole of the can and make sure to keep the can at an even horizontal level. I start to roast the small mountain of half burnt white chunks and there are little sizzles and pops as I inhale this hitherto unknown substance into my lungs. Who says humans are intelligent, rational beings? We take lighters from strange black men and do chemistry experiments with our bodies. I have never snorted cocaine or smoked crack -- just watched people do it in movies. Actually, most of the crack activity I’ve seen comes from watching one of my favourite shows, Cops. Those are my keys, but that is definitely not my crack. That type of stuff. Usually, the dope fiends don’t use coke cans, they use clear glass pipes stained black with crack residue that looks a lot like pot residue. These are the messes left behind by our vices.
At first the hit was tentative, I was feeling out the smoke, expecting a harsh coughing fit if I inhaled too much too deep too fast. Surprisingly, the smoke was almost tasteless and almost as smooth as air. I could barely feel the heft of the smoke in my lungs but my eyes could plainly see that I was sucking in a double elephant lung transplant mass of cottony smoke. I took the can away from my mouth and closed my eyes, holding it all in, even -- gulp -- swallowing it, relinquishing the can to Oscar, and he takes it wordlessly and kills the bowl.
All of a sudden I was conscious of my own heartbeat in my body thumping like a gong show alarm clock. Becoming aware of my heartbeat was like gazing out at the night sky on a clear night up in the country away from light pollution. Now that I’ve noticed it I’m in awe of it’s metronomic endlessness and in some pathetic self referential way afraid of it, like this can’t just keep going on and on inside me can it? The crack pounds on the blood brain barrier and along with the heart, the mind starts revving up and branching out, drowning any thoughts of the racing heart; now the mouth takes over. What’s-going-on-what’s-going-on-what’s-going-on???? The sum of the sinful parts here are starting to add up. So, like, there’s no weed?
Oscar’s eyes are locked onto the screen and his lips are locked onto the coke can. Since the promise of weed is fading I am now officially curious to know what’s happening onscreen. Is it The Nature of Things, or some alien autopsy program? Why doesn’t he want me to watch? The helpless panicky feeling of the whole situation starts to unfold before me, of not only being buried alive after being raped by Oscar’s huge black rig, my face mushed into the pillow, but of having freshly deflowered ass pain while having the dirt scooped on me.
I’d rather have the flu in hell.
“Where’s the washroom?” I ask, and Oscar points behind him, his cheeks puffed out with a fresh hit.
I don’t need to pee, but I need to hide and think up an escape plan. The rent-a-cop watching over me is tapping on my driver’s side window as I lay passed out at the wheel. Now he has my full attention. I get real close to the mirror and look into my eyes, scan my face for fuzz because it had been only six or seven days since I last shaved -- still looks freshly shaved. Because I don’t like goodbyes I plan to just make a mad dash for the front door, which is only steps from the bathroom, and run out of the building back into freedom. My heart is racing like it never has before, like I ran the 50m dash and just stopped on a dime, my thoughts are poring all over one another, as soon as one starts the next one begins before the first has a chance to finish. This is crack in a nutshell. Buoyed by the drugs, I don’t care how it will look in five seconds when I run for the door and into the open arms of downtown Ottawa. I flush the crystal clear toilet water. Okay -- are you ready?
5.…4...3..2.1.
Go!
The bathroom door springs open and as I turn right towards the front door, I can’t help but catch a glimpse of the t.v. screen and there’s two guys with toned muscles and one is gripping the back of the other guys head while he rams his rod into the others mouth. Can you spell H-O-T?
I reach the door and this is where my simple plan becomes convoluted. I turn the knob like any sane teen zonked out on crack for the first time and then when it doesn’t give I turn it ten times more, becoming more and more frantic, and then with the right hand I started twisting the deadbolt and randomly pulling the door with all my might inwards, hoping…praying to God, the supreme being that forgives all the tomfoolery that teens get into, to please, please, please, let me open the damn door!
“Hey Dan,” a voice calls calmly from behind me and I turn to face my executioner, ready to submit to the long slow climb up the gallows, and he says, “Dan, just relax man, it’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you. Come take another hit. You‘ll feel better…I Swear.”
“No, no, I want to leave. Now!” I say as forcefully as I can considering the circumstances.
“Let’s just chill out, man. We’ll take another hit and then you can leave, kay?”
And for some unknown reason I relented. If he’s going to rape and kill me, I might as well smoke some more crack first. There is no reasonable explanation for not leaving this off duty stripper’s drug cave. Teenage immortality maybe?
Inexplicably my cock was red hot hard, bloated with blood. I wasn’t thinking any sexy thoughts but here was my shooter sticking up into my waistband nonetheless. I took another hit and my head -- both -- almost exploded. Call me crazy, but in my hyper addled state I just knew, I had an intuition that Oscar wanted to suck my dick. I was finally cluing into his whole scheme. He probably doesn’t want to, like, rape me, he probably wants to lick on my wrench. I hope. These are the signals I’m getting. He’s some gay dude who likes teen meat. Right?
It’s 1996 and I’ve never had the sensation of another human beings’ lips and saliva on my cock, only ran through the possibilities in my head, alone in my bedroom. Sure, I fucked empty toilet paper rolls and old teddy bears with holes cut out in their vaginas with a steak knife and then, after, when the cotton wore out a knife wound into the top of the head (to get at the fresh supply) and silky things around the house like pillows and blankets, et al….but never a fully functional mouth and lips going back and forth, never a sentient human being for crying out loud -- that would be crazy!
“Okay, I’ll…I’ll let you suck it,” I blurt out, almost having an out of body experience, not believing what I’m saying.
Maybe I said it because I wanted to feel the physical sensation of a blowjob instead of just imagining it, and if the only person to administer this physical feeling is an off duty black male stripper/dancer with a goatee that requires at least ten minutes a day of maintenance than so be it. Plus, my cock was like a lead pipe.
“Yeah? You’re cool with that?” He asks.
“Umm…whatever, I guess.”
I imagine it was like Christmas morning for Oscar. I was giving him his fantasy -- a pristine, straight, twinky looking, grunge rocking semi-geeky pimpley-faced white boy. We went into the adjacent bedroom and I unbuckled my pants and dropped them down to my feet, the chain wallet clinking against the checkerboard floor, and left them scrunched up around my ankles. I stood at the foot of the bed with this crack rod reaching obscenely out into the air like a hand reaching out to God. I decided to keep all other articles of clothing on seeing as how their removal was unnecessary. I was shy. Oscar didn’t seem to care about anything except my cock, anyways. There’s no way I’m going to tell him, but I bet he’d get a kick out of knowing that I was a virgin.
Oscar could sense my nervousness. “Don’t worry Dan, relax, it will feel good. Just think of some girl that you like.” It was the best piece of advice he could give me. Should I picture Kurt? No, too weird -- I worship him, but not in that way. As Oscar took my cock into his mouth and began going back and forth on it like a big black woodpecker I closed my eyes and pictured Mara, the hot half Indian chick who sits in front of me in 2nd period basic math. The physical sensation of the blowjob was exhilarating! It felt great. I looked down at one point, and, after being so hopelessly lost in my Mara BJ fantasy, upon seeing this man’s mouth with a goatee taking my rig into his throat, I began freaking out even more, yet somehow found the resolve to soldier on.
I would hate to suck cock, all that back and forth, it must really strain the neck after a while, but Oscar seemed to relish every moment, even cooing and moaning as my plunger clogged his throat.
I closed my eyes again and pictured Mara’s beautiful face and mouth sucking instead of Oscar. I couldn’t believe how strange my afternoon was turning out. I only planned on walking around downtown taking in the sights and here I am with my cock root deep into some guys mouth. Life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans.
Oscar’s pants were undone and he was yanking on his semi-hard cock, almost twice the size of mine. “I’m not going anywhere near that,” I said, breaking my concentration, Mara poofing away into the ether of my imagination.
“That’s okay, I don’t want you to. Just cum on my hand.”
Ahh, I finally clued in. He wants to masturbate with my jism. I mean what else would he want to use it for? Hair gel? Well, it would be the first time my cum was put to good use, not just tossed into the garbage or flushed down the toilet.
After the immediate sensation of, ‘Oh, so that’s what it’s like to get your dick sucked’, it became clear that ejaculating was not going to be possible. Maybe it was the crack wearing off or the reality of the situation taking a deeper hold, but my hard-on started shrinking, and, sensing this deflation, Oscar started jerking and sucking my cock more frantically, switching hands mid slide without losing a beat. But it was no use. I almost felt sorry for him that we had come this far and I couldn’t fully satisfy his fantasy.
I finally announced, “Okay, that’s enough,” as if a waiter was grinding peppercorn onto my spaghetti. Oscar stood obediently and zipped up, and my elusive semen remained safely nestled in my recently drooped testes.
“So…I better get going then….” I say, still scared that he won’t let me leave but he was nothing but a perfect gentleman, thanking me for coming (no pun intended because I didn’t) and unbolted and twisted all the various locks on his door and said, “Goodbye Dan,” pleasantly though we both knew we’d never see each other again.
“Yeah, bye,” I said back and walked out into the early evening, the sun shining with absolutely no breeze, the kind of perfect Canadian summer evening you wish would last forever. I wanted to get back to the hotel right away, not so much because I was late for the family cruise but because I wanted to take a shower and wash Oscar’s dried saliva off my cock. The crack or freebase or whatever it was had worn off and I felt dirty, uneasy with myself. It wasn’t legitimate rape, but I felt like the victim of some kind of interracial homoerotic voodoo. What did this Oscar guy do to me? I don’t go around letting black guys suck my junk. Up to this point I haven’t let anyone.
I put the key card into my hotel room and wait for the red light. Silence, emptiness, a half eaten bag of Cool Ranch Doritos on the bed; the room is exactly the way I left it. Within the hour I will be floating by our capital’s parliament buildings illuminated by huge fluorescent lights. No one will know my secret, not tonight, not even the foreboding gothic pillars, the symbols of law and justice in Canadian society.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Monday, July 9, 2012
The Marijuana Monologues
There I am, like a Canadian Psycho, in nothing but boxer shorts and goggles, gripping a hammer and standing in my bathroom over the bathtub.
In the tub is my victim, a naked actress-model type with a humming chainsaw, her mascara running like an oil spill down her cheeks, crying hysterically, pleading for the half naked man above her with the ripped abs, hundred dollar haircut and perfectly draped monogrammed towels, to just "Please, please, let me go, I won’t tell anyone."
But it's not like that at all.
I can't hear the screams because my victim doesn’t have a voice. The screams come from within.
My victim? A bong. It stands innocently enough, tall and firm in my bathtub. These threats though, they're insidious. So I have resolved to smash my bong, because the worst possible thing has happened if you happen to be a pothead: the weed's all gone. I’m out of my gnarly, stanky bud stash, brah. Smoked it all up. I thought I’d try kicking the leaf, starting off with a trial run: see what seven days of sobriety feels like. Get the THC out of the old system because I‘m starting to think I need it. And that’s scary--if I need it, than what are the underlying psychological issues causing me to feel like I need it in the first place? Let’s get introspective here. Thirty years old and I’m still smoking pot like a pimply faced teenager with Cheesy Poofs crumbs in his dirt-stache. Grow up already, swallow hard like the goddamn man you are and--big high five!--say Yes! to a sober life.
My beloved purple hand blown bong that I have been using for the last five years is about to die. I took good care of her, too. Cleaned her regularly . . . well at least the exterior and the top of the shaft where you squeeze your lips in to suck a lung busting stream of bubbly bliss into your lungs. Cleaning the top rim is imperative because when you take a hit your body immediately produces saliva, and sometimes a little saliva rivulet will run down the length of the bong, which is, admittedly, gross. But clean the inside? Naw, didn’t clean that, though I did replace the water every 3-5 days depending on how much I was smoking. So the point is is that there’s a cock-shitting fuck-load of PMH that is ripe for harvesting. PMH being, of course, Poor Man’s Hash. The sticky black goop that builds up quickly in any pipe or bong. It looks a bit like hash, is nearly impossible to clean off your hands, and you can definitely get a buzz off it even if it is only re-smoking the residue that is left behind when you actually smoke the pot. And I need it. Like now. I made it half way through day two of my seven day sober quest and I was assaulted by the most psychically painful, aching urge to get some THC coursing through my veins. To construct an ever higher storm wall in front of the surging tsunami of ennui.
All it takes is a soft, reflex-testing tap to the distended lower end and the bong shatter's in two large jagged pieces. I get up and dump out the other smaller pieces of shrapnel that have conveniently collected into the still fully formed basin. As soon as I’m standing though I feel a sharp stinging pain on the bottom of my right foot--instantly, I know I’ve stepped on a stray piece of glass. The whole point of smashing the bong in the tub was to avoid this scenario. I bend my foot up and look over my shoulder to assess the damage. Not good. Blood is already dripping onto the checkerboard tiles. I'm in the grips of the high before the high -- the excitement of knowing that in the next few minutes all will be okay; that the raw viciousness of reality will be defanged. I curse myself out and begrudgingly tend to my cut, though it takes forever to stop bleeding because of the sweltering humidity. My building doesn't have central air, nor do I have a window unit--who do you think I am? A Rockefeller?
The master safe has been cracked!
It was like the Klondike Gold Rush; loads and loads of deposits of PMH clinging to the inside of the shattered bong. Just call me the Weed Whisperer. I dutifully scraped out the little hunks of gobbledygook into an old cigar box using a pair of unused tweezers that came with a dollar store manscaping kit, a stocking stuffer from years past.
I scrape a nice little portion into my B pipe, which is one of those tiny, all business numbers no more than two and a half inches long with a screw on bowl. Well, kid, you’re getting a shot at the big leagues, I think and put the lighter to the goop. The black mass bubbles and liquefies as its solid mass is converted into smoke and shoots into my lungs. It’s not harsh like some marijuana smoke and I inhale until I can’t inhale any longer and my chest is full of PMH. I let it out slowly, the smoke coming out in one long billowing stream, my conscience saddled with a tinge of disgust and regret, attacked by the incongruous thought that this re-smoked resin, though smooth, is probably worse than actual pot. Ah, well. At least I can’t see my lungs. Can’t crack that safe.
For an addict, bottoms are constantly being gutted out to make way for even lower ones. There are bottoms beneath bottoms with trapdoors that lead to more bottoms. Half way through day two and I ran out of steam. Pass the pipe.
Marijuana makes me more sensitive to everything can make me really horny, more up for anything, more fetishist. More too much is not enough. Just go ahead and hang me upside down and fuck me in both ears. Usually when sober, masturbating is just like doing the dishes--it’s all business. No big deal, it only takes a few minutes to get the poison out and then I’m back to getting on with things.
If I’m really stoned on PMH, sometimes I don’t want to watch the usual boring porn--some creepy guy having regular old intercourse with a woman in a few different positions--I want to get nuts! I want a new sen-sa-tion! Variety is the spice of life, right? So I'll type into Google something like ‘guy fucking real doll’ and of course, there are 37,000,000 results (0.40 seconds). A whole world of sexual depravity is only a Google search away! Knock yourself out. I click onto one of the sites and all of a sudden I’m watching some guy with a huge gut and a general sheen of sleaze laying pipe into his--ahem--girlfriend. She was quite attractive in a far away eyed Barbie Doll way. The kind of woman that fits the stereotypical male fantasy: large breasts, slim waist, nice skin, healthy hair. The kind of woman manufactured on a Chinese assembly line according to the specs of a sexually frustrated man.
As I was jerking off to this guy and his doll, my dope addled mind veered off and wondered away: imagine this guy's disappointment if he cracked open his coffin shaped crate with the excitement of a boy on Christmas morning, and he got the wrong girl? Instead of an impossibly well proportioned, fresh faced Oklahoma State cheerleader fembot, he gets a nappy headed, inner city crack ho because Jim down the street likes that sort of thing.
After I pull up my pants I flush the goopy Kleenex with my progeny on it down the toilet and into the sewage system where it belongs. that the swirling of water looks similar to a galaxy. And I get to thinking . . . what if we have been visited by aliens? I’ve seen the documentaries and read the articles about eye witness accounts of sightings and abductions, but there’s something amiss with these supposed intergalactic travelers (besides no irrefutable physical evidence). Here’s my theory: Alien retards. Aliens with average to upper intelligence (relatively speaking) have zero interest whatsoever in our woefully unrefined civilization (again, relative). They’re so advanced that the wonders of our world--the human brain, Niagara Falls, NASA, pre-packaged microwavable bacon, that Indian guy with the world's longest fingernails--are only stimulating to retarded aliens. Possibly some of the alien children, too. Sightings only occur in our skies when the lower stock's jerry rig their parent's ships, and go out for an interstellar joyride. These subnormal aliens, while obviously far more intelligent than Earth’s best and brightest, are drawn to our planet because there's simply no other galaxy with any discernible forms of life within reasonable galactic travelling distance. They display an interest in us the way a male child shows interest in thumb-tacking a housefly's wing to a desk and watching him squirm, then carefully applying Whiteout to its face until the corrective ink hardens and the squirming becomes less consistent, more spasmodic, until finally there is stillness. We are playthings for a species in a far away galaxy and we make great pets.
A week into my detox, quitting pot is proving to be more difficult than I thought and then some. I’m utilizing all of my feeble, twenty-first-century-digital-boy willpower to abstain from going into the Bloor West Village and randomly asking teenage ruffians if they’re holding any stuff.
Man I’ll suck yo dick for a joint. Then I'll suck yo dick for a cheeseburger.
The withdrawal is not physical by any means (except for the cut on my foot). No sweating or shaking, but I can report to you that the Apocalypse Now-esque psychological horrors are real and brutal. I’ve never suffered from insomnia before but now it’s a nightly occurrence. Clearly my mind and body had grown accustomed to the relaxing effects of THC consumption. Now, when I lay in bed encouraging my mind to just STFU already, the carnival begins. How can one part of me want to sleep so bad, and this other, malevolent side, deny me the sleep it must surely crave?
The human mind is just one hot ironic mess. To get through this whole quitting-the-leaf ordeal, I tell myself at the start of every day that, yes, I will most certainly call my dealer and pick up a half quarter in the afternoon though I know it not to be true. I'll go through the day with pep in my step, even though it’s all a self-induced ruse, even though I know deep inside that there will be no call placed. It’s not a bad plan--we willingly deceive ourselves all the time; it really does help me get through the day and quiet the nagging voices in my head. But there’s invariably that moment of truth where the whole sham hits the fan, so to speak, and I have to begrudgingly admit that there will be no actual call to my dealer. The house of cards has crumbled only to be rebuilt again tomorrow. Conversely, I’ll not even think about getting dope for an entire afternoon, the thought is outside of a giant mental wall I‘ve constructed around it, and then with no warning, without even intellectualizing the issue at all, I’ll just call my dealer and score.
Stephen Fry writes..."It is a cliche that most cliches are true, but then like most cliches, that cliche is untrue."
The cliché of the pot induced increased appetite is most definitely true. After smoking pot I can never fully satisfy my rapacious appetite. It would seem as though my appetite would transport from stomach to brain. If I thought hard enough about some dish, fetishized the process of seeing it through from raw ingredients all the way to the sumptuous mouthfeel, I could quickly morph from a regular old full-bellied Canadian dude, into a malnourished Sasquatch. I’ll eat so much food in the span of a couple hours that over the years, in an attempt to quash my overeating, I’ve trained my esophageal muscles to effortlessly regurgitate recently eaten food back up and into my mouth like a momma bird and then I’ll--get ready to wince--chew it up all over again and swallow it down, and--get ready to wince yet again (sorry)--sometimes repeat the process two or three times until the food has a nasty bilious aftertaste, without any of the original pre-chewed yumminess left. If you don’t know the pleasures of eating a handful of Genoa salami and then eating it again ten minutes later, well God bless, and drive safe.
I really should write a diet book.
Days after I run out of my PMH stash I’m still limping around. A sober gimp. I try not to count the days--it's too daunting. I prefer to take it heartbeat to heartbeat. No one second is unendurable. The prospect of never smoking pot again until I expire would drive me crazy. I can’t focus on the long term. Jesus H. Christmas tree, I can barely even focus on day to day. It’s got to be second to second.
I’m still drinking beer, perhaps more than I should, but I’m taking it one addiction at a time. Shit, I spill more beer than most people drink. I don’t feel that my beer intake is having any huge negative impact on my day to day operations. A man has to have something to look forward to, after all. I believe it was Dean Martin that said, “I’d hate to be a teetotaler. Imagine getting up every morning and knowing that’s as good as you’re going to feel all day.” Amen Dino. Total sobriety is not the life for me either, pal.
I am limping to the LCBO to get my daily intake of four tall cans. I take two Moosehead’s and two Canadians and stuff them into my bag. Which, by the way, always feels strange--like I’m being watched. It’s the only store where I put the product in my own personal bag before actually paying for it. I’m always tempted to stuff in six or seven beers and then saying that there are only four because all the cashiers recognize me and stopped checking my bag long ago. But I don’t; even though it’s only the government I’d be stealing from and they steal so much from me already, so really, it’s more of a tit-for-tat situation, and also the employees can’t touch me, especially Don, the massive black guy with a shaved head and overgrown sideburns, because of the threat of lawsuits, but that’s just the type of addict behaviour that I’m trying to avoid--thinking of the consequences instead of the short-term pleasure. Also, if I did get caught I would be mortified by the look on the cashiers' face as he or she slowly put together the pieces--this guy's here everyday, therefore he must have been stealing beer daily for years, thousands of dollars worth perhaps. He’s a fucking beer baron!
I amble up to the checkout line and place one Moosehead and one Canadian on the counter and say, “There’s two of each.” I usually end up in Natalia’s line because I like her Polish accent, the way she asks customers, “Air Miles?” She notices my uneven gait and smiles, asks what’s the matter. I wasn’t anticipating anyone asking about my limp so I didn’t have a party line ready. Sometimes the truth is not advisable.
“Oh this?” I say and lift up my foot, thinking of what to tell her. “It’s nothing--just . . . just an old battle wound.”
In the tub is my victim, a naked actress-model type with a humming chainsaw, her mascara running like an oil spill down her cheeks, crying hysterically, pleading for the half naked man above her with the ripped abs, hundred dollar haircut and perfectly draped monogrammed towels, to just "Please, please, let me go, I won’t tell anyone."
But it's not like that at all.
I can't hear the screams because my victim doesn’t have a voice. The screams come from within.
My victim? A bong. It stands innocently enough, tall and firm in my bathtub. These threats though, they're insidious. So I have resolved to smash my bong, because the worst possible thing has happened if you happen to be a pothead: the weed's all gone. I’m out of my gnarly, stanky bud stash, brah. Smoked it all up. I thought I’d try kicking the leaf, starting off with a trial run: see what seven days of sobriety feels like. Get the THC out of the old system because I‘m starting to think I need it. And that’s scary--if I need it, than what are the underlying psychological issues causing me to feel like I need it in the first place? Let’s get introspective here. Thirty years old and I’m still smoking pot like a pimply faced teenager with Cheesy Poofs crumbs in his dirt-stache. Grow up already, swallow hard like the goddamn man you are and--big high five!--say Yes! to a sober life.
My beloved purple hand blown bong that I have been using for the last five years is about to die. I took good care of her, too. Cleaned her regularly . . . well at least the exterior and the top of the shaft where you squeeze your lips in to suck a lung busting stream of bubbly bliss into your lungs. Cleaning the top rim is imperative because when you take a hit your body immediately produces saliva, and sometimes a little saliva rivulet will run down the length of the bong, which is, admittedly, gross. But clean the inside? Naw, didn’t clean that, though I did replace the water every 3-5 days depending on how much I was smoking. So the point is is that there’s a cock-shitting fuck-load of PMH that is ripe for harvesting. PMH being, of course, Poor Man’s Hash. The sticky black goop that builds up quickly in any pipe or bong. It looks a bit like hash, is nearly impossible to clean off your hands, and you can definitely get a buzz off it even if it is only re-smoking the residue that is left behind when you actually smoke the pot. And I need it. Like now. I made it half way through day two of my seven day sober quest and I was assaulted by the most psychically painful, aching urge to get some THC coursing through my veins. To construct an ever higher storm wall in front of the surging tsunami of ennui.
All it takes is a soft, reflex-testing tap to the distended lower end and the bong shatter's in two large jagged pieces. I get up and dump out the other smaller pieces of shrapnel that have conveniently collected into the still fully formed basin. As soon as I’m standing though I feel a sharp stinging pain on the bottom of my right foot--instantly, I know I’ve stepped on a stray piece of glass. The whole point of smashing the bong in the tub was to avoid this scenario. I bend my foot up and look over my shoulder to assess the damage. Not good. Blood is already dripping onto the checkerboard tiles. I'm in the grips of the high before the high -- the excitement of knowing that in the next few minutes all will be okay; that the raw viciousness of reality will be defanged. I curse myself out and begrudgingly tend to my cut, though it takes forever to stop bleeding because of the sweltering humidity. My building doesn't have central air, nor do I have a window unit--who do you think I am? A Rockefeller?
The master safe has been cracked!
It was like the Klondike Gold Rush; loads and loads of deposits of PMH clinging to the inside of the shattered bong. Just call me the Weed Whisperer. I dutifully scraped out the little hunks of gobbledygook into an old cigar box using a pair of unused tweezers that came with a dollar store manscaping kit, a stocking stuffer from years past.
I scrape a nice little portion into my B pipe, which is one of those tiny, all business numbers no more than two and a half inches long with a screw on bowl. Well, kid, you’re getting a shot at the big leagues, I think and put the lighter to the goop. The black mass bubbles and liquefies as its solid mass is converted into smoke and shoots into my lungs. It’s not harsh like some marijuana smoke and I inhale until I can’t inhale any longer and my chest is full of PMH. I let it out slowly, the smoke coming out in one long billowing stream, my conscience saddled with a tinge of disgust and regret, attacked by the incongruous thought that this re-smoked resin, though smooth, is probably worse than actual pot. Ah, well. At least I can’t see my lungs. Can’t crack that safe.
For an addict, bottoms are constantly being gutted out to make way for even lower ones. There are bottoms beneath bottoms with trapdoors that lead to more bottoms. Half way through day two and I ran out of steam. Pass the pipe.
Marijuana makes me more sensitive to everything can make me really horny, more up for anything, more fetishist. More too much is not enough. Just go ahead and hang me upside down and fuck me in both ears. Usually when sober, masturbating is just like doing the dishes--it’s all business. No big deal, it only takes a few minutes to get the poison out and then I’m back to getting on with things.
If I’m really stoned on PMH, sometimes I don’t want to watch the usual boring porn--some creepy guy having regular old intercourse with a woman in a few different positions--I want to get nuts! I want a new sen-sa-tion! Variety is the spice of life, right? So I'll type into Google something like ‘guy fucking real doll’ and of course, there are 37,000,000 results (0.40 seconds). A whole world of sexual depravity is only a Google search away! Knock yourself out. I click onto one of the sites and all of a sudden I’m watching some guy with a huge gut and a general sheen of sleaze laying pipe into his--ahem--girlfriend. She was quite attractive in a far away eyed Barbie Doll way. The kind of woman that fits the stereotypical male fantasy: large breasts, slim waist, nice skin, healthy hair. The kind of woman manufactured on a Chinese assembly line according to the specs of a sexually frustrated man.
As I was jerking off to this guy and his doll, my dope addled mind veered off and wondered away: imagine this guy's disappointment if he cracked open his coffin shaped crate with the excitement of a boy on Christmas morning, and he got the wrong girl? Instead of an impossibly well proportioned, fresh faced Oklahoma State cheerleader fembot, he gets a nappy headed, inner city crack ho because Jim down the street likes that sort of thing.
After I pull up my pants I flush the goopy Kleenex with my progeny on it down the toilet and into the sewage system where it belongs. that the swirling of water looks similar to a galaxy. And I get to thinking . . . what if we have been visited by aliens? I’ve seen the documentaries and read the articles about eye witness accounts of sightings and abductions, but there’s something amiss with these supposed intergalactic travelers (besides no irrefutable physical evidence). Here’s my theory: Alien retards. Aliens with average to upper intelligence (relatively speaking) have zero interest whatsoever in our woefully unrefined civilization (again, relative). They’re so advanced that the wonders of our world--the human brain, Niagara Falls, NASA, pre-packaged microwavable bacon, that Indian guy with the world's longest fingernails--are only stimulating to retarded aliens. Possibly some of the alien children, too. Sightings only occur in our skies when the lower stock's jerry rig their parent's ships, and go out for an interstellar joyride. These subnormal aliens, while obviously far more intelligent than Earth’s best and brightest, are drawn to our planet because there's simply no other galaxy with any discernible forms of life within reasonable galactic travelling distance. They display an interest in us the way a male child shows interest in thumb-tacking a housefly's wing to a desk and watching him squirm, then carefully applying Whiteout to its face until the corrective ink hardens and the squirming becomes less consistent, more spasmodic, until finally there is stillness. We are playthings for a species in a far away galaxy and we make great pets.
A week into my detox, quitting pot is proving to be more difficult than I thought and then some. I’m utilizing all of my feeble, twenty-first-century-digital-boy willpower to abstain from going into the Bloor West Village and randomly asking teenage ruffians if they’re holding any stuff.
Man I’ll suck yo dick for a joint. Then I'll suck yo dick for a cheeseburger.
The withdrawal is not physical by any means (except for the cut on my foot). No sweating or shaking, but I can report to you that the Apocalypse Now-esque psychological horrors are real and brutal. I’ve never suffered from insomnia before but now it’s a nightly occurrence. Clearly my mind and body had grown accustomed to the relaxing effects of THC consumption. Now, when I lay in bed encouraging my mind to just STFU already, the carnival begins. How can one part of me want to sleep so bad, and this other, malevolent side, deny me the sleep it must surely crave?
The human mind is just one hot ironic mess. To get through this whole quitting-the-leaf ordeal, I tell myself at the start of every day that, yes, I will most certainly call my dealer and pick up a half quarter in the afternoon though I know it not to be true. I'll go through the day with pep in my step, even though it’s all a self-induced ruse, even though I know deep inside that there will be no call placed. It’s not a bad plan--we willingly deceive ourselves all the time; it really does help me get through the day and quiet the nagging voices in my head. But there’s invariably that moment of truth where the whole sham hits the fan, so to speak, and I have to begrudgingly admit that there will be no actual call to my dealer. The house of cards has crumbled only to be rebuilt again tomorrow. Conversely, I’ll not even think about getting dope for an entire afternoon, the thought is outside of a giant mental wall I‘ve constructed around it, and then with no warning, without even intellectualizing the issue at all, I’ll just call my dealer and score.
Stephen Fry writes..."It is a cliche that most cliches are true, but then like most cliches, that cliche is untrue."
The cliché of the pot induced increased appetite is most definitely true. After smoking pot I can never fully satisfy my rapacious appetite. It would seem as though my appetite would transport from stomach to brain. If I thought hard enough about some dish, fetishized the process of seeing it through from raw ingredients all the way to the sumptuous mouthfeel, I could quickly morph from a regular old full-bellied Canadian dude, into a malnourished Sasquatch. I’ll eat so much food in the span of a couple hours that over the years, in an attempt to quash my overeating, I’ve trained my esophageal muscles to effortlessly regurgitate recently eaten food back up and into my mouth like a momma bird and then I’ll--get ready to wince--chew it up all over again and swallow it down, and--get ready to wince yet again (sorry)--sometimes repeat the process two or three times until the food has a nasty bilious aftertaste, without any of the original pre-chewed yumminess left. If you don’t know the pleasures of eating a handful of Genoa salami and then eating it again ten minutes later, well God bless, and drive safe.
I really should write a diet book.
Days after I run out of my PMH stash I’m still limping around. A sober gimp. I try not to count the days--it's too daunting. I prefer to take it heartbeat to heartbeat. No one second is unendurable. The prospect of never smoking pot again until I expire would drive me crazy. I can’t focus on the long term. Jesus H. Christmas tree, I can barely even focus on day to day. It’s got to be second to second.
I’m still drinking beer, perhaps more than I should, but I’m taking it one addiction at a time. Shit, I spill more beer than most people drink. I don’t feel that my beer intake is having any huge negative impact on my day to day operations. A man has to have something to look forward to, after all. I believe it was Dean Martin that said, “I’d hate to be a teetotaler. Imagine getting up every morning and knowing that’s as good as you’re going to feel all day.” Amen Dino. Total sobriety is not the life for me either, pal.
I am limping to the LCBO to get my daily intake of four tall cans. I take two Moosehead’s and two Canadians and stuff them into my bag. Which, by the way, always feels strange--like I’m being watched. It’s the only store where I put the product in my own personal bag before actually paying for it. I’m always tempted to stuff in six or seven beers and then saying that there are only four because all the cashiers recognize me and stopped checking my bag long ago. But I don’t; even though it’s only the government I’d be stealing from and they steal so much from me already, so really, it’s more of a tit-for-tat situation, and also the employees can’t touch me, especially Don, the massive black guy with a shaved head and overgrown sideburns, because of the threat of lawsuits, but that’s just the type of addict behaviour that I’m trying to avoid--thinking of the consequences instead of the short-term pleasure. Also, if I did get caught I would be mortified by the look on the cashiers' face as he or she slowly put together the pieces--this guy's here everyday, therefore he must have been stealing beer daily for years, thousands of dollars worth perhaps. He’s a fucking beer baron!
I amble up to the checkout line and place one Moosehead and one Canadian on the counter and say, “There’s two of each.” I usually end up in Natalia’s line because I like her Polish accent, the way she asks customers, “Air Miles?” She notices my uneven gait and smiles, asks what’s the matter. I wasn’t anticipating anyone asking about my limp so I didn’t have a party line ready. Sometimes the truth is not advisable.
“Oh this?” I say and lift up my foot, thinking of what to tell her. “It’s nothing--just . . . just an old battle wound.”
Saturday, June 2, 2012
My So Called Off Line Life: In Search Of The Canadian Dream
If you take a leisurely stroll through Bloor West Village during a weekday afternoon, it’s difficult not to take stock of all the people who are just plain out of it. Talking to themselves in a manner that is not endemic to natural ‘talking-to-yourself’ behaviour. I’m talking ’bout crazy folk. I mean, we all talk to ourselves, mutter a ‘Fuck, that’s hot!’ when accidentally touching the stove, or an ‘Oh yeah, gotta deposit the rent cheque’ when it’s overdue. But it seems to me that one in five people in Toronto are incapable of maintaining an inner monologue; they’re mumbling an entire scene from the drama of their insignificant lives for all to hear.
Where do they all come from and where do they all belong? All these people talking to themselves with hang dog jowls and arms slack by their side, shuffling down Bloor St.? Have they found what they’re looking for? Are they deeper into the dream than the guys on Bay St? These are the things that bounce around my bucket when I’m sitting on my toilet, dropping anchor, a cigarette between my fingers. Waste going out, flavour country going in. Where is the Canadian Dream? Our neck’s permanently crooked downwards into phone screens and fingers busy texting. Is the Dream slumbering inside of a device? Most of us are okay with distraction--that’s what we are, a nation of distracted dumb fucks lost in an electronic haze. All I see is people killing time. Just existing until the expiry date rolls around.
Sometimes I think the Canadian Dream, and by proxy happiness, can only be found on an isolated Samoan island. Live isolated in the jungle long enough and the skies open up and the sun beams shine through--no shucksters on the street corner selling a fix, no robberies, no junkie babies, no garbage trucks, no five year plans, no resumes, no taxes--just a tropical life. Yes, it may be hard at times catching food, it may be hard to sleep at night with no AC unit dripping out the window, it may even be scary hearing all those unidentifiable jungle noises at night, but fuck man, doesn’t it feel right? Doesn’t it feel natural? Isn’t this what humans are supposed to do?
There was a documentary about Greece the other day and the host of the film happened upon this old hunched over lady who lives in this ancient bucolic hilltop village. She lives alone for most of the year with the odd visit from her son. For food she forages for wild asparagus; boils it and squeezes a lemon on top and--viola--dinner! God only knows how much her piss smells. But when prodded about her isolation, her loneliness, she replied in a convincing manner that, in fact, she was quite happy. And you could tell by the look on her face that she meant it. She was happy. No internet, no job, no fancy new age electronic gadgets like iPhones or Teleputer’s, just the morning sunrise and the birds, and vomit inducing asparagus pee. She’s got a clutter free mind, that’s where a lot of the contentment comes from, I imagine. There isn’t the ruthless competition of living in close quarters in a metropolis and all the attendant social pressures that go along with it.
Here I am, a world and half away from Greece, sitting at my computer endlessly consuming information. I am a product of the zeitgeist and thus I am an admitted info whore just like most of you by way of reading this. One day I’ll be hauled away to some Arizona Infohab to detox from my digital crack pipe. Paging Dr. Drew.
Have you ever been in a YouTube hole? When you sit at your computer for hours on end watching clips (I‘m unemployed, okay). You can take electronic leaps from Liam Gallagher’s Funniest Interview Moments, to a Cute Kitten Unwittingly Running Into a Strip of Stretch Wrap, to Nardwuar interviews, to Mafia documentaries, to infinity and beyond. YouTube is so prescient in its time draining cruelty. Aside from any number of completely unrelated clips--and now for something completely different--after you watch a clip, YouTube then displays all these other inter-related clips, juicy morsels that are very similar to the one you’ve just viewed, and chances are you need to see it if you needed to see the clip you just watched. Off to the races! The possibilities stretch on forever like a YouTube fractal. Before you know it, you’ve sat through every Oliver Reed interview and every Russian Street Fight KO Compilation, and all the 9/11 and Tsunami footage. It takes all the willpower you can muster up to pull yourself out of the hole and say, “Enough! This is the last clip, and then it’s back to the real world, my offline life, whatever‘s left of it!” What a pathetic generation we are. A bunch of YouTube babies. You must stop reading this immediately, it’s a beautiful day outside and you need the Vitamin D.
Humans are masters of adjustment and self-righteousness. Remember, it was only around ‘87 when smoking was banned on airplanes. For decades smoking on planes was a mild annoyance to the non-smokers (granted there weren’t many non-smokers at the time). Locked in a vessel with no escape at 20,000 feet breathing in all this horrible tobacco smoke. What did you do? You fucking sucked it up like a man, both literally and figuratively. But now, forget smoking inside tight quarters, even outside non smokers get their panties all knotted up. How quickly we are to adjust and feed the fire of our self-righteous indignation.
In the near future I’m betting the U.S. will be the first country to ban smoking in Mexico (under threat of military action) because of the cumulative effect of all those Mexicans’ second hand smoke wafting north across the border. American tobacco companies will put up a big fuss, but the overwhelming sense of entitlement and health of U.S. citizens will be too much. There will be massive protests in California, Arizona, and Texas. Angry citizens clamouring and rioting, smashing storefronts and fighting with police (though they won’t put up much of a fight because of their decreased lung capacities). Even health conscious celebrities affected by the second hand smoke in Los Angeles will film PSA’s, sitting on a reversed chair, telling Mexico’s population that “Butts are for sitting.”
Mexico decides to ban traditional bowling balls because of the Kyoto II: No Tobacco For Mexico Protocol whereby Mexico‘s emissions and waste need to be cut down under threat from the U.S.A., so the Mexican gov‘t resolved, in addition to outlawing tobacco, to illegalize the manufacturing of the plastics and polyurethane directly involved with the bowling ball industry. To counteract the impending bowling ball shortage a few industrious and outside-the-box-thinking gov’t officials propose to use severed heads of the victims of the narco wars. At first, the Mexican population is aghast at such a macabre solution, but eventually give in because, after all, skulls aren’t much use rotting in the ground. Might as well bowl with them. Each ball’s formation utilizes two and a half human skulls and is fashioned into a beautifully round and smooth shape by plaster and reticulated drywall tape. These two and a half skull bowling balls obviously don’t last as long as the P & P type traditional balls, but the skulls were coming in from the morgue and then out to the manufacturing plant to the bowling halls at an almost renewable resource like rate, or so all the bowling hall owners joked, so constant replacement due to dents and nicks that would cause the ball to roll untrue was not really a problem.
Where did our attention span go?
Have you ever wondered just who in the hell all those people are on TMZ? All of those kids in the war room? Me too (again, I’m unemployed). Like an investigative journalist I scoured the internet for information on them for reasons I’m not entirely sure of. Maybe I just wanted to verify that they are, indeed, real people. I have some kind of binge relationship with TMZ. I will go for weeks without watching it and then all of a sudden, I‘ll watch it everyday for a week. It’s the apotheosis of our modern North American entertainment State, the most vapid form of entertainment TV I’ve ever tuned into--and I mean that in a good way, I suppose. I just get lost in every little stupid encounter, every little man-on-the-street interview and the accompanying goofing on the clip by the peanut gallery. Even while I’m watching the show I keep asking myself, ‘why are you watching this trash?’ The mild tingling of excitement at the start of the program is wholly nullified at the end of the thirty minutes by the shame of time wasted. I should be chasing the Dream! I can’t help but thinking that the very next story will be just right, a sexy B level celebrity in the middle of a coke and booze bender. My last wish on Planet Earth before I die is to order up a round of beers and sit down with the ghost of Hunter S. Thompson and watch an episode of TMZ.
“Goddamnit, man! What is this swine?” Hunter says, turning to me with tinted shades, rolling his cigarette holder in his teeth, unable to keep still. “They videotape people doing nothing?”
“Yeah, this is what we watch on TV now, Hunter. It’s kind of like a reality version of Seinfeld but with celebrities,” I explain to him.
“These people should be force fed scrambled napalm eggs. Get my hog! I’m getting the hell out of here!”
Shit, if it was up to me, I’d replace the entire cast of these TMZ hooligans with the likes of Charles Bukowski, Hunter S. Thompson, Charles Manson, Osama Bin Laden, Mel Gibson, Lydia Lunch, John Gotti, Shane Macgowan, and with me hosting, of course, sucking on that silly sippy cup and scribbling out illegible notes with an erasable marker on a fancy transparent board. Now that’s a show! I know some of them are dead but it’s a fantasy so just suspend your disbelief. Maybe I’d get Mel to host when I’m on vacation…
“OKAY--LISTEN UP YOU SCUM FUCKING JEWS. BECAUSE MOST OF YOU ARE, DON’T DENY IT. I CAN SEE IT ALL OVER YOUR FACES. GODDAMN JEW FACES! LIKE 75% OF YOU! AT LEAST!
“NOW LISTEN UP…I DON’T WANT TO SEE ANY CLIPS OF CELEBRITIES COMING OUT OF RESTAURANTS OR CLUBS, I DON’T WANNA HEAR YOUR DUMB FUCKING SOFTBALL QUESTIONS. I WANT YOU CAMERA GUYS, THE FOOT SOLDIERS…” He points around the room and then, dramatically right into the camera as it zooms in close… “I WANT YOU TO GET THE ZIONIST LAWYERS AND HOLLYWOOD EXECUTIVES AND MY EX OKSANA ON FILM AND GET THEM TO ADMIT ONCE AND FOR ALL THAT--his veins practically bursting out of his forehead, “THEY CAN TAKE MY LIFE, BUT THEY CAN’T TAKE MY FREEDOM!”
The largest component to the Dream is a j-o-b. No doot a boot it. That’s what defines the parameters of the Dream itself and, currently, there aren’t too many prospects for this dirty pig in hog town. The Dream is an amoeba like organism constantly morphing and reconstituting itself into indefinable yet ever changing shapes. I checked one ad in the back of Now magazine and it said, “Now accepting applicants for Cock #24 for the adult film, 30 Rock (Hard Cocks). Call 416-819-****.” If it was Cock #3 or #4, well then, maybe, but not #24. So here I sit typing away with overdue bills to pay, trying to figure it all out.
It’s rumoured that the Nike co-founder, Dan Wieden, modelled the phrase, “Just Do It” after Gary Gilmore’s last words, right before he was executed, which were, “Let’s Do It”. A monosyllabic tweak and--presto!--advertising gold. Those shoes on your feet are made by slave children, and the phrase associated with the impulse you had to buy the shoes in the first place comes from a man who was executed for killing two people: a gas station employee and a motel manager, of all people. Well, there is a cock-shitting fuck load of time to do nothing and sit and think in a Texas prison, so at least two thirds of a golden ad slogan can easily bubble up to the surface in the mind of an inmate. Now let’s see you skip on down the street.
There is an underground terrorist group, maybe you’ve heard of it, but probably not, since not many have, and I may have just made it up. The leader is a broad shouldered man-woman with facial electrolysis, water balloon titties filled with milk (it’s a fetish thing), a bad blond wig parted in the middle, and big veiny man hands that can palm a basketball. She eats nothing but sandwiches which she has dubbed, ’LGBLT’S’ (Leeks, Guacamole, Bacon, Lettuce, Tomatoes). They are gearing up to wage war on straight North Americans. With Bombs. Smoke bombs. In places like subway trains, Bay St. elevators, and select Tim Horton’s. This leader of the cell, who shall remain nameless, she always and without fail leaves her self-published manifesto which rants on and on about the vacuity and banality of straight culture on the floor in the middle of all the confusion right before she makes a hasty retreat.
President Obama has voiced his opinion in support of gay marriage and hey, it’s the right one, no matter what recondite political strategy it comes from, but why not nationalize gay marriage, strong arm it into the constitution (last time I checked, Nezbit, that right was ALREADY THERE, DUMBASS), you do, after all, have the power. And if that’s what you truly believe, then be a real man and do what is right, what you feel in your heart of hearts, listen to the throbbing cockles of your heart, play your heart strings, in fact, strum them like a mandolin and play God Bless America.
My first visual sighting of an actual player in action, two people getting hot and heavy, was a biracial affair involving a rakish guy who had neatly cropped facial hair and hailed from Trinidad & Tobago and a busty brunette white girl. He just laid pipe--I’m assuming--into tons of chicks. I was, after all, only twelve, with slim to no knowledge of actual carnal relations with females. He was one of those guys who just lives to get some pussy; the kind of guy who has like four ho’s on the go at any one time and juggles them around without any one of the ho‘s finding out about the other three ho‘s. He was my babysitter’s older brother, Mika, aged eighteen.
For the past two years my parents employed a neighbourhood boy, Mika’s brother in fact, who lived six houses down, to baby sit me in the summer months at the economic-collapse-proof-rate of twenty dollars tax free cash per day. Someone had to watch me while my parents were working and school was out, and that someone was Marty. Our neighbourhood culture was one of warmth and plenty of communal interaction between kids and parents alike regardless of race and religious persuasion. There were summer barbeques and baseball games on the street. Our street was a cul de sac that formed a unique type of ball park, like a 2D beaker laid down flat. Legitimate jog-around-the-bases homerun’s constituted hitting the tennis ball onto one of the adjacent house’s roof’s. A homerun was considered an upper-decker if it plopped onto the top roof and just a regular, non-flashy homerun if it hit the lower roof. Our urban street ball had other unique aspects too: Incorporated into the game were all manner of obstacles that a fielder must be prepared for…bounces off cars, garages, curbs, just to name a few. If the tennis ball went under a car the runner was practically guaranteed an extra base and a half as the hapless outfielder was splayed on the street searching for the elusive ball.
Marty is from Trinidad & Tobago (what were my parents thinking, I know!), as is the rest of his family for that matter. He’s a sixteen year old kid with a good responsible head on his shoulders living with the aforementioned lady killer, Mika, with his two parents, who, whenever I visited were extremely quiet and reserved, especially the mother, but very polite nonetheless. Their house was alien to a white kid like myself. It was always so quiet which made any silences and natural body adjustments magnified and more uncomfortable. The first thing that almost illegally assaulted my olfactory senses upon entering Marty’s house was the thick stench of curry. I didn’t really like or dislike curry at eleven, though there was some apprehension to deeply inhale. It was more a massive whiff of whoa, that’s a little different, I wonder what Marty smells when he walks in to my house? Nothing? Because my house smells like nothing when I walk in.
Marty and I both looked forward to the summer months because he wasn’t so much a babysitter as a friend who cooked KD for lunch and played ball with all the kids and came down into my basement when my friends and I were building forts out of cushions out of both rectangular and right angle type cushions and pretend to be a monster and attack us. I mean, it’s almost scary to think back to how much fun and excitement fort cushions was. Why couldn’t I be eleven forever? And then the next day it would be baseball.
About twice a week we’d play inter-neighbourhood games at a local school’s ballpark that was closer to our opponents neck of the woods but generally conceded two summer‘s ago that it was the best ballpark in the general area, so we braved the longer trek. There were only two teams in our league. Outside of our own intra-neighbourhood games, more like pseudo-competitive practice for the inter-neighbourhood games, we only competed against one other neighbourhood team: The Indians (not Cleveland). These were the big games, the games where I felt a little anxious knot in my prepubescent stomach if I stepped up to the plate late in a tie game. Knowing what to do and waiting, waiting, waiting all this time for Marty to lob a floater into my wheelhouse so I can just plaster the baseball into outer space, so high and long that maybe the ball will be sucked into the gravitational pull of an asteroid belt and will revolve around Earth for a thousand years, and then it will touch down in some godforsaken place like Namibia. All I have to do is execute, like Gary Gilmore. Swing my pre-man body around with my favourite Easton aluminum bat and crank that ball into the stars.
Todays game: The White Kids With The One Illegally Older West Indian Guy vs. The East Indians.
My side of town against yours. The Indians lost almost every time but us White kids didn’t rub it in too much because of the illegal W.I. guy who was on our team hitting gargantuan homers every time he stepped up to bat like Frank Thomas playing on a triple AAA team. Sometimes he would crank it so far the hard ball ran out of grass and rolled onto the school’s paved recess play area, and if it was hit just right, it could scoot all the way down a narrow walkway about three feet wide and keep rolling into the front recess area which is, like, farther than any of Big Papi’s dingers. The Indians conceded Marty’s presence to the whole game because he was my babysitter and because he was the pitcher for both teams. There was just no escaping his participation. He organized and coordinated all the games and kept track of both teams’ batting averages.
Being a lefty, I would typically, if I made solid contact, smack it into right field (but I could go both ways wink wink), and that was conveniently where the Indians stuck Jindy (who I called Jindy 500 mainly because he was hitting about .500 [.497 to be exact]). Most of the Indians didn’t have turbans, but Jindy did; one of those starter turbans for prepubescent boys that is a tennis ball sized bubble of hair neatly wrapped in a colourful fabric placed directly on top of the head. Turb Bubbles is what some of the kids called them. But that’s not why I intentionally hit the ball to his portion of the outfield--it was because he was an immensely fat kid on little legs. His nubby weiner dog legs couldn’t chase down any substantial hit into the gap within a reasonable amount of time, so a triple was always in play, even though it would typically be a single or at best a risky play for a double. Jindy had a decent arm, too. He’d launch the ball from deep right field all the way to the plate with one bounce, right into the catcher’s mitt. But like I said, all this was pretty much negated by his foot speed. The point is if you’re white you have unfair advantages in this world.
And then one day I woke up shortly after Marty arrived, which was S.O.P., and walked downstairs bleary eyed yet excited at the prospect of another day swimming, or playing ball, or doing whateve’s, sizzling in the summer sun. It’s all good baby baahby. Marty was watching t.v. and I grunted ‘hi’, or ‘hey’, or some other kind of salutary grunt denoting acknowledgement. The mornings always started off a little slow and I lazily sauntered into the kitchen to get a glass of milk. To my amazement I could hear, emanating from below, what sounded like cutesy girlish giggles, and I thought, hmmm, that’s strange. Strange cutesy girlish giggles don’t, like, ever happen around here. I chugalugged my milk, kahhhhh, and went downstairs to investigate. I kept the lights off and traversed the first few steps that led to a small square landing before the stairs changed direction at a right angle and continued downward. I stood on the landing and let my eyes adjust to the darkness until the semi-formed biracial octopus morphed into two intertwined people, a West Indian guy on top of a busty White brunette. He was, to my virgin eyes’ stunned amazement, smothering her with kisses and grinding against her with his six foot frame. It was a heavy petting zoo, that’s for sure. I recoiled and turned to go back upstairs and maybe heard the two teenaged lovers even giggle at my quick retreat up the landing and back into the kitchen to process what I had just seen. I thought to myself, “Girls actually kiss guys with all that hair on their face? Grrooosss.”
I could tell that Marty was a little miffed that Mika was using the Nezbit household, of which he was responsible for during the weekday hours of 8:30 to 5, for his sexual gratification. Now he was even more livid because he could tell by my puzzled prepubescent face that I had gone downstairs and witnessed god knows what. Mika bullied his brother as siblings are oft to do, and he was understandably hesitant to go downstairs and tell Mika to take his kissing booth somewhere else for fear of later reprisals. But his duty to purify the sanctimonious Nezbit household was paramount and he trudged downstairs and told Mika to hit the road.
As they were leaving, this brunette, she smiled apologetically at me and Mika playfully adopted a boxers’ stance and hit me softly with a combination as I turned my body and crumpled inwards with my skinny little arms. Then out of nowhere, with Mika and his girl walking out the front door, a whole procession of people came strolling in and the walls of my childhood home collapsed as if on a Hollywood set to reveal a sizeable studio audience and a whole apparatus of lights and cameramen and producers running around with headsets.
There was Mel Gibson, Charles Bukowski, the LGBLT shemale, Dan Weiden, three Mexican gov’t officials (with bowling balls), Nardwuar, Hunter S. Thompson, Gary Gilmore, the old Greek lady, President Obama, and the entire cast of TMZ, interlocking arms and starting to do the can-can dance, just like the showgirls in Vegas.
Dat dat dat de-dat, dat dat dat de-dat…
The studio audience went wild! Marty and myself stood stupefied in the middle of all this with our mouth’s hanging open unable to process the scene.
I quite enjoy curry now, for the record.
Where do they all come from and where do they all belong? All these people talking to themselves with hang dog jowls and arms slack by their side, shuffling down Bloor St.? Have they found what they’re looking for? Are they deeper into the dream than the guys on Bay St? These are the things that bounce around my bucket when I’m sitting on my toilet, dropping anchor, a cigarette between my fingers. Waste going out, flavour country going in. Where is the Canadian Dream? Our neck’s permanently crooked downwards into phone screens and fingers busy texting. Is the Dream slumbering inside of a device? Most of us are okay with distraction--that’s what we are, a nation of distracted dumb fucks lost in an electronic haze. All I see is people killing time. Just existing until the expiry date rolls around.
Sometimes I think the Canadian Dream, and by proxy happiness, can only be found on an isolated Samoan island. Live isolated in the jungle long enough and the skies open up and the sun beams shine through--no shucksters on the street corner selling a fix, no robberies, no junkie babies, no garbage trucks, no five year plans, no resumes, no taxes--just a tropical life. Yes, it may be hard at times catching food, it may be hard to sleep at night with no AC unit dripping out the window, it may even be scary hearing all those unidentifiable jungle noises at night, but fuck man, doesn’t it feel right? Doesn’t it feel natural? Isn’t this what humans are supposed to do?
There was a documentary about Greece the other day and the host of the film happened upon this old hunched over lady who lives in this ancient bucolic hilltop village. She lives alone for most of the year with the odd visit from her son. For food she forages for wild asparagus; boils it and squeezes a lemon on top and--viola--dinner! God only knows how much her piss smells. But when prodded about her isolation, her loneliness, she replied in a convincing manner that, in fact, she was quite happy. And you could tell by the look on her face that she meant it. She was happy. No internet, no job, no fancy new age electronic gadgets like iPhones or Teleputer’s, just the morning sunrise and the birds, and vomit inducing asparagus pee. She’s got a clutter free mind, that’s where a lot of the contentment comes from, I imagine. There isn’t the ruthless competition of living in close quarters in a metropolis and all the attendant social pressures that go along with it.
Here I am, a world and half away from Greece, sitting at my computer endlessly consuming information. I am a product of the zeitgeist and thus I am an admitted info whore just like most of you by way of reading this. One day I’ll be hauled away to some Arizona Infohab to detox from my digital crack pipe. Paging Dr. Drew.
Have you ever been in a YouTube hole? When you sit at your computer for hours on end watching clips (I‘m unemployed, okay). You can take electronic leaps from Liam Gallagher’s Funniest Interview Moments, to a Cute Kitten Unwittingly Running Into a Strip of Stretch Wrap, to Nardwuar interviews, to Mafia documentaries, to infinity and beyond. YouTube is so prescient in its time draining cruelty. Aside from any number of completely unrelated clips--and now for something completely different--after you watch a clip, YouTube then displays all these other inter-related clips, juicy morsels that are very similar to the one you’ve just viewed, and chances are you need to see it if you needed to see the clip you just watched. Off to the races! The possibilities stretch on forever like a YouTube fractal. Before you know it, you’ve sat through every Oliver Reed interview and every Russian Street Fight KO Compilation, and all the 9/11 and Tsunami footage. It takes all the willpower you can muster up to pull yourself out of the hole and say, “Enough! This is the last clip, and then it’s back to the real world, my offline life, whatever‘s left of it!” What a pathetic generation we are. A bunch of YouTube babies. You must stop reading this immediately, it’s a beautiful day outside and you need the Vitamin D.
Humans are masters of adjustment and self-righteousness. Remember, it was only around ‘87 when smoking was banned on airplanes. For decades smoking on planes was a mild annoyance to the non-smokers (granted there weren’t many non-smokers at the time). Locked in a vessel with no escape at 20,000 feet breathing in all this horrible tobacco smoke. What did you do? You fucking sucked it up like a man, both literally and figuratively. But now, forget smoking inside tight quarters, even outside non smokers get their panties all knotted up. How quickly we are to adjust and feed the fire of our self-righteous indignation.
In the near future I’m betting the U.S. will be the first country to ban smoking in Mexico (under threat of military action) because of the cumulative effect of all those Mexicans’ second hand smoke wafting north across the border. American tobacco companies will put up a big fuss, but the overwhelming sense of entitlement and health of U.S. citizens will be too much. There will be massive protests in California, Arizona, and Texas. Angry citizens clamouring and rioting, smashing storefronts and fighting with police (though they won’t put up much of a fight because of their decreased lung capacities). Even health conscious celebrities affected by the second hand smoke in Los Angeles will film PSA’s, sitting on a reversed chair, telling Mexico’s population that “Butts are for sitting.”
Mexico decides to ban traditional bowling balls because of the Kyoto II: No Tobacco For Mexico Protocol whereby Mexico‘s emissions and waste need to be cut down under threat from the U.S.A., so the Mexican gov‘t resolved, in addition to outlawing tobacco, to illegalize the manufacturing of the plastics and polyurethane directly involved with the bowling ball industry. To counteract the impending bowling ball shortage a few industrious and outside-the-box-thinking gov’t officials propose to use severed heads of the victims of the narco wars. At first, the Mexican population is aghast at such a macabre solution, but eventually give in because, after all, skulls aren’t much use rotting in the ground. Might as well bowl with them. Each ball’s formation utilizes two and a half human skulls and is fashioned into a beautifully round and smooth shape by plaster and reticulated drywall tape. These two and a half skull bowling balls obviously don’t last as long as the P & P type traditional balls, but the skulls were coming in from the morgue and then out to the manufacturing plant to the bowling halls at an almost renewable resource like rate, or so all the bowling hall owners joked, so constant replacement due to dents and nicks that would cause the ball to roll untrue was not really a problem.
Where did our attention span go?
Have you ever wondered just who in the hell all those people are on TMZ? All of those kids in the war room? Me too (again, I’m unemployed). Like an investigative journalist I scoured the internet for information on them for reasons I’m not entirely sure of. Maybe I just wanted to verify that they are, indeed, real people. I have some kind of binge relationship with TMZ. I will go for weeks without watching it and then all of a sudden, I‘ll watch it everyday for a week. It’s the apotheosis of our modern North American entertainment State, the most vapid form of entertainment TV I’ve ever tuned into--and I mean that in a good way, I suppose. I just get lost in every little stupid encounter, every little man-on-the-street interview and the accompanying goofing on the clip by the peanut gallery. Even while I’m watching the show I keep asking myself, ‘why are you watching this trash?’ The mild tingling of excitement at the start of the program is wholly nullified at the end of the thirty minutes by the shame of time wasted. I should be chasing the Dream! I can’t help but thinking that the very next story will be just right, a sexy B level celebrity in the middle of a coke and booze bender. My last wish on Planet Earth before I die is to order up a round of beers and sit down with the ghost of Hunter S. Thompson and watch an episode of TMZ.
“Goddamnit, man! What is this swine?” Hunter says, turning to me with tinted shades, rolling his cigarette holder in his teeth, unable to keep still. “They videotape people doing nothing?”
“Yeah, this is what we watch on TV now, Hunter. It’s kind of like a reality version of Seinfeld but with celebrities,” I explain to him.
“These people should be force fed scrambled napalm eggs. Get my hog! I’m getting the hell out of here!”
Shit, if it was up to me, I’d replace the entire cast of these TMZ hooligans with the likes of Charles Bukowski, Hunter S. Thompson, Charles Manson, Osama Bin Laden, Mel Gibson, Lydia Lunch, John Gotti, Shane Macgowan, and with me hosting, of course, sucking on that silly sippy cup and scribbling out illegible notes with an erasable marker on a fancy transparent board. Now that’s a show! I know some of them are dead but it’s a fantasy so just suspend your disbelief. Maybe I’d get Mel to host when I’m on vacation…
“OKAY--LISTEN UP YOU SCUM FUCKING JEWS. BECAUSE MOST OF YOU ARE, DON’T DENY IT. I CAN SEE IT ALL OVER YOUR FACES. GODDAMN JEW FACES! LIKE 75% OF YOU! AT LEAST!
“NOW LISTEN UP…I DON’T WANT TO SEE ANY CLIPS OF CELEBRITIES COMING OUT OF RESTAURANTS OR CLUBS, I DON’T WANNA HEAR YOUR DUMB FUCKING SOFTBALL QUESTIONS. I WANT YOU CAMERA GUYS, THE FOOT SOLDIERS…” He points around the room and then, dramatically right into the camera as it zooms in close… “I WANT YOU TO GET THE ZIONIST LAWYERS AND HOLLYWOOD EXECUTIVES AND MY EX OKSANA ON FILM AND GET THEM TO ADMIT ONCE AND FOR ALL THAT--his veins practically bursting out of his forehead, “THEY CAN TAKE MY LIFE, BUT THEY CAN’T TAKE MY FREEDOM!”
The largest component to the Dream is a j-o-b. No doot a boot it. That’s what defines the parameters of the Dream itself and, currently, there aren’t too many prospects for this dirty pig in hog town. The Dream is an amoeba like organism constantly morphing and reconstituting itself into indefinable yet ever changing shapes. I checked one ad in the back of Now magazine and it said, “Now accepting applicants for Cock #24 for the adult film, 30 Rock (Hard Cocks). Call 416-819-****.” If it was Cock #3 or #4, well then, maybe, but not #24. So here I sit typing away with overdue bills to pay, trying to figure it all out.
It’s rumoured that the Nike co-founder, Dan Wieden, modelled the phrase, “Just Do It” after Gary Gilmore’s last words, right before he was executed, which were, “Let’s Do It”. A monosyllabic tweak and--presto!--advertising gold. Those shoes on your feet are made by slave children, and the phrase associated with the impulse you had to buy the shoes in the first place comes from a man who was executed for killing two people: a gas station employee and a motel manager, of all people. Well, there is a cock-shitting fuck load of time to do nothing and sit and think in a Texas prison, so at least two thirds of a golden ad slogan can easily bubble up to the surface in the mind of an inmate. Now let’s see you skip on down the street.
There is an underground terrorist group, maybe you’ve heard of it, but probably not, since not many have, and I may have just made it up. The leader is a broad shouldered man-woman with facial electrolysis, water balloon titties filled with milk (it’s a fetish thing), a bad blond wig parted in the middle, and big veiny man hands that can palm a basketball. She eats nothing but sandwiches which she has dubbed, ’LGBLT’S’ (Leeks, Guacamole, Bacon, Lettuce, Tomatoes). They are gearing up to wage war on straight North Americans. With Bombs. Smoke bombs. In places like subway trains, Bay St. elevators, and select Tim Horton’s. This leader of the cell, who shall remain nameless, she always and without fail leaves her self-published manifesto which rants on and on about the vacuity and banality of straight culture on the floor in the middle of all the confusion right before she makes a hasty retreat.
President Obama has voiced his opinion in support of gay marriage and hey, it’s the right one, no matter what recondite political strategy it comes from, but why not nationalize gay marriage, strong arm it into the constitution (last time I checked, Nezbit, that right was ALREADY THERE, DUMBASS), you do, after all, have the power. And if that’s what you truly believe, then be a real man and do what is right, what you feel in your heart of hearts, listen to the throbbing cockles of your heart, play your heart strings, in fact, strum them like a mandolin and play God Bless America.
My first visual sighting of an actual player in action, two people getting hot and heavy, was a biracial affair involving a rakish guy who had neatly cropped facial hair and hailed from Trinidad & Tobago and a busty brunette white girl. He just laid pipe--I’m assuming--into tons of chicks. I was, after all, only twelve, with slim to no knowledge of actual carnal relations with females. He was one of those guys who just lives to get some pussy; the kind of guy who has like four ho’s on the go at any one time and juggles them around without any one of the ho‘s finding out about the other three ho‘s. He was my babysitter’s older brother, Mika, aged eighteen.
For the past two years my parents employed a neighbourhood boy, Mika’s brother in fact, who lived six houses down, to baby sit me in the summer months at the economic-collapse-proof-rate of twenty dollars tax free cash per day. Someone had to watch me while my parents were working and school was out, and that someone was Marty. Our neighbourhood culture was one of warmth and plenty of communal interaction between kids and parents alike regardless of race and religious persuasion. There were summer barbeques and baseball games on the street. Our street was a cul de sac that formed a unique type of ball park, like a 2D beaker laid down flat. Legitimate jog-around-the-bases homerun’s constituted hitting the tennis ball onto one of the adjacent house’s roof’s. A homerun was considered an upper-decker if it plopped onto the top roof and just a regular, non-flashy homerun if it hit the lower roof. Our urban street ball had other unique aspects too: Incorporated into the game were all manner of obstacles that a fielder must be prepared for…bounces off cars, garages, curbs, just to name a few. If the tennis ball went under a car the runner was practically guaranteed an extra base and a half as the hapless outfielder was splayed on the street searching for the elusive ball.
Marty is from Trinidad & Tobago (what were my parents thinking, I know!), as is the rest of his family for that matter. He’s a sixteen year old kid with a good responsible head on his shoulders living with the aforementioned lady killer, Mika, with his two parents, who, whenever I visited were extremely quiet and reserved, especially the mother, but very polite nonetheless. Their house was alien to a white kid like myself. It was always so quiet which made any silences and natural body adjustments magnified and more uncomfortable. The first thing that almost illegally assaulted my olfactory senses upon entering Marty’s house was the thick stench of curry. I didn’t really like or dislike curry at eleven, though there was some apprehension to deeply inhale. It was more a massive whiff of whoa, that’s a little different, I wonder what Marty smells when he walks in to my house? Nothing? Because my house smells like nothing when I walk in.
Marty and I both looked forward to the summer months because he wasn’t so much a babysitter as a friend who cooked KD for lunch and played ball with all the kids and came down into my basement when my friends and I were building forts out of cushions out of both rectangular and right angle type cushions and pretend to be a monster and attack us. I mean, it’s almost scary to think back to how much fun and excitement fort cushions was. Why couldn’t I be eleven forever? And then the next day it would be baseball.
About twice a week we’d play inter-neighbourhood games at a local school’s ballpark that was closer to our opponents neck of the woods but generally conceded two summer‘s ago that it was the best ballpark in the general area, so we braved the longer trek. There were only two teams in our league. Outside of our own intra-neighbourhood games, more like pseudo-competitive practice for the inter-neighbourhood games, we only competed against one other neighbourhood team: The Indians (not Cleveland). These were the big games, the games where I felt a little anxious knot in my prepubescent stomach if I stepped up to the plate late in a tie game. Knowing what to do and waiting, waiting, waiting all this time for Marty to lob a floater into my wheelhouse so I can just plaster the baseball into outer space, so high and long that maybe the ball will be sucked into the gravitational pull of an asteroid belt and will revolve around Earth for a thousand years, and then it will touch down in some godforsaken place like Namibia. All I have to do is execute, like Gary Gilmore. Swing my pre-man body around with my favourite Easton aluminum bat and crank that ball into the stars.
Todays game: The White Kids With The One Illegally Older West Indian Guy vs. The East Indians.
My side of town against yours. The Indians lost almost every time but us White kids didn’t rub it in too much because of the illegal W.I. guy who was on our team hitting gargantuan homers every time he stepped up to bat like Frank Thomas playing on a triple AAA team. Sometimes he would crank it so far the hard ball ran out of grass and rolled onto the school’s paved recess play area, and if it was hit just right, it could scoot all the way down a narrow walkway about three feet wide and keep rolling into the front recess area which is, like, farther than any of Big Papi’s dingers. The Indians conceded Marty’s presence to the whole game because he was my babysitter and because he was the pitcher for both teams. There was just no escaping his participation. He organized and coordinated all the games and kept track of both teams’ batting averages.
Being a lefty, I would typically, if I made solid contact, smack it into right field (but I could go both ways wink wink), and that was conveniently where the Indians stuck Jindy (who I called Jindy 500 mainly because he was hitting about .500 [.497 to be exact]). Most of the Indians didn’t have turbans, but Jindy did; one of those starter turbans for prepubescent boys that is a tennis ball sized bubble of hair neatly wrapped in a colourful fabric placed directly on top of the head. Turb Bubbles is what some of the kids called them. But that’s not why I intentionally hit the ball to his portion of the outfield--it was because he was an immensely fat kid on little legs. His nubby weiner dog legs couldn’t chase down any substantial hit into the gap within a reasonable amount of time, so a triple was always in play, even though it would typically be a single or at best a risky play for a double. Jindy had a decent arm, too. He’d launch the ball from deep right field all the way to the plate with one bounce, right into the catcher’s mitt. But like I said, all this was pretty much negated by his foot speed. The point is if you’re white you have unfair advantages in this world.
And then one day I woke up shortly after Marty arrived, which was S.O.P., and walked downstairs bleary eyed yet excited at the prospect of another day swimming, or playing ball, or doing whateve’s, sizzling in the summer sun. It’s all good baby baahby. Marty was watching t.v. and I grunted ‘hi’, or ‘hey’, or some other kind of salutary grunt denoting acknowledgement. The mornings always started off a little slow and I lazily sauntered into the kitchen to get a glass of milk. To my amazement I could hear, emanating from below, what sounded like cutesy girlish giggles, and I thought, hmmm, that’s strange. Strange cutesy girlish giggles don’t, like, ever happen around here. I chugalugged my milk, kahhhhh, and went downstairs to investigate. I kept the lights off and traversed the first few steps that led to a small square landing before the stairs changed direction at a right angle and continued downward. I stood on the landing and let my eyes adjust to the darkness until the semi-formed biracial octopus morphed into two intertwined people, a West Indian guy on top of a busty White brunette. He was, to my virgin eyes’ stunned amazement, smothering her with kisses and grinding against her with his six foot frame. It was a heavy petting zoo, that’s for sure. I recoiled and turned to go back upstairs and maybe heard the two teenaged lovers even giggle at my quick retreat up the landing and back into the kitchen to process what I had just seen. I thought to myself, “Girls actually kiss guys with all that hair on their face? Grrooosss.”
I could tell that Marty was a little miffed that Mika was using the Nezbit household, of which he was responsible for during the weekday hours of 8:30 to 5, for his sexual gratification. Now he was even more livid because he could tell by my puzzled prepubescent face that I had gone downstairs and witnessed god knows what. Mika bullied his brother as siblings are oft to do, and he was understandably hesitant to go downstairs and tell Mika to take his kissing booth somewhere else for fear of later reprisals. But his duty to purify the sanctimonious Nezbit household was paramount and he trudged downstairs and told Mika to hit the road.
As they were leaving, this brunette, she smiled apologetically at me and Mika playfully adopted a boxers’ stance and hit me softly with a combination as I turned my body and crumpled inwards with my skinny little arms. Then out of nowhere, with Mika and his girl walking out the front door, a whole procession of people came strolling in and the walls of my childhood home collapsed as if on a Hollywood set to reveal a sizeable studio audience and a whole apparatus of lights and cameramen and producers running around with headsets.
There was Mel Gibson, Charles Bukowski, the LGBLT shemale, Dan Weiden, three Mexican gov’t officials (with bowling balls), Nardwuar, Hunter S. Thompson, Gary Gilmore, the old Greek lady, President Obama, and the entire cast of TMZ, interlocking arms and starting to do the can-can dance, just like the showgirls in Vegas.
Dat dat dat de-dat, dat dat dat de-dat…
The studio audience went wild! Marty and myself stood stupefied in the middle of all this with our mouth’s hanging open unable to process the scene.
I quite enjoy curry now, for the record.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Attack of the Killer Bookstores!
The empty business space at 2964 Bloor Street W is awaiting its next occupant, whoever that that may be, there’s no sign as of yet, both literally and figuratively speaking, only row after row of dingy, yellowed pages of old newspapers taped up on the insides of the windows to block any sight into the unit. Old news covering up an empty present. Taped in front of the newspapers are a few single sheet’s with a goodbye message written in large font and multiple exclamation points. Something like, “Thanks for the memories!!!” A brief goodbye to all and no one in particular.
Once this limbo period is over and a new tenant sets up shop, my scorn will be directed to a tangible enemy, my anger focused, because you and me both know it will be a nail salon or a Tim Horton’s, or a Second Cup, or a Starbuck’s. Surely nothing of much substance…a wicker basket store, or a mattress emporium; or a novelty store like Hell Toupee, or Bong Voyage. Fuck me sideways.
The place I’m referring to is, of course, The Book Mark; Toronto’s oldest independent bookstore. In the black since 1965 and now an empty unit. Already old news, too, but what else would you expect? There’s record breaking temperatures and daily instalments of trial porn to take up ink and web space, (in the GTA, it was the Shafia trial, currently it is the Tori Stafford trial, to give you a frame of reference).
Give us beans! Give us cell-phones! Give us the ability to summarize our current thoughts in 140 characters or less and electronically transfer them, in pixelated codes onto screens, accessible to the masses at the touch of a button. Yes! Nothing but Yeses! We’re making a connection here. I can feel it!
According to an article I read in The Star, the Book Mark ultimately had to shut their doors because of a crushing rent increase--around 25% for the bean counters out there. I also spoke with who I presumed was the owner shortly before they closed for good and she confirmed as much. Now it’s gone. Thanks for the memories. The rent increases are a common theme. Aside from The Book Mark, the other independent store up the street in the Bloor West Village, Book City, is now in the process of closing. A rent increase is also cited. The For Lease sign is up as well as signs offering 40% off most books. The out of business sale has been going on for over a month now and there’s not much left except receding shelves with bargain bin 1980’s hardcover books about 16th century Italian castles. In Italian. Obviously, the book business has been in a precarious state for many years and it appears as though the rent increases proved to be the straw that broke the camel’s back. That damn camel couldn’t take all the extra $20 bills stacked upon his hump.
There’s something sad about a store that you’ve frequented for years closing down. Any future memories knocked off the table by the careless swipe of a God’s hand. No one’s ever happy about it, and we all collectively sigh, accord the tragedy a moment of thoughtful remorse, and resolve to get on with things. “Such a shame, really,”… or…”I wish I bought more books,”…they say. It’s true. I heard two strangers conversing as I walked by. But what can you do, really? One person is so powerless to obstruct powerful business forces, we just get swept up with the wave and our attention is buoyed by another distraction. Life goes on, as it always seems to do.
When an ethereal magical place like a bookstore closes down, a little piece of your soul dies along with it. All of these wonderful stories and facts that self-reflect the human experience back at us. We gaze into the mirror of our collective selves dumbfounded with astonishment. Is this what we’re really like? A frame of reference develops from which we can form sound judgements. I’m not in Afghanistan or Iraq but I can be taken there and learn more about the conflict by reading an embedded journalists account than I would by reading the scroll at the bottom of CNN. A bookstore radiates and glows, a pulsating plasma orb, breathing life and illuminating the dank crevices burrowed deep within each of us. A good book informs us, gives us a chance to glean an understanding out of the madness and fury of the noise of modern existence. It’s the closest thing we have to magic, to time travel. Hell, it is time travel. And now time travel is going out of business? Now it has to diversify to stay in the game?
Chapters now gives over a sizeable chunk of it’s floor space to knick-knacky type stuff, an array of auxiliary crap like coffee, and decorative picture frames. I don’t blame the Chapters brass, they gotta do what they gotta do to survive. If staying in business means selling canned soup, then so be it. But still, it’s strange to go to the pet store and buy a case of beer; it’s a desperate move.
If it’s done properly, the written word can be the most electrifying and important cultural artifact we have. All those TV shows, those movies you love, from blockbuster Hollywood schlock like The Hunger Games, Lord of the Rings, The Notebook, Harry Potter, down to scantly viewed indie gems, originate in book form. That’s where it all fucking comes from, man. Oh, you like the movie American Psycho--Book! Oh, you like Brokeback Mountain--Book! Oh, you like The Shining--Book! Oh, you like Trainspotting--Book!
Books are the endless well from which we draw inspiration as a culture. The human imagination will always be the most valuable, truly renewable resource and it‘s being taken for granted. Do you understand the words coming out of my mouth!?
A common complaint in the death of independent stores is that all the leftover business and local culture is funnelled into the evil corporations and they’re able to further monopolize the business and mould it into devious shapes. But how can you hate Chapters with a burning passion? The book business is so fragile that one imagines Chapters could be next in line to shackle up their doors. It’s just a BIG independent store. It’s not like I can’t get any book I’ve wanted to, no matter what the subject matter (and as you can imagine, my literary interests do not lean towards Danielle Steele). In fact, I’ve had to go to Chapters to order certain books because the independent stores can’t even order them from their suppliers, never mind actually having them in stock. I used to take that hit like a champ. For example: the book I really want is in stock at Chapters but I’ll still order it from the independent store and wait 1-2 weeks to, in my own little way, support the team. In the last year, I’ve simply started going over to Chapters to order my books because it is, and I hate to say it…more fun…in a sad way…a sad humans-are-useless-in-a-high-tech-world kind of way. The people at Book City and The Book Mark had antiquated computers and it took them forever to find the book I was looking for. If there was, by chance, a nice looking woman behind the counter then I would go back, but the retail book world is full of Hayden Planetarium’s for the most part.
Chapters has multiple docking stations with computers so that you can type up the book you want to buy and see if any copies are in the store. If the book isn’t in stock you can order it by following the few easy steps until finally a green slip is printed out which you take to the cash register and prepay or pay at the kiosk with a credit card. 1-2 weeks later you get your option of a call or an email notifying the book’s safe arrival. Humans are erased from the equation. But, one thing that annoys the ever-living shit out of me at Chapters is how prevalent the staff is. It’s like vacationing in Mexico. They’re always wandering around without seemingly much to do except engage customers in queries. “Did you find what you were looking for?” Clearly, I’m walking towards one of the computers to find what I’m looking for. I don’t need you! As soon as I get ten feet into enemy territory and dart off in the direction of the first available computer, without fail a peppy employee approaches and asks if I need help. The question is just plain weirdly ambiguous. I can’t help but think they’re asking me something deeply philosophical, or at the very least, medically inquisitive… “Do you need help with something?” Lady, do you have a few hours?
It would seem obvious that if I’m plopping down my bag at the docking station to search for a book, then I don’t need to be asked if I need help. Miss, the computer is going to help me. Why do businesses insist on approaching the customer (especially when there are computers to do helping?) Let us come to you. I’ll ask you when I need help. It’s very condescending when you get down to it. We, the customers, are so forlorn and incompetent, like that as soon as we enter a store we must immediately be offered professional help.
It will be interesting to see how the profits are divided when they figure out the eside of things. This is a crucial time in the fledgling ebook industry, the pieces are falling but it’s tough to make out just what kind of puzzle it will be. The book world, for the most part, has always had an all access code for unlimited downloading: the library card. The maelstrom of the book world must adapt like any other business. Business evolution is such a relentlessly turbulent beast, but it’s always moving forward, incapable of pithy human considerations, onward to conquer all that is feasible, gobble it all up, even as the troops come out of the trenches and are mowed down. Human life is the collateral damage of progress. It’s a capitalist clusterfuck. If you want to play around the pool you’re going to get wet. So instead of trying to save the independent bookstores, why don’t they adapt? Small bookstores should think creatively to stay afloat: hold readings, art events--switch it up. Here’s an idea for the struggling independent bookstores: One night a week hire attractive young women to work cash and stock shelves--and here’s the kicker--they must dress like librarians…in a porno. Miniskirt, glasses, cleavage--turning sin into sales!
These shops should participate more in the community. I mean, why do people even go to independent stores in the first place? In past generations people would flock to the independent stores because of the refined selection they offered that was unavailable at the mass market locations. But there has been no book I’ve ordered in the last five years that Book City had that Chapters didn’t. The populace will not support independent stores just for the sake of supporting independent stores. They have to offer up something different, some other angle. At this point, most are just small scale Chapter’s--of course they’re destined to the wastelands. When small companies clone the big boys it doesn’t usually work. It’s a dog shit eat dog shit world. If you’re not offering up something the bigger guys aren’t than prepare to be squashed like a bug in the ground. A little shop can’t compete with multiple docking hubs!
One day, in the not so distant future, our parents will upload all of the necessary written information to be a successful adult from Amazon.com into their newborns’ fragile egg-shell brains, like synching an ipod (technologists still have to conduct further research because they don‘t quite know where the usb cables will connect to in humans, but one can narrow it down to a few ports).
Parents won’t have to even bother reading to their children at night (raising kids is sooo boring, I know) or even encouraging them to read on their own. Consider the benefits of the free time: More laundry can get done. More status updates to be posted while the infant sleeps peacefully in it’s crib, dreaming baby babble dreams of nanotechnology and dematerialization and iHELMETS and iFAMILIES.
Our individual lives are passing comets in the night sky; spotlights faintly illuminating a vacuous spaceland for a handful of awestruck spectators to bear witness to all of it’s ragged glory, but the cold hard destiny is that life passes as soon as it is created. Your life is a lighter without any juice. A useless spark and then hello darkness. It’s Chapter’s Eleven. So why are you reading this?
Once this limbo period is over and a new tenant sets up shop, my scorn will be directed to a tangible enemy, my anger focused, because you and me both know it will be a nail salon or a Tim Horton’s, or a Second Cup, or a Starbuck’s. Surely nothing of much substance…a wicker basket store, or a mattress emporium; or a novelty store like Hell Toupee, or Bong Voyage. Fuck me sideways.
The place I’m referring to is, of course, The Book Mark; Toronto’s oldest independent bookstore. In the black since 1965 and now an empty unit. Already old news, too, but what else would you expect? There’s record breaking temperatures and daily instalments of trial porn to take up ink and web space, (in the GTA, it was the Shafia trial, currently it is the Tori Stafford trial, to give you a frame of reference).
Give us beans! Give us cell-phones! Give us the ability to summarize our current thoughts in 140 characters or less and electronically transfer them, in pixelated codes onto screens, accessible to the masses at the touch of a button. Yes! Nothing but Yeses! We’re making a connection here. I can feel it!
According to an article I read in The Star, the Book Mark ultimately had to shut their doors because of a crushing rent increase--around 25% for the bean counters out there. I also spoke with who I presumed was the owner shortly before they closed for good and she confirmed as much. Now it’s gone. Thanks for the memories. The rent increases are a common theme. Aside from The Book Mark, the other independent store up the street in the Bloor West Village, Book City, is now in the process of closing. A rent increase is also cited. The For Lease sign is up as well as signs offering 40% off most books. The out of business sale has been going on for over a month now and there’s not much left except receding shelves with bargain bin 1980’s hardcover books about 16th century Italian castles. In Italian. Obviously, the book business has been in a precarious state for many years and it appears as though the rent increases proved to be the straw that broke the camel’s back. That damn camel couldn’t take all the extra $20 bills stacked upon his hump.
There’s something sad about a store that you’ve frequented for years closing down. Any future memories knocked off the table by the careless swipe of a God’s hand. No one’s ever happy about it, and we all collectively sigh, accord the tragedy a moment of thoughtful remorse, and resolve to get on with things. “Such a shame, really,”… or…”I wish I bought more books,”…they say. It’s true. I heard two strangers conversing as I walked by. But what can you do, really? One person is so powerless to obstruct powerful business forces, we just get swept up with the wave and our attention is buoyed by another distraction. Life goes on, as it always seems to do.
When an ethereal magical place like a bookstore closes down, a little piece of your soul dies along with it. All of these wonderful stories and facts that self-reflect the human experience back at us. We gaze into the mirror of our collective selves dumbfounded with astonishment. Is this what we’re really like? A frame of reference develops from which we can form sound judgements. I’m not in Afghanistan or Iraq but I can be taken there and learn more about the conflict by reading an embedded journalists account than I would by reading the scroll at the bottom of CNN. A bookstore radiates and glows, a pulsating plasma orb, breathing life and illuminating the dank crevices burrowed deep within each of us. A good book informs us, gives us a chance to glean an understanding out of the madness and fury of the noise of modern existence. It’s the closest thing we have to magic, to time travel. Hell, it is time travel. And now time travel is going out of business? Now it has to diversify to stay in the game?
Chapters now gives over a sizeable chunk of it’s floor space to knick-knacky type stuff, an array of auxiliary crap like coffee, and decorative picture frames. I don’t blame the Chapters brass, they gotta do what they gotta do to survive. If staying in business means selling canned soup, then so be it. But still, it’s strange to go to the pet store and buy a case of beer; it’s a desperate move.
If it’s done properly, the written word can be the most electrifying and important cultural artifact we have. All those TV shows, those movies you love, from blockbuster Hollywood schlock like The Hunger Games, Lord of the Rings, The Notebook, Harry Potter, down to scantly viewed indie gems, originate in book form. That’s where it all fucking comes from, man. Oh, you like the movie American Psycho--Book! Oh, you like Brokeback Mountain--Book! Oh, you like The Shining--Book! Oh, you like Trainspotting--Book!
Books are the endless well from which we draw inspiration as a culture. The human imagination will always be the most valuable, truly renewable resource and it‘s being taken for granted. Do you understand the words coming out of my mouth!?
A common complaint in the death of independent stores is that all the leftover business and local culture is funnelled into the evil corporations and they’re able to further monopolize the business and mould it into devious shapes. But how can you hate Chapters with a burning passion? The book business is so fragile that one imagines Chapters could be next in line to shackle up their doors. It’s just a BIG independent store. It’s not like I can’t get any book I’ve wanted to, no matter what the subject matter (and as you can imagine, my literary interests do not lean towards Danielle Steele). In fact, I’ve had to go to Chapters to order certain books because the independent stores can’t even order them from their suppliers, never mind actually having them in stock. I used to take that hit like a champ. For example: the book I really want is in stock at Chapters but I’ll still order it from the independent store and wait 1-2 weeks to, in my own little way, support the team. In the last year, I’ve simply started going over to Chapters to order my books because it is, and I hate to say it…more fun…in a sad way…a sad humans-are-useless-in-a-high-tech-world kind of way. The people at Book City and The Book Mark had antiquated computers and it took them forever to find the book I was looking for. If there was, by chance, a nice looking woman behind the counter then I would go back, but the retail book world is full of Hayden Planetarium’s for the most part.
Chapters has multiple docking stations with computers so that you can type up the book you want to buy and see if any copies are in the store. If the book isn’t in stock you can order it by following the few easy steps until finally a green slip is printed out which you take to the cash register and prepay or pay at the kiosk with a credit card. 1-2 weeks later you get your option of a call or an email notifying the book’s safe arrival. Humans are erased from the equation. But, one thing that annoys the ever-living shit out of me at Chapters is how prevalent the staff is. It’s like vacationing in Mexico. They’re always wandering around without seemingly much to do except engage customers in queries. “Did you find what you were looking for?” Clearly, I’m walking towards one of the computers to find what I’m looking for. I don’t need you! As soon as I get ten feet into enemy territory and dart off in the direction of the first available computer, without fail a peppy employee approaches and asks if I need help. The question is just plain weirdly ambiguous. I can’t help but think they’re asking me something deeply philosophical, or at the very least, medically inquisitive… “Do you need help with something?” Lady, do you have a few hours?
It would seem obvious that if I’m plopping down my bag at the docking station to search for a book, then I don’t need to be asked if I need help. Miss, the computer is going to help me. Why do businesses insist on approaching the customer (especially when there are computers to do helping?) Let us come to you. I’ll ask you when I need help. It’s very condescending when you get down to it. We, the customers, are so forlorn and incompetent, like that as soon as we enter a store we must immediately be offered professional help.
It will be interesting to see how the profits are divided when they figure out the eside of things. This is a crucial time in the fledgling ebook industry, the pieces are falling but it’s tough to make out just what kind of puzzle it will be. The book world, for the most part, has always had an all access code for unlimited downloading: the library card. The maelstrom of the book world must adapt like any other business. Business evolution is such a relentlessly turbulent beast, but it’s always moving forward, incapable of pithy human considerations, onward to conquer all that is feasible, gobble it all up, even as the troops come out of the trenches and are mowed down. Human life is the collateral damage of progress. It’s a capitalist clusterfuck. If you want to play around the pool you’re going to get wet. So instead of trying to save the independent bookstores, why don’t they adapt? Small bookstores should think creatively to stay afloat: hold readings, art events--switch it up. Here’s an idea for the struggling independent bookstores: One night a week hire attractive young women to work cash and stock shelves--and here’s the kicker--they must dress like librarians…in a porno. Miniskirt, glasses, cleavage--turning sin into sales!
These shops should participate more in the community. I mean, why do people even go to independent stores in the first place? In past generations people would flock to the independent stores because of the refined selection they offered that was unavailable at the mass market locations. But there has been no book I’ve ordered in the last five years that Book City had that Chapters didn’t. The populace will not support independent stores just for the sake of supporting independent stores. They have to offer up something different, some other angle. At this point, most are just small scale Chapter’s--of course they’re destined to the wastelands. When small companies clone the big boys it doesn’t usually work. It’s a dog shit eat dog shit world. If you’re not offering up something the bigger guys aren’t than prepare to be squashed like a bug in the ground. A little shop can’t compete with multiple docking hubs!
One day, in the not so distant future, our parents will upload all of the necessary written information to be a successful adult from Amazon.com into their newborns’ fragile egg-shell brains, like synching an ipod (technologists still have to conduct further research because they don‘t quite know where the usb cables will connect to in humans, but one can narrow it down to a few ports).
Parents won’t have to even bother reading to their children at night (raising kids is sooo boring, I know) or even encouraging them to read on their own. Consider the benefits of the free time: More laundry can get done. More status updates to be posted while the infant sleeps peacefully in it’s crib, dreaming baby babble dreams of nanotechnology and dematerialization and iHELMETS and iFAMILIES.
Our individual lives are passing comets in the night sky; spotlights faintly illuminating a vacuous spaceland for a handful of awestruck spectators to bear witness to all of it’s ragged glory, but the cold hard destiny is that life passes as soon as it is created. Your life is a lighter without any juice. A useless spark and then hello darkness. It’s Chapter’s Eleven. So why are you reading this?
Monday, April 9, 2012
What A Sorry State
About a year ago
there was a terrible catastrophe on the east coast of Japan. No, it wasn’t
Godzilla, but a massive tsunami caused by an underwater earthquake; a disaster
of epic proportions. Surely I, like many others, watched the raw POV footage
over and over as coastal towns were engulfed by a wave of death. I can still
hear the sound of twisting metal that was never intended to twist that way,
locals fleeing to higher ground, some not running fast enough and casually
absorbed by the invading blob. Though I don’t speak Japanese fluently, screams
of horror are a universal language. In times of tragedy one knows exactly what
foreign people are saying from behind the camera. It’s the same thing we’d all
say if we witnessed someone washed up by a tsunami: Holy Shit! . . . Fuck,
this is crazy! . . . Oh my God! . . . Run!
. . . Led Zeppelin Rules! . . .
But this isn’t
what I want to focus on here. I want to focus on the real issue in the grand
scheme of things--the bigger (in a fascistic oppression of the population
through language to manipulate thought kind of way) disaster: The firing of the
Aflac Duck voice, narrated by the inimitable comic Gilbert Gottfried. Gottfried
was sacked for his cringe inducing one-liners posted on Twitter mere hours
after the tragedy. Well, comedy is
all about timing. Gilbert wasn’t fired for his jokes, though. Or the timing of
them. If he adroitly dropped lurid lines of scatological humour in a comedy
club in North Dakota, or between friends (if Gilbert has any, that is), or even
at a private boardroom meeting between Aflac marketing executives, there would
be no problem. The reason for his firing wasn’t the cruel sentiment of the jokes
in the (ahem) wake of a national tragedy, but the dissemination of the jokes
instantaneously to a huge audience. And Twitter is the king of that kingdom. If
enough people have access to a message, a small handful is going to get pissed
off and make a lot of noise about it, no matter what the message is. Comedy is
low-hanging fruit in the professional outrage game.
Maybe it was the
quick turnaround, or the severity of the jokes, or a combination thereof that
caused Aflac brass to give in to the pressure and drop the hammer on the man
who’s voice has simultaneously entertained and annoyed us for decades.
For a short time the
issue reached a fever pitch in the media. At its apex, it reached bizarre
postmodern proportions: Gottfried’s
insensitive tweets about the tragedy of the tsunami had become bigger news than
the tragedy of the tsunami itself. It’s like photographing people who are
photographing the most photographed barn in the world. Now, some of the jokes
weren’t very good at all—mere throwaway’s. As long as we’re alive and events
are happening, whether on a personal or global scale, there will be an endless
well of comedy to draw from. That is both a comedy fact and a scientific fact.
A few jokes
stirred a chuckle out of me, which you can read out loud or in your head in
your best Gilbert Gottfried voice . . .
“I fucked a girl in Japan. She screamed, ‘I
feel the earth move and I’m getting wet.’”
“My book Rubber Balls and Liquor was
released in Japan. It’s making quite a splash.”
Okay . . . finally
. . .
“Japan called me. They said ‘Maybe those
jokes are a hit in the US, but over here they’re all sinking.’”
What puzzles and
troubles me about the upper echelons of Aflac, and by extension, the people at
the top of corporate culture in general, is that Gilbert has been known for the
last thirty years as a comic who is by far one of the most abrasive out there
on the national and international comedy scene. Anyone who has a passing
interest in comedy knows this. Gilbert’s always the first to go there. He’s a too soon guy. Nothing is out of bounds. I’ve busted many guts
watching him perform at roasts. Gilbert blurts things out like a crazy old Jew
with Asperger’s.
What did a
multi-national insurance company like Aflac expect out of Gilbert Gottfried
when he was hired back in 2000? That by lending his voice as a shill, gussied
up as a goofy duck, all of sudden his past material is, (ahem, again) washed
away? I certainly would not buy insurance from Aflac--clearly, they don’t do
diligent research on their animated mascots. The left hand doesn’t know what
the right is doing. The only thing these Aflac Asshats heard was Gilbert’s
unique, yet recognizable voice--a nasal, gravely whine, though grating, is
definitely unforgettable. Did they know that Gilbert is a dirty comic and
figure that no one will care? He’s the parrot in Alladin for Christ’s sake! Surely before making a comic your mascot
there is a vetting process to check out a funny man’s entire catalogue to see
if he’s suitable to represent your company, or at the very least, what his
angle of attack is. A cornerstone of GG’s schtick is to say outrageous,
shocking jokes at all times, especially right after a tragedy when the snake’s
venom is at most potent. Umm . . . hello? That’s Gilbert Gottfried in a
nutshell. Three weeks after 9/11 at the Friar’s Club in New York, he was the
first notable comic to very publicly say a 9/11 joke. Something about trying to
catch a plane, but it had to make a stop at the Empire State Building first.
Whatever. It’s Gilbert, not the president, it’s what he does. He didn’t get
swept up in a shit storm like the Japanese tsunami, the 9/11 fallout was more
like a shit sprinkle. No matter what you say, 9/11 is old news and you can joke
about it and get away with it, too. Time heals physical and psychic wounds. The
tsunami in Japan is now old news, too, but it most definitely was not just days
after the tsunami. The wound is still raw. There is a week or so period where
jokes or any making light of are totally off limits in the media, a window
where outrage grows, and then blossoms once some comedian jokes about the
tragedy.
A mitigating
factor that is difficult to ignore is that Aflac is the largest life insurer of
Japanese citizens. You can’t deny the jokes landed too close to home, like two
nuclear bombs. The usage of words in and
out themselves, is meaningless. Intent and context are king. It’s like
playing violent video games doesn’t actually lead to real life violence. That’s
the easy way out. It’s the Blame Game
and a lot of people sit down at the table.
is compromised
when there’s a personal affront involved. If it’s about someone else, well fuck
’em, it’s right there, immortalized in the Charter of Rights & Freedoms
goddamnit! Maybe I have no soul but I found it even funnier in a twisted way
when I learned that Aflac does most of it’s business in Japan. It adds so many
levels of intrigue to the jokes and to Gilbert himself. Did Gilbert know most
of the business was centred in Japan? Did he just not care? Did he think it
would roll of their shoulders?
On firing Gilbert
as the Aflac Duck, the chief marketing officer stated, “Gilbert’s recent
comments about the crisis in Japan were lacking in humor and certainly don’t
reflect the thoughts and feelings of anyone at Aflac.”
I can’t begin to
tell you how many things are wrong and misguided about this statement. First of
all, there was about ten jokes that Gilbert tweeted and the three that I have
reprinted are actually pretty funny, so the marketing guy is wrong on the lacking
in humour part. Secondly, doesn’t it go without saying that the comments
don’t reflect the thoughts and feelings of anyone at Aflac? Does
the public assume Aflac employees are so morally bankrupt at their cores? Do we
need to be reminded they don’t seriously endorse jokes about people dying
horrible deaths, crushed by debris, drowning in fetid slew water, their cities
and possessions wiped away by an angry planet?
What comes next is
a phenomenon, that although is not new, is more prevalent now than ever before
in the media. The forced apology. And so Gilbert breaks gives in. Let
the healing begin! I don’t even have to reprint the apology because you know
exactly how it goes. I’m sorry if my remarks offended…blah blah blah,
doot-doota-doot-doo . . . DOO-DOO. Even after his empty apology, Aflac
still fired him. Never mind how disingenuous an apology originating from
outside the speaker is in the first place, but coming from Gilbert, it’s even
more uproarious. An apology for some Twitter jokes coming from Gilbert has
about as much sincerity and warmth as Terry Schiavo.
These forced
apologies light up the media landscape like fireflies, and it’s been pretty
bright out there lately. Today, as I write this, it’s Mike Milbury, a hockey
analyst/commentator apologizing for his ‘Punk’ rant on Sidney Crosby. Breaking
news: Crosby’s camp has rejected the
apology from Mr. Mulbury. Somebody call a Wahhhmbulance.
How will we ever
go on in the face of such injustice!?
What is insidious
about these forced-from-the-outside apologies is that they undermine the very
foundation that genuine apologies are based on. It’s the crying wolf effect.
Genuine apologies are supposed to come from within; a growing and learning
process whereby wrongs are righted and sins are atoned for.
True apologies
don’t penetrate, they defecate.
An apology is
supposed to be an expression of remorse for a perceived wrong. It’s also
supposed to originate organically from the speaker if it is to retain any integrity.
These principles have been usurped by a minority of interweb humanoids that
want to build a brand, a public narrative to garner attention and credibility.
The FA is now used in the media as a weapon, the lash of a whip made out of the
tongues of the infidels, to inflict the sting of the public at large, whoever
that is. The pressure from this small minority out there in the ether make
the heads force apologies out of their
investments. And so we hear Rush Limbaugh, or Don Imus, or Dean Blundell light
up the ‘On Air’ sign, and in a sombre tone, profess their sincerest of
condolences; that they regret their momentary lapse of reason. Well
hoo-fucking-rah.
Consider if you
will Rush Limbaugh’s ‘Nappy headed ho’s’ comment, and the subsequent FA. When
it really comes down to brass taxes, the comment is pretty benign. Not even
that insulting even if you’re part of the group being insulted. Find any black
female college basketball player and she’ll tell you she’s had far worse
verbosity slung at her than, ‘Nappy headed ho.’ I’ll leave it up to you to come
up with a few examples.
You can be
outraged and annoyed at Rush Limbaugh for his comments. You have your right to
be offended. But if you don’t like what Rush says than just do what I’ve been
doing the whole time during the FA debacles: Don’t listen. Just turn the
dial. Rush is only on my radar because of all the coverage, the incessant
media clips by all the local affiliates that are regurgitating his offensive comments
and apologies. Warning . . . this may be offensive to some viewers . . . but
here you go folks, we’ll play it for you anyways, over and over, and
vicariously re-offend you.
It’s the mark of a
truly selfish and hubristic person to take offence to something and then
endlessly whine about it, and more importantly, demand consequences. I’m occasionally
offended by pundits/entertainers and their nutty ideas (mainly because the
hordes who lap it up can’t distinguish the performance from the actual human
being playing the character). But I would never want them silenced or taken off
the air. For example, I don’t like Ann Coulter. I think she’s smart as well as
an opportunistic, contrarian shill that doesn’t believe the things she says and
writes, but does it because of her agenda and to get a rise out of liberals and
to keep her brand relevant. She wants power and capital. She wants a voice. I
can’t blame her. But here’s how a reasonable, intelligent human deals with this
particular offense: Either (a) ignore her completely, or (b) postulate using
reason and logic why you don’t agree with them and leave it at that. Hope other
humans can relate. Hence unprofessional think pieces like this. I don’t want Ann
Coulter fired or silenced. I’m not that narcissistic and selfish to try and
impose my will on you plebeians! I realize lots of people are entertained by
her, and agree with the gist of her politics. I have respect, which is
something that is sorely lacking in our internet culture.
Ironically, all
these people who are outraged by the comments that give birth to the FA’s don’t
even listen to the entertainers they’re outraged by. But they know damn
well that YOU shouldn’t be subjected to the aural filth, either. They have a
worldview they want to impose on you. The folks who are outraged only hear
about the outrageous comments because they hear it re-filtered through
the news that they do listen to. They don’t even listen to Rush Limbaugh
or Howard Stern in the first place, but once they’re exposed to the tip,
gigantic, imaginary icebergs naturally form underneath the surface. It’s a big
bad world out there and rather than being constantly critical and questioning
the foundations of our worldy outlooks, we paint ourselves into a corner and
then defend that corner as the right way, the just way. Just
turn the dial.
Why would you, if
you were so mortally offended by a rape joke, or Don Imus insinuating a woman
is a slut because she wants the state to pay for her birth control, be satisfied
with a simple, short, forced apology? Apparently, this “I’m sorry, I apologize,”
fire extinguisher is usually sufficient to put out the raging inferno of
outrage. That’s all you wanted!? An ‘I’m sorry?’ That is the only demand
from the kidnapper’s!? Come on Imus, all you have to do is give a sweet little
remorseful show of humility, just get on your knees for a minute or two and
then get back up, wipe off your mouth with the back of your hand, and carry on
entertaining. If I’m truly offended by a comment/joke/person/group/etc., I sure
as hell wouldn’t be assuaged by a simple apology, even if it did originate from
the offender and not their bosses. The healing process would take time. The
relationship may never be the same.
Speaking of Don
Imus’s recent FA for calling Sarah Fluke a slut for wanting the state to cover
her birth control, why is the abortion issue flaring up again in the States
like a bad case of genital warts?
Look at the new
law in Texas that forces doctors to perform an invasive, humiliating,
intra-vaginal exam on women, accompanied by a patronizing lecture before they
can have an abortion. Under the new state policy, a woman seeking an abortion
must first be subjected to an ultrasound probe inserted into her vagina. Then
comes the weird part . . . “She is then forced to look at the ultrasound image
of the unborn fetus and listen to its heartbeat while the doctor points out the
parts of the body.” Then the woman signs a document, and is sent home to wait
twenty four hours before the abortion is performed. Wha? Come again? This is legal
humiliation and state sanctioned abuse. Does the state of Texas think women who
get abortions are she-devils with spinning heads, frothing at the mouth,
salivating in hungry anticipation of the unformed morsel being sucked out of
their vagina? Can I take it home and eat it, doc? Clearly, women want to
kill, kill, kill! They enjoy killing the babies inside them.
I don’t even have
a pussy and it makes me throw up a little in my mouth. Hey law man, how exactly
does forcing a doctor to waste his time pointing out body parts prevent abortions? I’d like to apply
to be the speechwriter for the scripted rant that the doctors go through . . .
“These are the hands that will one day pull triggers . . . and these are the
lips that will one day suck on crack pipes…”
I’m no law expert
or politician, but one sure fire way to not prevent abortions is cutting state
funding to Planned Parenthood by some 66%, which Texas did in 2011. This law is
ultimately benefiting only a select few perverted doctors who are consumed by
unnecessary-pre-abortion-intra-vaginal-probing fetishes. Who cares? A fetus
isn’t cute at one month anyways, just a gooey mass of nascent semi-formed life
matter. Maybe you can make out a toe or two. Big shit. It isn’t going to pay
the hydro bill.
If you want to
know how sexist any law on abortion is, imagine if the situation was reversed:
After nine months of gestating, babies come out of a man’s grossly oversized
and bloated penis, cock veins painfully extended to backyard hose proportions,
the pregnant penis resembling a snake with a freshly eaten mouse.
Checking in for
dinner at the in-law’s place you give in to the ceaseless prodding from the
glowing grandparents-to-be, and whip out your pregnant cock so the whole
extended clan, little Patrick too, can marvel at the bulging life inside
it. Mom-in-law puts an ear to your shaft and exclaims proudly to no one in
particular, “I think I felt a kick!”
The next morning,
on a stroll through the park, other parents with their kids in tow notice the
sizeable bulge in your Levi’s 501 Preggers©, and a gaggle of moms giggle to
each other, hands over mouth’s, afraid to actually ask, only whispering cupped
conspiratorial messages into each other’s ears, “Is he pregnant or just big?”
Can you imagine a government passing laws forcing all pregnant men to go through invasive procedures prior to the abortions of their unwanted cock-babies? Not in this lifetime, pal.
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