This post has nothing to do with Johnny Cash, or any kind of physical line, whether it be the kind you stand in at the airport, or the kind you snort, or the kind you must walk along in a roadside sobriety test.
It's a metaphor, much like Cash's famous song.
Collectively we all Walk The Line I suppose. It's that imaginary "centre-place" we all have when we're going about our daily lives. It's the way we conduct ourselves, the decisions we make, the actions we take and the inactions we don't. I will give the analogy of a boat or a vessel. You're at the helm, and it's your responsibility to ultimately get to your destination. The water you're submerged in isn't a rigid concrete surface. Rather, it shifts and moves, and therefore can move your boat off course. When that happens, you turn the steering wheel left, or right..or you increase the power in the engine (if there is one), or turn off the engine altogether. Regardless, you do what you have to do to right your path.
So when you look at your daily life, this applies to the seemingly innocuous decisions you make every few minutes to get through your day. Should i sleep in a few more minutes, or get an early start on my work day? Should i have fruit or bran flakes for breakfast? What's the best route to travel to work based on the weather or other variables. All these somewhat mundane decisions lead ultimately to a bigger objective on a day to day, week to week and year to year basis. You need to get to work and do your job well enough so you have a reasonable income, which leads to the lifestyle you desire, which leads to some form of general happiness with life.
In theory.
But much like choppy waters in that vessel force you to make decisions to right yourself towards your ultimate goal, it's some of the day to day decisions which can affect where you end up.
Some are more obvious than others of course. For example, it's probably not a good idea to walk into work and vomit on your boss.
But what of the more subtle decisions? What if a supervisor asks for your help on something, but you realize said supervisor is an idiot, and furthermore, the task she or he is asking you to do has absolutely nothing to do with you. When you get the email, you read it and say to yourself: why the hell is he/she getting me involved in this? As I like to say, "not my monkey, not my circus". Why am I wasting my time by essentially doing someone else's work?
It's a tough call, it's a grey area. The most obvious decision is to just do what's asked of you. After all, you want to be seen as a team player and a resourceful, knowledgeable person who can make things happen. Useful to the company. But what of standing your ground? If you continue to be seen as the guy or gal who'll just do whatever someone asks, isn't there the potential danger of being seen as someone who can't say no, and therefore can't make a tough decision, and therefore isn't promote-able?
Therein lies the rub.
And what's truly chilling about these types of work matters is what isn't visible to the naked eye. It's the unseen, the unwritten and unspoken that can lead to the end of one's job. It's what's being said about you by others...others higher on the food chain...that can affect whether you have a job tomorrow or not. And if just one of these higher food chain types is politically the most powerful for one reason or the other, and isn't a fan of you or your work.. sayanora!
Which leads, of course, to you steering your ship in a new direction. Not by choice in this instance. And this is frightening because we've all been fed the notion that we control our own destiny. You reap what you sow, and so on. But that's not always true now is it?, given the scenario illustrated in the previous paragraph.
So in uncertain times, and unpredictable waters, always be flexible enough to adapt to a new direction. Be open to a reality that you never thought possible. Imagine yourself doing the un-imaginable. When i was playing high school football, i remember one of the coaches saying that if you were going down hard after being hit, it''s best to roll into the impact rather than stiffen up to resist it. The ground will win the battle. You are not tougher than the ground. If you remain loose and go with the flow of the fall you are about to make, it will substantially reduce the chance of injury because you're essentially adapting and preparing for the inevitable impact.
Makes sense for football. Makes sense for life.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Elevator Etiquette
Being on the 10th floor of my building, i require the elevator to move vertically from my unit to the ground floor and back. I'd say that's a reasonable amount of floors to rely on an elevator, don't you?
There are, however, two or three people in my condo who seem to have a different criteria than me. On several occassions, i have been leaving home and heading down on the elevator when you feel the car come to a stop. Since i live in a fairly small building, the elevator rarely stops to pick anyone up on the way, so i always assume i'm on the ground floor (it stinks of effort to actually look up at the display that tells you what floor you're on).
But no, i haven't arrived at the ground floor. The elevator has stopped to pick someone up...on the second floor.
This, my friends, breaks the rules of elevator etiquette. When that door opens on the second floor, you better be missing some legs. Or be four hundred years old. Or be moving a heavy wooden coffin.
Are you telling me you'll come out of your unit, push the button and wait for an elevator when you could walk down one flight of stairs in half the time?
Boy do i ever want to send out some stink eye when i see these lazy bastards walk into that elevator. What i think is happening is that people, like me, are paying condo fees, and figure that they want to take full advantage of the amenities those fees cover, like elevator rides. Yippee!
And on a related note, just the other day i was getting on the elevator on the first floor, and a guy was already in there, holding the door open for me, which i thanked him for. He then asked me what floor, as he was by the panel with the buttons you select. I told him "10, please". Just then, another person came into the elevator, as he was still holding the door. I noticed she did not thank him for holding the door for her, and when he asked her what floor she would like, she just said "4".
No please. No thank you. No nothing.
This irritated me. But i said nothing. After all, it wasn't me who was doing all the hard work of holding doors and playing the role of elevator operator.
But after she got off on the 4th floor, I couldn't hold back. I said to the guy: "Nice of her to say please and thank you huh?" He just smiled and said "I know, I know."
And as he got off on his floor, he said "But I appreciate you saying it".
So i punched him in the mouth.
No no. Here was a thoughtful, conscientous person who, in the face of a selfish, ignorant jackass, still took the high road. I'm not sure if i would have said anything to the woman if it was me doing all the button pushing. Probably not in this instance, but i'm never quite sure about those situations until they actually happen. Some might say.."what's the point" in saying something and being confrontational.
There is some validity to that, but to me, I feel like I need to teach people some manners so next time, they will say please and thank you, and things will be less unpleasant. And the birds will sing. And the sun will shine. And we won't beat seals with clubs anymore. And, for god's sake, maybe just maybe, we can have one goddamn sports team in this city that doesn't suck ass!
There are, however, two or three people in my condo who seem to have a different criteria than me. On several occassions, i have been leaving home and heading down on the elevator when you feel the car come to a stop. Since i live in a fairly small building, the elevator rarely stops to pick anyone up on the way, so i always assume i'm on the ground floor (it stinks of effort to actually look up at the display that tells you what floor you're on).
But no, i haven't arrived at the ground floor. The elevator has stopped to pick someone up...on the second floor.
This, my friends, breaks the rules of elevator etiquette. When that door opens on the second floor, you better be missing some legs. Or be four hundred years old. Or be moving a heavy wooden coffin.
Are you telling me you'll come out of your unit, push the button and wait for an elevator when you could walk down one flight of stairs in half the time?
Boy do i ever want to send out some stink eye when i see these lazy bastards walk into that elevator. What i think is happening is that people, like me, are paying condo fees, and figure that they want to take full advantage of the amenities those fees cover, like elevator rides. Yippee!
And on a related note, just the other day i was getting on the elevator on the first floor, and a guy was already in there, holding the door open for me, which i thanked him for. He then asked me what floor, as he was by the panel with the buttons you select. I told him "10, please". Just then, another person came into the elevator, as he was still holding the door. I noticed she did not thank him for holding the door for her, and when he asked her what floor she would like, she just said "4".
No please. No thank you. No nothing.
This irritated me. But i said nothing. After all, it wasn't me who was doing all the hard work of holding doors and playing the role of elevator operator.
But after she got off on the 4th floor, I couldn't hold back. I said to the guy: "Nice of her to say please and thank you huh?" He just smiled and said "I know, I know."
And as he got off on his floor, he said "But I appreciate you saying it".
So i punched him in the mouth.
No no. Here was a thoughtful, conscientous person who, in the face of a selfish, ignorant jackass, still took the high road. I'm not sure if i would have said anything to the woman if it was me doing all the button pushing. Probably not in this instance, but i'm never quite sure about those situations until they actually happen. Some might say.."what's the point" in saying something and being confrontational.
There is some validity to that, but to me, I feel like I need to teach people some manners so next time, they will say please and thank you, and things will be less unpleasant. And the birds will sing. And the sun will shine. And we won't beat seals with clubs anymore. And, for god's sake, maybe just maybe, we can have one goddamn sports team in this city that doesn't suck ass!
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Hobo Prejudice
Whatever happened to the innocent image of the kindly hobo quietly sitting around a campfire near a railroad track, cooking up a tasty shoe on a stick?
The unshaven yet dignified gentleman who, despite his unfortunate disposition in life, would travel the world with an unbound, carefree view on life. You might even envy this old guard of the hobo species. As we're slaving away at the wishes of our corporate soul sucking jailers (read: employers), these wayward men are enjoying a meek existence free of shackles instituted onto the rest of us from government, family or work.
Well, perhaps these images were created in popular fiction and cartoons to soften the blow to young minds. Think about it. If you are a child brought up in a cozy suburb, your first encounter with a real life homeless person on a downtown street would be somewhat puzzling and a tad frightening. Living in the city in my early years, I had come across various vagabonds, so for me, it was simply not a big deal and a part of urban living.
A few years ago, I invited my young niece downtown to stay with me and Dani for the weekend. I wanted her to experience everything the city had to offer. The frenetic pace, the culture, the shopping, the sights and the sounds. But i also wanted her to see the city for what it was in all it's forms. We walked through various downtown districts, including St.Lawrence neighbourhood, the yonge/dundas core, Kensington Market and Chinatown. It was in Chinatown where she saw her first living, breathing hobo. Ever. And let me tell you. He was a doozy. A broken, soiled, sad man. Crumpled into a doorway, and, missing a limb. She was flabergasted. Amazed. In one moment, the relative cushiness of suburbia collided head to head with urban reality.
But, i hope that the experience overall will stay with her. I hope that it will remind her that not everyone has it as good as us, and this little dose of reality (delicately served up by myself and Dani in a digestible portion - too much would be a bad thing for a young developing mind)would play a part in the development of her character
So for me, homeless people are just a part of the landscape. Along with the great amenities living downtown has to offer, there are also these elements the gritty underbelly has to offer. You have to take the good with the bad.
So this post is not intended to be a commentary on the societal problems that may cause hobos to be..well..hobos. It's just a note on my changing views, for better or worse. I have never had any real problems with these people. At the same time, I do not give them change and i have never bought a hobo a coffee or a sandwich. Perhaps i'm wrong, but my thinking was that a man should learn how to fish, and not just be given a fish. Otherwise, what's the motivation to stop? This is particularly true with the hobos who sometimes ask for change outside of a local Tim Horton's near my condo. If I or others continue to provide money, that corner is considered a goldmine, and the guy has no reason to ever leave, thus affecting me in a couple of ways. First, i've got to be asked for change, yet again. And secondly, what of my property value?
In any event, for the most part i've remained mostly neutral on the topic of the homeless problem. However I finally think i'm leaning towards...how would you say...stabbing them all to death?
Yes I know those are harsh words. But that's exactly what i wanted to do when Dani and I went downstairs to the parking garage recently. It was a pleasant Sunday and we were off for a family dinner with her clan. I can tell you that if you've never had the joyful experience of approaching your car that has been broken into, you surely are missing out. Dani noticed it first. About 30 feet away from the car, she gasped and said "my car's been broken into!". Your heart and stomache sink, and then you view the devastation, which is tantamount to a violation of your personal world. The smashed passenger side window, with hundreds of pieces of sharp glass sprayed throughout the entire car. The 30 or so cd's strewn about the seats and floor. The torn open car accessories.
Now I realize that we shouldn't really get too upset about "things". It is, after all, just a car, and there are a lot of worse things that can happen to someone. I get that. But at that moment, at that precise moment, the one thing I feel is violation and rage. I could visualize myself catching this lowlife scumbag in the act. In my mind's eye, I see myself grabbing him firmly and throwing him headfirst directly into the concrete pillar next to the car. I see me grabbing him by the hair and smashing my fist directly into his face, and I see me kicking him hard in the knee. I don't want to kill the man. No. But i do want him to remember who he's decided to screw with.
You might think my rage is an over-reaction. Perhaps it is, but it's very very difficult to contain said rage when this has happened not once, not twice, but three times. Three times in three years. Nice huh? But you know - it goes back to what i said earlier. Living downtown, you need to take the good with the bad. And I do. I really do. (As an aside, the laugher of the moment was that the parking "security" had apparently come across the vehicle throughout the night, and left an "incident report" in the windshield wiper. A report that has absolutely no purpose whatsoever, considering insurance deductibles and such).
So now, I see hobos differently. I'm now prejudiced against all of them. I know that not all of them break into cars, and certainly all of them i see aren't the ones that broke into Dani's car.
But just yesterday, we took a pleasant stroll over to the St.Lawrence market near my building. As we approached a corner, a homeless guy asked me for change. I immediately had flashbacks of when we first saw that the car had been broken into. He looked directly at me, holdin out his cup, and I said:
"I'd love to help you out, but unfortunately your buddies wrecked it for you, as they broke into my car three times."
I think he was confused, not just normal hobo confused, but confused by my response. I didn't yell at him, I wasn't about to pummel him. I calmly said this and walked on by. Dani got mad at me, but at the moment I didn't care.
In a tiny bottled up sort of way, I felt better. Just a tiny little bit better. Perhaps i was wrong for saying that to a guy who i'm sure had absolutely nothing to do with the break ins.
But it was better than stabbing him to death.
The unshaven yet dignified gentleman who, despite his unfortunate disposition in life, would travel the world with an unbound, carefree view on life. You might even envy this old guard of the hobo species. As we're slaving away at the wishes of our corporate soul sucking jailers (read: employers), these wayward men are enjoying a meek existence free of shackles instituted onto the rest of us from government, family or work.
Well, perhaps these images were created in popular fiction and cartoons to soften the blow to young minds. Think about it. If you are a child brought up in a cozy suburb, your first encounter with a real life homeless person on a downtown street would be somewhat puzzling and a tad frightening. Living in the city in my early years, I had come across various vagabonds, so for me, it was simply not a big deal and a part of urban living.
A few years ago, I invited my young niece downtown to stay with me and Dani for the weekend. I wanted her to experience everything the city had to offer. The frenetic pace, the culture, the shopping, the sights and the sounds. But i also wanted her to see the city for what it was in all it's forms. We walked through various downtown districts, including St.Lawrence neighbourhood, the yonge/dundas core, Kensington Market and Chinatown. It was in Chinatown where she saw her first living, breathing hobo. Ever. And let me tell you. He was a doozy. A broken, soiled, sad man. Crumpled into a doorway, and, missing a limb. She was flabergasted. Amazed. In one moment, the relative cushiness of suburbia collided head to head with urban reality.
But, i hope that the experience overall will stay with her. I hope that it will remind her that not everyone has it as good as us, and this little dose of reality (delicately served up by myself and Dani in a digestible portion - too much would be a bad thing for a young developing mind)would play a part in the development of her character
So for me, homeless people are just a part of the landscape. Along with the great amenities living downtown has to offer, there are also these elements the gritty underbelly has to offer. You have to take the good with the bad.
So this post is not intended to be a commentary on the societal problems that may cause hobos to be..well..hobos. It's just a note on my changing views, for better or worse. I have never had any real problems with these people. At the same time, I do not give them change and i have never bought a hobo a coffee or a sandwich. Perhaps i'm wrong, but my thinking was that a man should learn how to fish, and not just be given a fish. Otherwise, what's the motivation to stop? This is particularly true with the hobos who sometimes ask for change outside of a local Tim Horton's near my condo. If I or others continue to provide money, that corner is considered a goldmine, and the guy has no reason to ever leave, thus affecting me in a couple of ways. First, i've got to be asked for change, yet again. And secondly, what of my property value?
In any event, for the most part i've remained mostly neutral on the topic of the homeless problem. However I finally think i'm leaning towards...how would you say...stabbing them all to death?
Yes I know those are harsh words. But that's exactly what i wanted to do when Dani and I went downstairs to the parking garage recently. It was a pleasant Sunday and we were off for a family dinner with her clan. I can tell you that if you've never had the joyful experience of approaching your car that has been broken into, you surely are missing out. Dani noticed it first. About 30 feet away from the car, she gasped and said "my car's been broken into!". Your heart and stomache sink, and then you view the devastation, which is tantamount to a violation of your personal world. The smashed passenger side window, with hundreds of pieces of sharp glass sprayed throughout the entire car. The 30 or so cd's strewn about the seats and floor. The torn open car accessories.
Now I realize that we shouldn't really get too upset about "things". It is, after all, just a car, and there are a lot of worse things that can happen to someone. I get that. But at that moment, at that precise moment, the one thing I feel is violation and rage. I could visualize myself catching this lowlife scumbag in the act. In my mind's eye, I see myself grabbing him firmly and throwing him headfirst directly into the concrete pillar next to the car. I see me grabbing him by the hair and smashing my fist directly into his face, and I see me kicking him hard in the knee. I don't want to kill the man. No. But i do want him to remember who he's decided to screw with.
You might think my rage is an over-reaction. Perhaps it is, but it's very very difficult to contain said rage when this has happened not once, not twice, but three times. Three times in three years. Nice huh? But you know - it goes back to what i said earlier. Living downtown, you need to take the good with the bad. And I do. I really do. (As an aside, the laugher of the moment was that the parking "security" had apparently come across the vehicle throughout the night, and left an "incident report" in the windshield wiper. A report that has absolutely no purpose whatsoever, considering insurance deductibles and such).
So now, I see hobos differently. I'm now prejudiced against all of them. I know that not all of them break into cars, and certainly all of them i see aren't the ones that broke into Dani's car.
But just yesterday, we took a pleasant stroll over to the St.Lawrence market near my building. As we approached a corner, a homeless guy asked me for change. I immediately had flashbacks of when we first saw that the car had been broken into. He looked directly at me, holdin out his cup, and I said:
"I'd love to help you out, but unfortunately your buddies wrecked it for you, as they broke into my car three times."
I think he was confused, not just normal hobo confused, but confused by my response. I didn't yell at him, I wasn't about to pummel him. I calmly said this and walked on by. Dani got mad at me, but at the moment I didn't care.
In a tiny bottled up sort of way, I felt better. Just a tiny little bit better. Perhaps i was wrong for saying that to a guy who i'm sure had absolutely nothing to do with the break ins.
But it was better than stabbing him to death.
My shaving gel is a Sorny
Yes that's right folks, my shaving gel is a Sorny.
Don't know what a Sorny is? Sure you do. A Sorny is a metaphor for cheap knock off brands of better quality products. It refers to the popular electronics company Sony of course. Let's say you want to buy a Sony tv. Let's also say you don't want to pay the premium price of a Sony tv.
That's where Sorny comes along.
Some third world company that manufactures inferior, cheaply made tv's want to borrow liberally from the Sony brand by naming their company/products "Sorny". They'll even use the same font in an attempt to fool people into thinking it's a Sony product. Legally they get away with it by including the "r".
So, when i was in the drug store the other day i realized i needed to buy shaving gel. Looking at the shelves, there was the top brands from Gillette or whoever else makes the stuff. But wow, this crap is expensive. Eight, nine, ten bucks in some cases. But then, on the bottom shelf i see a handsomely packaged container, which is like, three bucks. It's made by a company called "Direct" which probably should have tipped me off that this product was a Sorny. I don't know the brand, and although the price point suggests it's a cheaper no name product, i figure, what the hell, it's shaving gel. What could possibly go wrong with a Sorny shaving gel?
Plenty, i later found out.
Not in the I-Put-It-On-My-Face-And-My-Skin-Burned-Off sorta way, but when i first used it i realized it was shit. Not in the Fecal-Matter-That-Comes-Out-Of-Your-Ass sort of shit, but clearly it was not very good.
I shave in the shower, so the first problem came up when i pushed the little button that dispense the gel. The blue gel looked harmless enough, and in itself didn't look like a Sorny gel. But when i started to rub my hands together that activates it and magically turns it into foam, i realized that it didn't really magically turn into anything. It sort of kind of became foam-like, but not to the volume that would be required to coat one's face thoroughly and evenly. And i squeezed out a fair bit of this gel too. I wasn't being cheap with myself. After all, why would i want to save a couple of cents at the expense of walking around with a half shaved face?
Anyway, i'm stuck now and don't have a choice. I'm in the shower, i'm naked, and there's a midget standing next to me. Ok there was no midget. But the point is, i'm committed to using this Sorny gel because at that precise moment, there were no other options.
So i start rubbing this stuff on my face, and you want to spread it around evenly and thick so you have a nice smoothe shave. I want to be one of those guys in the tv commercials who actually smiles when he's looking into the mirror after shaving. (Come to think of it, I don't recall ever smiling after shaving, but perhaps that's another story.)
Speaking of mirrors, that's what i did next. I looked into the little shower mirror to see if the foam was nicely applied, and the last thing i wanted to do was smile. It barely looked like i had anything on my face at all. It looked as if someone lathered up a tiny bit of soap and rubbed in across my face. It was weak. Very very weak.
So then i decided that perhaps i need to use more, so i do just that. By now i've probably used a quarter of the container in this one shave. But, it does the trick and my face is now properly lathered. At least, for a second or two it was. After about 20 seconds, this foam started to completely slide off my face, which is the exact opposite of what this shit is supposed to do. When the scientists are in their shaving gel labs, i would think that in their recipe book it probably says something about shaving foams and gels having chemical properties that make it stick to your face...you know...so you can actually shave with the fucking thing?
So that, my friends, is why my shaving gel is a Sorny. Lesson learned. Don't cheap out on grooming products, because, as they say, optics is everything. And when i take my half shaved face into work, people may wonder why I've got random patches of facial hair in various locations around my upper lip or right ear. Perhaps it's the male equivalent of women you see who have apparently used a shotgun to apply their makeup.
And I don't want to be a woman like that.
Don't know what a Sorny is? Sure you do. A Sorny is a metaphor for cheap knock off brands of better quality products. It refers to the popular electronics company Sony of course. Let's say you want to buy a Sony tv. Let's also say you don't want to pay the premium price of a Sony tv.
That's where Sorny comes along.
Some third world company that manufactures inferior, cheaply made tv's want to borrow liberally from the Sony brand by naming their company/products "Sorny". They'll even use the same font in an attempt to fool people into thinking it's a Sony product. Legally they get away with it by including the "r".
So, when i was in the drug store the other day i realized i needed to buy shaving gel. Looking at the shelves, there was the top brands from Gillette or whoever else makes the stuff. But wow, this crap is expensive. Eight, nine, ten bucks in some cases. But then, on the bottom shelf i see a handsomely packaged container, which is like, three bucks. It's made by a company called "Direct" which probably should have tipped me off that this product was a Sorny. I don't know the brand, and although the price point suggests it's a cheaper no name product, i figure, what the hell, it's shaving gel. What could possibly go wrong with a Sorny shaving gel?
Plenty, i later found out.
Not in the I-Put-It-On-My-Face-And-My-Skin-Burned-Off sorta way, but when i first used it i realized it was shit. Not in the Fecal-Matter-That-Comes-Out-Of-Your-Ass sort of shit, but clearly it was not very good.
I shave in the shower, so the first problem came up when i pushed the little button that dispense the gel. The blue gel looked harmless enough, and in itself didn't look like a Sorny gel. But when i started to rub my hands together that activates it and magically turns it into foam, i realized that it didn't really magically turn into anything. It sort of kind of became foam-like, but not to the volume that would be required to coat one's face thoroughly and evenly. And i squeezed out a fair bit of this gel too. I wasn't being cheap with myself. After all, why would i want to save a couple of cents at the expense of walking around with a half shaved face?
Anyway, i'm stuck now and don't have a choice. I'm in the shower, i'm naked, and there's a midget standing next to me. Ok there was no midget. But the point is, i'm committed to using this Sorny gel because at that precise moment, there were no other options.
So i start rubbing this stuff on my face, and you want to spread it around evenly and thick so you have a nice smoothe shave. I want to be one of those guys in the tv commercials who actually smiles when he's looking into the mirror after shaving. (Come to think of it, I don't recall ever smiling after shaving, but perhaps that's another story.)
Speaking of mirrors, that's what i did next. I looked into the little shower mirror to see if the foam was nicely applied, and the last thing i wanted to do was smile. It barely looked like i had anything on my face at all. It looked as if someone lathered up a tiny bit of soap and rubbed in across my face. It was weak. Very very weak.
So then i decided that perhaps i need to use more, so i do just that. By now i've probably used a quarter of the container in this one shave. But, it does the trick and my face is now properly lathered. At least, for a second or two it was. After about 20 seconds, this foam started to completely slide off my face, which is the exact opposite of what this shit is supposed to do. When the scientists are in their shaving gel labs, i would think that in their recipe book it probably says something about shaving foams and gels having chemical properties that make it stick to your face...you know...so you can actually shave with the fucking thing?
So that, my friends, is why my shaving gel is a Sorny. Lesson learned. Don't cheap out on grooming products, because, as they say, optics is everything. And when i take my half shaved face into work, people may wonder why I've got random patches of facial hair in various locations around my upper lip or right ear. Perhaps it's the male equivalent of women you see who have apparently used a shotgun to apply their makeup.
And I don't want to be a woman like that.
Friday, April 9, 2010
People Who Piss Me Off
Officially you can file this one under People Who Piss Me Off, but i'm sure this is a universal occurrence that makes us all quite ragey.
I'm at work and get an email from a counterpart in another city. Same company, same business, but this guy is located in Ottawa. I don't work for him, nor does he work for me. We both do the same type of work, which is probably why he emailed me.
He says he's working on a project, and urgently requires some items in order for him to complete said project. Yaay for me! I get to help someone else do their job! Hooray!
Now, I should note that the items he's after are items that I may have possibly used in a previous project that I worked on several months ago. So, it's fair that he's asking for some assistance in order to save him some time. After all, we're all on the same team, and try to help each other out when we can.
Fine.
However, in these instances, what is not fine is when you commit the offences this guy did. Within his email he writes two things that Piss Me Off. First, he gives me a deadline. A very, very tight deadline. He asks me to send him the materials "today". The materials he is asking for would take approximately 4 hours to gather, and another 3 hours for them to be physically sent (through the magic of fibre optics). And oh, the timestamp on his email? 4:02pm. And he wants this all by the end of day.
Then comes the second offence.
He mentions, casually of course, that he's working on this project for two particular people. Who are these people? Well, one is at a Director level. Now in most organizations, when you are asked to work on a project for a Director, and you yourself are not a Director, you don't question it. You simply remover your pants, bend over and try to relax your sphincter.
And the other person he's working on this project for? The other person, my dear friends, is none other than the top honcho in our whole organization, whom in our case happens to be the the Vice President!
So, a subliminal message is clearly being sent that not only am I expected to do this mofo's work for him, but to do this mofo's work for him according to the deadline that he has so courteously provided for me. How nice of him!
It's a cliche, but i'll use it here:
A lack of planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on mine.
I'm at work and get an email from a counterpart in another city. Same company, same business, but this guy is located in Ottawa. I don't work for him, nor does he work for me. We both do the same type of work, which is probably why he emailed me.
He says he's working on a project, and urgently requires some items in order for him to complete said project. Yaay for me! I get to help someone else do their job! Hooray!
Now, I should note that the items he's after are items that I may have possibly used in a previous project that I worked on several months ago. So, it's fair that he's asking for some assistance in order to save him some time. After all, we're all on the same team, and try to help each other out when we can.
Fine.
However, in these instances, what is not fine is when you commit the offences this guy did. Within his email he writes two things that Piss Me Off. First, he gives me a deadline. A very, very tight deadline. He asks me to send him the materials "today". The materials he is asking for would take approximately 4 hours to gather, and another 3 hours for them to be physically sent (through the magic of fibre optics). And oh, the timestamp on his email? 4:02pm. And he wants this all by the end of day.
Then comes the second offence.
He mentions, casually of course, that he's working on this project for two particular people. Who are these people? Well, one is at a Director level. Now in most organizations, when you are asked to work on a project for a Director, and you yourself are not a Director, you don't question it. You simply remover your pants, bend over and try to relax your sphincter.
And the other person he's working on this project for? The other person, my dear friends, is none other than the top honcho in our whole organization, whom in our case happens to be the the Vice President!
So, a subliminal message is clearly being sent that not only am I expected to do this mofo's work for him, but to do this mofo's work for him according to the deadline that he has so courteously provided for me. How nice of him!
It's a cliche, but i'll use it here:
A lack of planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on mine.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
I'd like to be an Air Marshall
I read an article in The Toronto Star about Canada's RCMP Air Marshalls. These are the guys who sit on planes and wait for shit to happen, then spring into action to kick some terrorist ass.
This is one of those jobs i'd like to have if i wasn't doing what i do now.
It's not that I have a death wish, since this sort of job dramatically increases the probability i'm gonna get blown up or stabbed or shot. That stuff doesn't seem like a whole lot of fun. What also is not fun is having to sit in crappy, tight airplane seats for hours and hours, day in and day out.
So what's the appeal? Well, it's sort of like being a secret agent. Kind of like being James Bond, which is inherently very cool for most guys. But instead of being the kind of secret agent who is chasing Russian mobsters in helicopters, jumping from buildings and driving expensive cars along the italian coastline, it's a different kind of secret agent.
See, as an air marshall, for the most part, all I'd have to do is sit around. Sit around and do nothing. Sort of like a lazy man's secret agent. Because all that regular high octane James Bond stuff, in the immortal words of one Michael Thiessen, stinks of effort.
But make no mistake. These air marshall guys are no pushovers. They are highly trained of course, but what's cool is that they are trained specifically for the scenarios that could take place in airplanes. How awesome is high level martial arts training where they learn how to fight in very tight quarters, like in an airplane? Let's say I decided to get in a fight with one of these guys, say, in a desert, with lots of space, I can pretty much guarantee i'd get my ass kicked severely. But in an airplane? The beatdown on me would be even worse, because these guys would quickly use the natural items and space in an airplane cabin to take me down. I go to take a swing at him - BAM - he opens the overhead storage compartment panel to block my punch and obscure my vision, then with ninja like speed he's on the narrow floor and karate chopping my knee, which, incidentally, is already weakened from a ball hockey injury (provided, i should add, from a 5'3 Asian woman).
These guys mean business. Along with their fighting skills, they even learn to adapt their breathing in high altitude situations, so when i'm on the floor weezing, crying and holding my busted knee, his lungs are operating just fine thank you very much. And if that wasn't enough, they're also packing some heat of course. And you're automatically cooler when you have a gun right? Just ask an NBA player.
But the best thing about being an air marshall is what doesn't occur.
See, since the air marshall program started in Canada in 2002, not once has a marshall had to spring into action on a plane. And rest assured, they are there. And from what i've read, they do not work alone, meaning there are likely at least 2 on any random flight, sitting in different sections of the plane, pretending they don't know each other. That's some cool shit.
Likewise, I had wondered about how these guys might respond in the event of a drunken, air ragey passenger . Well i found out. They do nothing! Awesome! Their concern is only for hijackings and terrorists, and not some fool who had too many rum and cokes. But the main reason they don't respond to those situations is that it could be a ruse by terrorists to find out who the air marshalls on the plane are. So, they ignore those jackasses.
On a similar note, the gig also reminds me of that scene in Schindler's List, where Schindler does that Jedi mind trick on Ralph Fienne's character, the Nazi who picks off the Jews with a rifle in the concentration camp. Fienne's Nazi character gets off on having this power over life and death, comfortably sitting up in his perch killing people randomly. But Schindler convinces him that he is actually more powerful by not killing them. It's the potential threat that is scarier than actually going through with it.
Likewise, that would be like me, the highly-trained, deadly air marshall comfortably sitting in my seat, wearing a plain blue dress shirt and tan coloured Dockers, reading my magazine, smiling pleasantly as i thank the flight attendant for providing my in flight meal, which naturally i would wash down with a martini, shaken, not stirred.
This is one of those jobs i'd like to have if i wasn't doing what i do now.
It's not that I have a death wish, since this sort of job dramatically increases the probability i'm gonna get blown up or stabbed or shot. That stuff doesn't seem like a whole lot of fun. What also is not fun is having to sit in crappy, tight airplane seats for hours and hours, day in and day out.
So what's the appeal? Well, it's sort of like being a secret agent. Kind of like being James Bond, which is inherently very cool for most guys. But instead of being the kind of secret agent who is chasing Russian mobsters in helicopters, jumping from buildings and driving expensive cars along the italian coastline, it's a different kind of secret agent.
See, as an air marshall, for the most part, all I'd have to do is sit around. Sit around and do nothing. Sort of like a lazy man's secret agent. Because all that regular high octane James Bond stuff, in the immortal words of one Michael Thiessen, stinks of effort.
But make no mistake. These air marshall guys are no pushovers. They are highly trained of course, but what's cool is that they are trained specifically for the scenarios that could take place in airplanes. How awesome is high level martial arts training where they learn how to fight in very tight quarters, like in an airplane? Let's say I decided to get in a fight with one of these guys, say, in a desert, with lots of space, I can pretty much guarantee i'd get my ass kicked severely. But in an airplane? The beatdown on me would be even worse, because these guys would quickly use the natural items and space in an airplane cabin to take me down. I go to take a swing at him - BAM - he opens the overhead storage compartment panel to block my punch and obscure my vision, then with ninja like speed he's on the narrow floor and karate chopping my knee, which, incidentally, is already weakened from a ball hockey injury (provided, i should add, from a 5'3 Asian woman).
These guys mean business. Along with their fighting skills, they even learn to adapt their breathing in high altitude situations, so when i'm on the floor weezing, crying and holding my busted knee, his lungs are operating just fine thank you very much. And if that wasn't enough, they're also packing some heat of course. And you're automatically cooler when you have a gun right? Just ask an NBA player.
But the best thing about being an air marshall is what doesn't occur.
See, since the air marshall program started in Canada in 2002, not once has a marshall had to spring into action on a plane. And rest assured, they are there. And from what i've read, they do not work alone, meaning there are likely at least 2 on any random flight, sitting in different sections of the plane, pretending they don't know each other. That's some cool shit.
Likewise, I had wondered about how these guys might respond in the event of a drunken, air ragey passenger . Well i found out. They do nothing! Awesome! Their concern is only for hijackings and terrorists, and not some fool who had too many rum and cokes. But the main reason they don't respond to those situations is that it could be a ruse by terrorists to find out who the air marshalls on the plane are. So, they ignore those jackasses.
On a similar note, the gig also reminds me of that scene in Schindler's List, where Schindler does that Jedi mind trick on Ralph Fienne's character, the Nazi who picks off the Jews with a rifle in the concentration camp. Fienne's Nazi character gets off on having this power over life and death, comfortably sitting up in his perch killing people randomly. But Schindler convinces him that he is actually more powerful by not killing them. It's the potential threat that is scarier than actually going through with it.
Likewise, that would be like me, the highly-trained, deadly air marshall comfortably sitting in my seat, wearing a plain blue dress shirt and tan coloured Dockers, reading my magazine, smiling pleasantly as i thank the flight attendant for providing my in flight meal, which naturally i would wash down with a martini, shaken, not stirred.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Cafeteria etiquette
I previously posted about the jackasses at my workplace cafeteria who hold up the cashier line when they buy a one dollar can of coke with an ATM card.
This posting is similar.
First up is the "LMF's" ... otherwise known as lingering mofos.
Sometimes there will be a couple of people in line ahead of me buying coffees. These people know each other and work together. So naturally while in line they'll be chatting about work related stuff, which is fine...while they're waiting in line that is.
The problem occurs when they finish paying. They'll walk over to the coffee counter, the area that has the sugar, milk, lids,etc. They begin to prepare their coffees while continuing their stupid conversation. Inherently then the coffee prep will move at a much slower pace. Also, they'll zone out anything else that is around them, including other people waiting to use the same little bit of space around the coffee counter.
To make matters worse, sometimes they'll decide to continue their little discussion after their coffees are ready, lingering at the counter and blocking access to others.
If that doesn't make me rage-y enough, there are also the MMF's, the microwave mofo's. I'm not sure who are worse, so i'll let you decide.
Often I will bring a lunch that requires re-heating. So, the cafeteria has several microwaves for everyone to use. However, the microwaves are stacked horizontally and vertically beside each other. The problem occurs when MMF's throw their slop into the microwave (i won't even touch on those asses that heat up stinky fish lunches), start it up, and then just stand there immediately in front of the microwave they're using.
When they do that, they're blocking access to the other empty microwaves. So if someone wants to use one, you have to ask them to "excuse me" (which is ironic) so i can heat up my effing tender vittles. Here's a tip to you people. Back the hell up and clear the area so others can use the microwaves. You don't have to stand guard for the two minutes and thirty seconds right in front.
And the worst MMF's are those who commit their crimes when the cafeteria is packed and all microwaves are in use. They'll stick their food in the machine, turn it on, then walk away for a few minutes to maybe get cutlery or buy a pop (with an ATM card no doubt). Perhaps they'll stop to chat with someone they know (maybe at the coffee counter) and next thing you know, their food is ready and they haven't returned to take out their goddamn food while 5 other people are waiting to use a microwave.
To all you people. Smarten up. Be considerate. Think about others in general, and in these types of situations in particular.
This posting is similar.
First up is the "LMF's" ... otherwise known as lingering mofos.
Sometimes there will be a couple of people in line ahead of me buying coffees. These people know each other and work together. So naturally while in line they'll be chatting about work related stuff, which is fine...while they're waiting in line that is.
The problem occurs when they finish paying. They'll walk over to the coffee counter, the area that has the sugar, milk, lids,etc. They begin to prepare their coffees while continuing their stupid conversation. Inherently then the coffee prep will move at a much slower pace. Also, they'll zone out anything else that is around them, including other people waiting to use the same little bit of space around the coffee counter.
To make matters worse, sometimes they'll decide to continue their little discussion after their coffees are ready, lingering at the counter and blocking access to others.
If that doesn't make me rage-y enough, there are also the MMF's, the microwave mofo's. I'm not sure who are worse, so i'll let you decide.
Often I will bring a lunch that requires re-heating. So, the cafeteria has several microwaves for everyone to use. However, the microwaves are stacked horizontally and vertically beside each other. The problem occurs when MMF's throw their slop into the microwave (i won't even touch on those asses that heat up stinky fish lunches), start it up, and then just stand there immediately in front of the microwave they're using.
When they do that, they're blocking access to the other empty microwaves. So if someone wants to use one, you have to ask them to "excuse me" (which is ironic) so i can heat up my effing tender vittles. Here's a tip to you people. Back the hell up and clear the area so others can use the microwaves. You don't have to stand guard for the two minutes and thirty seconds right in front.
And the worst MMF's are those who commit their crimes when the cafeteria is packed and all microwaves are in use. They'll stick their food in the machine, turn it on, then walk away for a few minutes to maybe get cutlery or buy a pop (with an ATM card no doubt). Perhaps they'll stop to chat with someone they know (maybe at the coffee counter) and next thing you know, their food is ready and they haven't returned to take out their goddamn food while 5 other people are waiting to use a microwave.
To all you people. Smarten up. Be considerate. Think about others in general, and in these types of situations in particular.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Unpredicto
As they say about life, it's not the destination that matters, but the journey. I happen to agree with this philosophy, and therefore try to employ this whenever possible.
So, when the weather's nice, a few of the guys i work with will usually take a walk to the Tim Horton's nearby after lunch. It's a nice way to get a bit of fresh air, a little bit of exercise, and a cup of this country's national identity.
To make our little excursion even more interesting, the boys and i will regress just a little bit to a simpler, earlier time. A time when men were men. A time when women didn't vote. A time when cholera wiped out millions of people.
See, on our short walks to T-Ho's, we bring a small rubber ball. As we walk, we vigorously throw said small rubber ball against various brick walls. The idea is that you try to put a spin or a bounce on the ball because the next guy has to catch it after you've thrown it. The nature of these small balls is that they'll often take unpredictable bounces (thus the name of our game), throwing off how the guy anticipates he'll catch the ball.
As a result, this little game is inherently dangerous. Maybe, just maybe, the guy trying to catch it will lunge and possibly fall, which provides us a tremendous amount of entertainment. Sometimes one of the guys wears what appear to be tap dancing shoes, because often when he lunges, the shoes will slip on the concrete, and his balance gets all buggered up, increasing the chance he's going down.
One time, when we were at the busy intersection leading to the Tim Horton's, I threw the ball diagonally through the intersection to see what would happen. Carnage and death did not ensue, as that was not my intent, so i'm not exactly sure why I did that.
But the point is, we are all grown men, playing a silly little game.
We've relayed the details of this game we play to girlfriends and females we work with, and they think it's stupid and childish.
I find that very interesting.
I'm guessing they wouldn't say that if their boyfriends were people like Derek Jeter, Chris Bosh or Sidney Crosby, who are also grown men playing children's games.
Gee, I wonder why that is.
So, when the weather's nice, a few of the guys i work with will usually take a walk to the Tim Horton's nearby after lunch. It's a nice way to get a bit of fresh air, a little bit of exercise, and a cup of this country's national identity.
To make our little excursion even more interesting, the boys and i will regress just a little bit to a simpler, earlier time. A time when men were men. A time when women didn't vote. A time when cholera wiped out millions of people.
See, on our short walks to T-Ho's, we bring a small rubber ball. As we walk, we vigorously throw said small rubber ball against various brick walls. The idea is that you try to put a spin or a bounce on the ball because the next guy has to catch it after you've thrown it. The nature of these small balls is that they'll often take unpredictable bounces (thus the name of our game), throwing off how the guy anticipates he'll catch the ball.
As a result, this little game is inherently dangerous. Maybe, just maybe, the guy trying to catch it will lunge and possibly fall, which provides us a tremendous amount of entertainment. Sometimes one of the guys wears what appear to be tap dancing shoes, because often when he lunges, the shoes will slip on the concrete, and his balance gets all buggered up, increasing the chance he's going down.
One time, when we were at the busy intersection leading to the Tim Horton's, I threw the ball diagonally through the intersection to see what would happen. Carnage and death did not ensue, as that was not my intent, so i'm not exactly sure why I did that.
But the point is, we are all grown men, playing a silly little game.
We've relayed the details of this game we play to girlfriends and females we work with, and they think it's stupid and childish.
I find that very interesting.
I'm guessing they wouldn't say that if their boyfriends were people like Derek Jeter, Chris Bosh or Sidney Crosby, who are also grown men playing children's games.
Gee, I wonder why that is.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Do you like my gitch?
So it was a lazy Sunday afternoon. Dani was Grandma-Sitting and I was home alone with Jones (our small black furry child with the busted tail who wears no pants but has the best set of teeth on the planet, feline or otherwise) about 3pm.
Jones is an indoor cat, but sometimes she likes to quietly meander our 10th floor hallway. She usually just sits out there for a few minutes then comes in, but we will prop the door open just a bit so we can keep an eye on her.
On this ocassion she was out for just a couple of minutes when I began to prepare to take a quick shower, which involves the shedding of clothing, a necessary step for one to wash one's self. While giving Jones a couple of more minutes of freedom, I decided to quickly sit on the couch and check a couple of emails.
So, I'm on the couch in my gitch, almost naked. Remember, Dani is away for a few days. Just then I notice the front door of my condo opening up completely (as it was propped open just a bit for Jones), and guess who walks in..two women!
"Thank you Jesus!", i exclaim in my head.
For obvious reasons, I didn't get up, and they enter my condo. The first one, a young woman about 25 or so, smiles at me and says "hello".
Now, the male mind is an amazing thing. Instead of freaking out that two strangers have just walked into my place when i'm nearly nude, I instantly think this is a great porno scene so I decide to "go with it."
"Hello", I say back.
I can now see the second woman behind the first, and realize that perhaps this porno scene is the kind you'd see on the 4 dollar rack at the adult movie store, because the second woman is about 146 years old.
So what happens next? Well, they walk right in and start taking off their shoes of course.
By this point, I'm thinking they still haven't noticed i'm in my gitch. Makes sense, because they probably could only see the top half of me since i was sitting on the couch and the breakfast bar was blocking their view.
Just as I was about to point them in the direction of the bedroom, the younger woman stops and says.. "we're here for the open house."
Wah wah wah.
See, my neighbour is selling her condo and was having an open house. My door was propped open for Jones, so these women thought my place was the open house, which explains why they were so casual when they walked in.
A good story, but an unhappy ending, literally.
Jones is an indoor cat, but sometimes she likes to quietly meander our 10th floor hallway. She usually just sits out there for a few minutes then comes in, but we will prop the door open just a bit so we can keep an eye on her.
On this ocassion she was out for just a couple of minutes when I began to prepare to take a quick shower, which involves the shedding of clothing, a necessary step for one to wash one's self. While giving Jones a couple of more minutes of freedom, I decided to quickly sit on the couch and check a couple of emails.
So, I'm on the couch in my gitch, almost naked. Remember, Dani is away for a few days. Just then I notice the front door of my condo opening up completely (as it was propped open just a bit for Jones), and guess who walks in..two women!
"Thank you Jesus!", i exclaim in my head.
For obvious reasons, I didn't get up, and they enter my condo. The first one, a young woman about 25 or so, smiles at me and says "hello".
Now, the male mind is an amazing thing. Instead of freaking out that two strangers have just walked into my place when i'm nearly nude, I instantly think this is a great porno scene so I decide to "go with it."
"Hello", I say back.
I can now see the second woman behind the first, and realize that perhaps this porno scene is the kind you'd see on the 4 dollar rack at the adult movie store, because the second woman is about 146 years old.
So what happens next? Well, they walk right in and start taking off their shoes of course.
By this point, I'm thinking they still haven't noticed i'm in my gitch. Makes sense, because they probably could only see the top half of me since i was sitting on the couch and the breakfast bar was blocking their view.
Just as I was about to point them in the direction of the bedroom, the younger woman stops and says.. "we're here for the open house."
Wah wah wah.
See, my neighbour is selling her condo and was having an open house. My door was propped open for Jones, so these women thought my place was the open house, which explains why they were so casual when they walked in.
A good story, but an unhappy ending, literally.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Bamboozled
This is one of those things where everyone says "oh we know it's wrong but what are you gonna do about it".
I was watching the weather report on tv the other day, and they were forecasting the weather for march 17, st.patrick's day. well, tv tries to be cute so they often will add a visual icon beside a day of note like this one. in this case, they added a dancing leprechaun, complete with red nose and buffoon-like shit-eating grin.
Let me just say this. If that day was, say, the start of February, which is black history month, what dancing animated icon would they put in then? How about chinese new year? or hanukkah?
why is it that it's ok to lampoon irish culture with a silly stereotype but not others?
I was watching the weather report on tv the other day, and they were forecasting the weather for march 17, st.patrick's day. well, tv tries to be cute so they often will add a visual icon beside a day of note like this one. in this case, they added a dancing leprechaun, complete with red nose and buffoon-like shit-eating grin.
Let me just say this. If that day was, say, the start of February, which is black history month, what dancing animated icon would they put in then? How about chinese new year? or hanukkah?
why is it that it's ok to lampoon irish culture with a silly stereotype but not others?
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Steve
I was questioning whether or not I should include the name of the person I'm writing this entry about. But then I realized that this person, Steve, would never, in a billion years, ever read this.
Never. Ever.
But i'm not going to use his real name anyway. I just feel better about it. Rest assured however that Steve is a real person.
Steve is a nice older gentleman. He is probably just north of 60, articulate, intelligent, opinionated, and knows a hell of a lot about a lot of little things. This man knows his shit. Problem with your ducts? Steve will tell you that you'd need to re-install the flange capacitor hub module accelerator. Or something like that. Point is this. Steve is good at one thing, and that one thing is his job.
The problem is, that not too long ago, Steve lost that job. I'm not sure why, but I do have my theories.
Steve is also a solitary man. From what I understand, he's never been married, has no family and he's lived alone for a very long time. That, combined with the fact that men can be men, things might go unchecked. In Steve's case, those unchecked things are likely psychological.
At any given time, you might look at Steve, who would be sitting alone, and Steve would be having a little chat with himself. He'd be in full conversation mode, albeit at a relatively hushed whisper level. Which tells me that although Steve clearly has some noggin issues, he's also aware that in public places he needs to conceal these little chats.
If Steve was in the middle of one of these conversations and someone walked by and said "Hey Steve", he'd break out of the trance immediately and come back to this world, and he'd say hello back. He'd be polite and talk about the weather, and find out how your wife is doing, and wonder if you ever got that duct problem taken care of. Then, after you walked away, in about 10 seconds he'd slip back into that other reality.
I feel bad for Steve, I really do. I don't think he's got much money to live on, and when I look at him I think it's just sad. How did he become this way? What were the origins of this creeping schizophrenia? Was it because he's been alone all these years? Is it getting worse because he lost his job? I really do feel awful about it.
So, the other day, I saw Steve at a local pub. He was the same, as he always is. I felt bad for the guy as I usually do. So, as i was paying my own tab, I asked the bartender to buy a beer for Steve on me, and I quickly left before he knew I'd bought him a pint.
The next time I saw Steve, I chatted with him for a while. It was the same basic conversation I always had with the man. I actually completely forgot I had bought him that beer, but later I realized he didn't acknowledge it at all, making me wonder if the bartender had gotten him one. Not that i expected anything in return, but it seemed odd. In any event, when leaving, i bought Steve another pint without him knowing.
A few days later i ran into Steve again. We chatted about the weather and ducts. But this time i wondered if he'd say "thanks" for the two pints I had bought him, as i had confirmed with the bartender that he was given the beers on my behalf. I didn't want him to buy me pints back because the guy doesn't have much. But yes, I did want him to acknowledge it. You know. It's just common courtesy. A quick "thank you" and that's the end of it. I'd even take a "hey you dumb asshole this whole thing has been a charade and I'm actually not crazy at all and i didn't lose my job and i've got a billion dollars in my pocket and I tricked you into buying me two pints of beer."
But nothing.
Steve can go blow it out his ass.
Never. Ever.
But i'm not going to use his real name anyway. I just feel better about it. Rest assured however that Steve is a real person.
Steve is a nice older gentleman. He is probably just north of 60, articulate, intelligent, opinionated, and knows a hell of a lot about a lot of little things. This man knows his shit. Problem with your ducts? Steve will tell you that you'd need to re-install the flange capacitor hub module accelerator. Or something like that. Point is this. Steve is good at one thing, and that one thing is his job.
The problem is, that not too long ago, Steve lost that job. I'm not sure why, but I do have my theories.
Steve is also a solitary man. From what I understand, he's never been married, has no family and he's lived alone for a very long time. That, combined with the fact that men can be men, things might go unchecked. In Steve's case, those unchecked things are likely psychological.
At any given time, you might look at Steve, who would be sitting alone, and Steve would be having a little chat with himself. He'd be in full conversation mode, albeit at a relatively hushed whisper level. Which tells me that although Steve clearly has some noggin issues, he's also aware that in public places he needs to conceal these little chats.
If Steve was in the middle of one of these conversations and someone walked by and said "Hey Steve", he'd break out of the trance immediately and come back to this world, and he'd say hello back. He'd be polite and talk about the weather, and find out how your wife is doing, and wonder if you ever got that duct problem taken care of. Then, after you walked away, in about 10 seconds he'd slip back into that other reality.
I feel bad for Steve, I really do. I don't think he's got much money to live on, and when I look at him I think it's just sad. How did he become this way? What were the origins of this creeping schizophrenia? Was it because he's been alone all these years? Is it getting worse because he lost his job? I really do feel awful about it.
So, the other day, I saw Steve at a local pub. He was the same, as he always is. I felt bad for the guy as I usually do. So, as i was paying my own tab, I asked the bartender to buy a beer for Steve on me, and I quickly left before he knew I'd bought him a pint.
The next time I saw Steve, I chatted with him for a while. It was the same basic conversation I always had with the man. I actually completely forgot I had bought him that beer, but later I realized he didn't acknowledge it at all, making me wonder if the bartender had gotten him one. Not that i expected anything in return, but it seemed odd. In any event, when leaving, i bought Steve another pint without him knowing.
A few days later i ran into Steve again. We chatted about the weather and ducts. But this time i wondered if he'd say "thanks" for the two pints I had bought him, as i had confirmed with the bartender that he was given the beers on my behalf. I didn't want him to buy me pints back because the guy doesn't have much. But yes, I did want him to acknowledge it. You know. It's just common courtesy. A quick "thank you" and that's the end of it. I'd even take a "hey you dumb asshole this whole thing has been a charade and I'm actually not crazy at all and i didn't lose my job and i've got a billion dollars in my pocket and I tricked you into buying me two pints of beer."
But nothing.
Steve can go blow it out his ass.
Old World Vulture
Toronto band Old World Vulture played Neutral recently as part of CMW and I was there. Great show guys. To the uninitiated, you can get a feel for the band by checking out this skillfully edited short promo vid here.
OWV features that pal of mine Devin who I had a gay encounter with in the ocean I mentioned in a previous entry. Devin couldn't be that gay though because he's married. Although, so was U.S. Senator Larry Craig.
Anyway, Devin's wife Kerry said I was a groupie because I was standing right near the front. I guess it's cooler to stand in the back, near the bar. That way i could feel like a record company executive looking for The Next Big Thing. Of course, I'd be even cooler if i was way way back in the club, but i couldn't because there was a couple there making out. All night.
So i was hanging out near the front, just to the left of the stage, depending on your perspective. It was funny how this weird horseshoe shape formed in the crowd of people watching the band. Nobody was actually standing right in front of the stage watching them play. They all sort of stood back to create this semi circle, because i guess it's not cool to do stand right in the front. See, OWV is an indie band, and by extension I will assume that people in attendance were fans of indie music. That explains the semi circle then. In theory, Indie people are cool. And if you're right up front watching the band that closely, i guess you come across too eager, which is uncool.
Having said that, infamous DJ and new music afficionado Alan Cross was at the venue last night, which is very cool.
OWV features that pal of mine Devin who I had a gay encounter with in the ocean I mentioned in a previous entry. Devin couldn't be that gay though because he's married. Although, so was U.S. Senator Larry Craig.
Anyway, Devin's wife Kerry said I was a groupie because I was standing right near the front. I guess it's cooler to stand in the back, near the bar. That way i could feel like a record company executive looking for The Next Big Thing. Of course, I'd be even cooler if i was way way back in the club, but i couldn't because there was a couple there making out. All night.
So i was hanging out near the front, just to the left of the stage, depending on your perspective. It was funny how this weird horseshoe shape formed in the crowd of people watching the band. Nobody was actually standing right in front of the stage watching them play. They all sort of stood back to create this semi circle, because i guess it's not cool to do stand right in the front. See, OWV is an indie band, and by extension I will assume that people in attendance were fans of indie music. That explains the semi circle then. In theory, Indie people are cool. And if you're right up front watching the band that closely, i guess you come across too eager, which is uncool.
Having said that, infamous DJ and new music afficionado Alan Cross was at the venue last night, which is very cool.
My Gay Devin Moment
Devin is a pal of mine. We once wrestled mostly nude in the surf at a resort in the Caribbean. It was sort of like when those two cartoon dogs are eating spaghetti and they realize they're eating the same piece, which brings them snout to snout.
Devin and I came snout to snout in that surf, but as far as i remember there wasn't any spaghetti around.
See, we were out swimming in the beach, and there were these big waves that would knock you clean off your feet. It was fun, but neither of us expected the end result would be a bizarre homosexual encounter. One particular wave came crashing in, and it knocked me into him, or him into me, and we both got flipped over a few times. Next think you know it's just like this.
Devin and I never spoke of it again.
Devin and I came snout to snout in that surf, but as far as i remember there wasn't any spaghetti around.
See, we were out swimming in the beach, and there were these big waves that would knock you clean off your feet. It was fun, but neither of us expected the end result would be a bizarre homosexual encounter. One particular wave came crashing in, and it knocked me into him, or him into me, and we both got flipped over a few times. Next think you know it's just like this.
Devin and I never spoke of it again.
People Piss Me Off
This edition of PPMO comes to you from my work cafeteria.
Look. We're all busy people at work. We want to take full advantage of our lunch hour. This is why many companies install a cafeteria with discounted prices on sub-par quality food. We have been hypnotized to think this is a benefit to us, but in reality, it's to keep you in the building so you'll get back to work faster. I know because I took one Organizational Behaviour class in university, in which i scored a 61 as i recall. So therefore i am an expert.
Anyway, in my case, I usually bring a lunch, lovingly prepared by my girl Dani. And recently, I bought a giant case of 24 cans of club soda specifically so i can drink what i want at lunch, as the cafetorium (as i like to call it) doesn't sell soda in cans. This also means i don't have to wait in any annoying lineups in the cafeteria, allowing me to quickly get to the business of consuming my tasty morsels of food.
So far so good right?
However, each morning i always always forget to go to the effort of reaching into the kitchen cupboard to retrieve a club soda. As a result, I must purchase a cold beverage to wash down my kahuna burger at the cafeteria, which, in lieu of soda as stated above, is Coke zero.
Now, I like to think that i am generally a patient person. I'm not the most patient, but i'm not about to behead someone for eating up 4seconds of my time either. So, now i'm in the lineup at the cafetorium. Usually there are about 9 people in front of me, because of course, with the busy lunch rush at noon, the cafetorium manager has wisely decided to put only one person on a register, of which there are two.
So, what in particular Pisses Me Off in this instance, aside from what i've already described?
It's the people who are buying a coffee...or a stupid ass green tea.. or a pop....with a goddamn debit card.
Now, I'm gonna go way out on a limb and assume the other employees at the company i work for are not working for free. Let's pretend that they're at least getting a decent living wage. I know they must be, because unlike me, many of them wear ties. And nobody's gonna wear a tie to work if they're not getting paid for it.
So, my question is this. If you wear a tie and get a regular pay cheque, can't you string enough scratch together on a daily basis to buy a discounted can of pop for one dollar and five cents?
I'm thinking yes.
I have nothing against debit cards. I have one myself. But i only use it for purchases in certain instances where the value is a hell of a lot more than a buck-five. And, when i do use it, i usually maximize the process (and amortize the bank's service charge) by getting cash back, perhaps at the supermarket (where i buy the cases of soda i'm too lazy to retrieve for my lunches).
So to you people: Plan your day just a little better. Stop worrying about how straight your tie is in the morning and organize your daily financial expenditures. Put together a spreadsheet together every month if you have to. In the very least, reach into your sofa cushions and pull out a buck-five in pennies and nickels. Because here's the thing. You're pissing me off.
Now i know what you're thinking. You're thinking that maybe for some people it's the only option. But no. You're wrong there sir. About 16 feet away from the cash register, just outside the cafetorium, within the building that we all work in, there's a bank machine. Yes! A bank machine! And not one of those nasty independent machines you see in nightclubs and convenience stores that charge you 9 bucks to pull out 5. It's clean and it's operated by CIBC. And guess what else! Many of the employees at the company i work for are setup with accounts with CIBC, which suggests to me , that there is absolutely no service charge for them to retrieve money from there, prior to coming into the cafeteria to Piss Me Off.
Wouldn't it make more sense to pull out say 20 bucks from there, instead of holding up the line in the cafeteria and getting a service charge from that debit card machine?
Then again, if i put in an extra 7 seconds of effort every morning, and reached into the kitchen cupboard, and pulled out a can of club soda, I guess this blog entry would never have been written.
Look. We're all busy people at work. We want to take full advantage of our lunch hour. This is why many companies install a cafeteria with discounted prices on sub-par quality food. We have been hypnotized to think this is a benefit to us, but in reality, it's to keep you in the building so you'll get back to work faster. I know because I took one Organizational Behaviour class in university, in which i scored a 61 as i recall. So therefore i am an expert.
Anyway, in my case, I usually bring a lunch, lovingly prepared by my girl Dani. And recently, I bought a giant case of 24 cans of club soda specifically so i can drink what i want at lunch, as the cafetorium (as i like to call it) doesn't sell soda in cans. This also means i don't have to wait in any annoying lineups in the cafeteria, allowing me to quickly get to the business of consuming my tasty morsels of food.
So far so good right?
However, each morning i always always forget to go to the effort of reaching into the kitchen cupboard to retrieve a club soda. As a result, I must purchase a cold beverage to wash down my kahuna burger at the cafeteria, which, in lieu of soda as stated above, is Coke zero.
Now, I like to think that i am generally a patient person. I'm not the most patient, but i'm not about to behead someone for eating up 4seconds of my time either. So, now i'm in the lineup at the cafetorium. Usually there are about 9 people in front of me, because of course, with the busy lunch rush at noon, the cafetorium manager has wisely decided to put only one person on a register, of which there are two.
So, what in particular Pisses Me Off in this instance, aside from what i've already described?
It's the people who are buying a coffee...or a stupid ass green tea.. or a pop....with a goddamn debit card.
Now, I'm gonna go way out on a limb and assume the other employees at the company i work for are not working for free. Let's pretend that they're at least getting a decent living wage. I know they must be, because unlike me, many of them wear ties. And nobody's gonna wear a tie to work if they're not getting paid for it.
So, my question is this. If you wear a tie and get a regular pay cheque, can't you string enough scratch together on a daily basis to buy a discounted can of pop for one dollar and five cents?
I'm thinking yes.
I have nothing against debit cards. I have one myself. But i only use it for purchases in certain instances where the value is a hell of a lot more than a buck-five. And, when i do use it, i usually maximize the process (and amortize the bank's service charge) by getting cash back, perhaps at the supermarket (where i buy the cases of soda i'm too lazy to retrieve for my lunches).
So to you people: Plan your day just a little better. Stop worrying about how straight your tie is in the morning and organize your daily financial expenditures. Put together a spreadsheet together every month if you have to. In the very least, reach into your sofa cushions and pull out a buck-five in pennies and nickels. Because here's the thing. You're pissing me off.
Now i know what you're thinking. You're thinking that maybe for some people it's the only option. But no. You're wrong there sir. About 16 feet away from the cash register, just outside the cafetorium, within the building that we all work in, there's a bank machine. Yes! A bank machine! And not one of those nasty independent machines you see in nightclubs and convenience stores that charge you 9 bucks to pull out 5. It's clean and it's operated by CIBC. And guess what else! Many of the employees at the company i work for are setup with accounts with CIBC, which suggests to me , that there is absolutely no service charge for them to retrieve money from there, prior to coming into the cafeteria to Piss Me Off.
Wouldn't it make more sense to pull out say 20 bucks from there, instead of holding up the line in the cafeteria and getting a service charge from that debit card machine?
Then again, if i put in an extra 7 seconds of effort every morning, and reached into the kitchen cupboard, and pulled out a can of club soda, I guess this blog entry would never have been written.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
People Piss Devin Off
This one was inspired by that half-man, half-minotaur monstrosity known as Devin.
Apparently People Piss Him Off when he's walking to work along busy Queen West.
I'll let him explain in his own words:
"Every morning I walk to work and I get to an intersection. I start to cross. When I get to the other side, there are a bunch of people waiting to cross the other way. And there are always a few who just stand in the middle of the sidewalk even though me and 6 other people cant get through!"
It's another example of ignorant self-centred people who seem to feel the universe revolves solely around them. The net result of this type of situation potentially is that Devin could get his sorry ass run over by cars driving through the intersection.
My recommendation to you Devin is this. As you approach the hordes of jackasses blocking your way, pull out a small knife and start waving it around like you're a crazy person. Drool if you can manage the saliva.
I wouldn't recommend actually stabbing someone, although I'm sure your hotshot lawyer wife would get you off not unlike former Tory MP Rahim Jaffer's recent legal troubles. Instead, just wave the blade about, and watch the red sea part. Then, laugh and laugh and laugh.
Apparently People Piss Him Off when he's walking to work along busy Queen West.
I'll let him explain in his own words:
"Every morning I walk to work and I get to an intersection. I start to cross. When I get to the other side, there are a bunch of people waiting to cross the other way. And there are always a few who just stand in the middle of the sidewalk even though me and 6 other people cant get through!"
It's another example of ignorant self-centred people who seem to feel the universe revolves solely around them. The net result of this type of situation potentially is that Devin could get his sorry ass run over by cars driving through the intersection.
My recommendation to you Devin is this. As you approach the hordes of jackasses blocking your way, pull out a small knife and start waving it around like you're a crazy person. Drool if you can manage the saliva.
I wouldn't recommend actually stabbing someone, although I'm sure your hotshot lawyer wife would get you off not unlike former Tory MP Rahim Jaffer's recent legal troubles. Instead, just wave the blade about, and watch the red sea part. Then, laugh and laugh and laugh.
Scamp I'd like to introduce you to Jones Pt.1
Isn't it funny when people talk about pets, they classify themselves into categories. People will say "i'm a dog person" or "i'm a cat person". Strange that. It's like we have to pick a side, and by extension, our choice apparently tells us a lot about our selves. I mean, we have about fourteen categories of sexuality nowadays, so why do we only have to choose one when it comes to pets?
Me, i've always thought of myself as a dog person. Scamp was our dog growing up. Don't ask me what kind of dog he was. He was small, with some black fur and some brown fur. Maybe a little white fur under his chin. See, we got Scamp from the dog pound way back in the olden days. He was only ten bucks. But man did that dog have life, and he brought a lot of happiness into my family. Sure he was a pain in the ass sometimes..and his ass was sometimes a pain if you get my meaning. But he was our dog.
We had Scamp for a long time. I guess he was pretty happy living with us, because i think he made it to about 16 or 17. Then the awful day came when Scamp just got too old, and my dad had the terrible task of taking him to be put asleep. Who would have thought a small animal would have brought such pleasure to a family. We had brought hundreds of other small animals into our household over those years, but we ate those small animals at thanksgiving, christmas and most sundays.
I also once had a pet lizard. A salamander in particular. He didn't last long. One summer night i was in the backyard with him as he swam around in his little bowl of water. Problem was i forgot to bring him inside and the next morning was a very very hot morning, turning his aqua paradise into a cauldron of boiling death.
Then came Megan. Megan was a rat. Yea Yea I know. But she didn't look like a rat. Certainly not one of those black subway rats. In fact she was beige and looked more like a guinea pig. She would sit on my shoulder and try to make out with me. Seriously. She'd stick out her little rat tongue and try to lick around my mouth. Seriously. I'd only let her do that after i'd have a couple of glasses of wine though.
Flash forward to 2009. Dani and I decided to take a walk over to the humane society. A time when the president of the humane society wasn't water-boarding the animals. It was a good time. So anyway, we walk in and tell the woman we're interested in some kind of low maintenance creature because with our lifestyles, we're just much too selfish to have any real responsibility for another life at this point.
We walk around some and look at a billion cats of all sizes, ages and races. Okay species. Then the woman suggests this one kitten, about a year old, and brings us over. The cat's name is Zeppelin. I could visualize it's original owner. About 50, long hair, stuck in 70's arena rock. I was close. Zeppelin was found wandering around in Pickering. She was black, had a weird smunched up flat face and piercing yellow eyes. It's like she came directly from Hell. I liked her immediately.
But we walked around some more to check out the other choices, much like you'd select the best cut of steak at the grocery store. After a while though, both Dani and I kept thinking about that little black kitten Zeppelin. She was odd. Different. Unique. And, her tail was busted. The end of her tail was crooked for some reason. We'll never know why, but i'm hoping it was at least an interesting story. Perhaps one day when cats learn to talk we'll find out.
To be continued...
Me, i've always thought of myself as a dog person. Scamp was our dog growing up. Don't ask me what kind of dog he was. He was small, with some black fur and some brown fur. Maybe a little white fur under his chin. See, we got Scamp from the dog pound way back in the olden days. He was only ten bucks. But man did that dog have life, and he brought a lot of happiness into my family. Sure he was a pain in the ass sometimes..and his ass was sometimes a pain if you get my meaning. But he was our dog.
We had Scamp for a long time. I guess he was pretty happy living with us, because i think he made it to about 16 or 17. Then the awful day came when Scamp just got too old, and my dad had the terrible task of taking him to be put asleep. Who would have thought a small animal would have brought such pleasure to a family. We had brought hundreds of other small animals into our household over those years, but we ate those small animals at thanksgiving, christmas and most sundays.
I also once had a pet lizard. A salamander in particular. He didn't last long. One summer night i was in the backyard with him as he swam around in his little bowl of water. Problem was i forgot to bring him inside and the next morning was a very very hot morning, turning his aqua paradise into a cauldron of boiling death.
Then came Megan. Megan was a rat. Yea Yea I know. But she didn't look like a rat. Certainly not one of those black subway rats. In fact she was beige and looked more like a guinea pig. She would sit on my shoulder and try to make out with me. Seriously. She'd stick out her little rat tongue and try to lick around my mouth. Seriously. I'd only let her do that after i'd have a couple of glasses of wine though.
Flash forward to 2009. Dani and I decided to take a walk over to the humane society. A time when the president of the humane society wasn't water-boarding the animals. It was a good time. So anyway, we walk in and tell the woman we're interested in some kind of low maintenance creature because with our lifestyles, we're just much too selfish to have any real responsibility for another life at this point.
We walk around some and look at a billion cats of all sizes, ages and races. Okay species. Then the woman suggests this one kitten, about a year old, and brings us over. The cat's name is Zeppelin. I could visualize it's original owner. About 50, long hair, stuck in 70's arena rock. I was close. Zeppelin was found wandering around in Pickering. She was black, had a weird smunched up flat face and piercing yellow eyes. It's like she came directly from Hell. I liked her immediately.
But we walked around some more to check out the other choices, much like you'd select the best cut of steak at the grocery store. After a while though, both Dani and I kept thinking about that little black kitten Zeppelin. She was odd. Different. Unique. And, her tail was busted. The end of her tail was crooked for some reason. We'll never know why, but i'm hoping it was at least an interesting story. Perhaps one day when cats learn to talk we'll find out.
To be continued...
Meat on a string
When i visit my parents and my mom makes her usual fabulous roast beef, i regress just a little and do something my brother and sister did when we were kids.
After the roast beast is cooked, we snip off the string that sorta holds it all compactly for cooking . I actually wonder what would happen if you cooked the meat without that string. Maybe it would flatten or deform itself in the cooking process, which of course would not be so palatable. Then again, who's kidding who. We're eating an animal's muscle tissue. But I digress.
So we bust out some scissors and pull of this thick string which as been tied tightly into the meat for the entire process. So when you take it off, there are not only little delicious morsels of roast beast attached, but roast beast juice absorbed by the string.
We'd pop this string into our mouth and chew on it, getting all the bits of meat and literally sucking out the juice. Then, when all the goodness was gone, you'd take the string out of your mouth which would be just a husk of its former self. Dry, meatless and sad looking.
But when that meat on a string came off the beast...outstanding, albeit in a Hobo'esque sort of way. Think of it as meat spaghetti.
it was delish. thanks Mom!
After the roast beast is cooked, we snip off the string that sorta holds it all compactly for cooking . I actually wonder what would happen if you cooked the meat without that string. Maybe it would flatten or deform itself in the cooking process, which of course would not be so palatable. Then again, who's kidding who. We're eating an animal's muscle tissue. But I digress.
So we bust out some scissors and pull of this thick string which as been tied tightly into the meat for the entire process. So when you take it off, there are not only little delicious morsels of roast beast attached, but roast beast juice absorbed by the string.
We'd pop this string into our mouth and chew on it, getting all the bits of meat and literally sucking out the juice. Then, when all the goodness was gone, you'd take the string out of your mouth which would be just a husk of its former self. Dry, meatless and sad looking.
But when that meat on a string came off the beast...outstanding, albeit in a Hobo'esque sort of way. Think of it as meat spaghetti.
it was delish. thanks Mom!
Movie Review: UP
Now i'm not usually a fan of spending hard earned money to sit for two hours to watch a goddamn cartoon.
Unless said cartoon entertains my ass.
Examples of this are rare, but fortunately i can add the disney "film" UP to this list. Others include the lion king, one of the shrek movies and ...well that's all i can remember at the moment.
Hollywood's getting real smart about writing these. They're taking the kill two birds approach, where they realize people like me don't want to watch cartoons generally. But kids do..and kids can't go to the movies by themselves anymore (wow times have changed) so, they're writing these stories with adult themes - too subtle for kids to understand, while throwing in the obligatory cartooney stuff. Smart marketing - appeal to the child in the child, and the inner child in the adult.
Anyway, i was pleasantly surprised by UP. It was well written, looked fabulous in HD and those tricky bastards convinced me i was watching real people and not a billion files of data in some complex computer software. Granted, i probably started off discounting it because it was a cartoon after all.
But i'm guessing those sneaky mofos producing these things know that too.
Unless said cartoon entertains my ass.
Examples of this are rare, but fortunately i can add the disney "film" UP to this list. Others include the lion king, one of the shrek movies and ...well that's all i can remember at the moment.
Hollywood's getting real smart about writing these. They're taking the kill two birds approach, where they realize people like me don't want to watch cartoons generally. But kids do..and kids can't go to the movies by themselves anymore (wow times have changed) so, they're writing these stories with adult themes - too subtle for kids to understand, while throwing in the obligatory cartooney stuff. Smart marketing - appeal to the child in the child, and the inner child in the adult.
Anyway, i was pleasantly surprised by UP. It was well written, looked fabulous in HD and those tricky bastards convinced me i was watching real people and not a billion files of data in some complex computer software. Granted, i probably started off discounting it because it was a cartoon after all.
But i'm guessing those sneaky mofos producing these things know that too.
God is in your head.
so in the toronto star today, a revolutionary idea - a supposition that God doesn't exist!
my God..er, i mean, my Golly.. can it be?!
well, apparently about 150,000 years ago, us humans got smart enough to realize that one day, we'd all slither off this mortal coil.
that shit freaked them mofo's out.
so, to make themselves and future generations feel better, they made up God! well. some kind of primitive God. some kind of deity. Some kind of wonderful (an excellent yet flawed 80's film i might add).
turns out that when humans started believin in some kind of God, we essentially obtained a philosophical purpose. When that started happening, the chemical serotonin was released into the ol noggin, which relieves stress. Subsequent rituals and ceremonies added more serotonin, all the way up to the point where Father O'Malley boinks little Billy and the Church replies by saying that God Works In Mysterious Ways.
Don't get me wrong. I think the notion of God is basically good. God is like a giant white-bearded tylenol that helps comfort people, and how the hell can you knock that?..oops..sorry God..how the heck can you knock that?
In fact, i believed in God until that creepy head vampire in 28 Days of Night (masterfully played by Danny Huston) replied to one of his soon-to-be-victims who, in her terror, says "Oh god!".
Huston looks to the sky, perplexed by her statement, looks back at the girl and says:
"God? No God."
That's some cold shit.
my God..er, i mean, my Golly.. can it be?!
well, apparently about 150,000 years ago, us humans got smart enough to realize that one day, we'd all slither off this mortal coil.
that shit freaked them mofo's out.
so, to make themselves and future generations feel better, they made up God! well. some kind of primitive God. some kind of deity. Some kind of wonderful (an excellent yet flawed 80's film i might add).
turns out that when humans started believin in some kind of God, we essentially obtained a philosophical purpose. When that started happening, the chemical serotonin was released into the ol noggin, which relieves stress. Subsequent rituals and ceremonies added more serotonin, all the way up to the point where Father O'Malley boinks little Billy and the Church replies by saying that God Works In Mysterious Ways.
Don't get me wrong. I think the notion of God is basically good. God is like a giant white-bearded tylenol that helps comfort people, and how the hell can you knock that?..oops..sorry God..how the heck can you knock that?
In fact, i believed in God until that creepy head vampire in 28 Days of Night (masterfully played by Danny Huston) replied to one of his soon-to-be-victims who, in her terror, says "Oh god!".
Huston looks to the sky, perplexed by her statement, looks back at the girl and says:
"God? No God."
That's some cold shit.
"When i'm 65"
or however that stupid-ass song goes..
my point is that i guess i've got some kind of psychological illness, because i never feel a day over 25. i think i'm perpetually stuck in thinking i'll never get old(er), but apparently i will, according to Science anyway.
i still like to discover new music. i still like video games. i still like horror movies. and i still like going to schools at recess and playing jumprope (ok scratch that in case da fuzz get the wrong idea). so, what the hell is wrong with me?
maybe i should start wearing funny looking clothes and listen to "toronto's lite favourites" on chfi. maybe i should live in some cookie-cutter big-box-store suburb, and maybe i should just grow up and have 3 kids - a boy to start, then a girl, so the first boy can take care of said girl, then another boy so he can maybe make the nhl so i can realize my own failed pro hockey dreams.
maybe.
my point is that i guess i've got some kind of psychological illness, because i never feel a day over 25. i think i'm perpetually stuck in thinking i'll never get old(er), but apparently i will, according to Science anyway.
i still like to discover new music. i still like video games. i still like horror movies. and i still like going to schools at recess and playing jumprope (ok scratch that in case da fuzz get the wrong idea). so, what the hell is wrong with me?
maybe i should start wearing funny looking clothes and listen to "toronto's lite favourites" on chfi. maybe i should live in some cookie-cutter big-box-store suburb, and maybe i should just grow up and have 3 kids - a boy to start, then a girl, so the first boy can take care of said girl, then another boy so he can maybe make the nhl so i can realize my own failed pro hockey dreams.
maybe.
"The problem with Scotland...is that it's full of Scots"
One of the greatest movie lines ever. It's from either bluebeard or blueface or macbeth or ..no it was braveheart i think..
in it, the king of england shares his thoughts on Scotland, and subsequently mentions that if Scots won't get out of Scotland, then the English will "breed them out" by enacting some medieval rule where English lords and such can have their way with Scottish women at their own leisure. Sounds good..if you're an English lord.
But i write this post based on the report that Crackers like me will eventually go the way of the dodo bird in this town in the not too distant future. Are you a cracker too? How does it make you feel? Do you feel threatened?
Well, to be honest, in one small way i do feel threatened. But before you slap those Three- Letters-Between-J-And-L on me, it's not what you think. I happen to love the diversity of this city. Really. I mean, where else can I eat some hot-ass Roti one day and then some hot-ass Beef Vindaloo the next? Well, besides Jamaica and India.
It's just that in some hard to understand way, i feel like one day us Honky's are gonna get what's comin to us. Payback for the hundreds of years of crap we unloaded onto various other races around the globe. And, maybe we deserve it. Maybe we need to experience what others experienced to balance the scales. Sure we have offered compensation to Native people (here in Canada and elsewhere in the world). Sure we have instituted affirmative action. Sure they produced the Cosby show in the 80's.
But what do you think? If you feel at all threatened in any innocuous way, are you in fact a racist?
Or, are you just human?
in it, the king of england shares his thoughts on Scotland, and subsequently mentions that if Scots won't get out of Scotland, then the English will "breed them out" by enacting some medieval rule where English lords and such can have their way with Scottish women at their own leisure. Sounds good..if you're an English lord.
But i write this post based on the report that Crackers like me will eventually go the way of the dodo bird in this town in the not too distant future. Are you a cracker too? How does it make you feel? Do you feel threatened?
Well, to be honest, in one small way i do feel threatened. But before you slap those Three- Letters-Between-J-And-L on me, it's not what you think. I happen to love the diversity of this city. Really. I mean, where else can I eat some hot-ass Roti one day and then some hot-ass Beef Vindaloo the next? Well, besides Jamaica and India.
It's just that in some hard to understand way, i feel like one day us Honky's are gonna get what's comin to us. Payback for the hundreds of years of crap we unloaded onto various other races around the globe. And, maybe we deserve it. Maybe we need to experience what others experienced to balance the scales. Sure we have offered compensation to Native people (here in Canada and elsewhere in the world). Sure we have instituted affirmative action. Sure they produced the Cosby show in the 80's.
But what do you think? If you feel at all threatened in any innocuous way, are you in fact a racist?
Or, are you just human?
People Piss Me Off
so... i had the misfortune of having to wait for a streetcar the other day in downtown toronto.
like most people, i find the whole public transit thing awful. i don't mind the subway so much, but streetcars or buses...what's that they say about riff-raff? look, i'm no elitist and certainly no millionaire, but it's the ignorant folk that make my hair itchy. and ignorant folk come in all classes, races, shapes, sizes and discrete brown paper packaging.
the other day while waiting for a streetcar, there was the usual orderly lineup of about 13 people. the obvious unwritten rule is if u r first at the stop, you are first to get on the vehicle, increasing the chances you'll have a seat on board. (i should note that i also refuse to line up at all. i'd rather embrace my individuality by hovering elsewhere other than the line up, and foregoing any kind of immediate chance for a seat).
so anyway, just as the streetcar is pulling up, out of nowhere this middle aged woman waddles up, looking full of attitude, and bypasses the entire line and walks first onto the streetcar. when the first guy in line mildly protests, she glared back at him in the "you-dont-talk-to-me-like-that!" sort of way.
clearly this woman had some false sense of entitlement, and i was secretly hoping it would turn into a confrontation of some sort, but sadly, it did not.
what makes people think like this? how in their right minds do they feel they can act this way? anyway, feel free to post your own stories of this nature..and maybe, just maybe, one of these assholes will read it and smarten the hell up...
like most people, i find the whole public transit thing awful. i don't mind the subway so much, but streetcars or buses...what's that they say about riff-raff? look, i'm no elitist and certainly no millionaire, but it's the ignorant folk that make my hair itchy. and ignorant folk come in all classes, races, shapes, sizes and discrete brown paper packaging.
the other day while waiting for a streetcar, there was the usual orderly lineup of about 13 people. the obvious unwritten rule is if u r first at the stop, you are first to get on the vehicle, increasing the chances you'll have a seat on board. (i should note that i also refuse to line up at all. i'd rather embrace my individuality by hovering elsewhere other than the line up, and foregoing any kind of immediate chance for a seat).
so anyway, just as the streetcar is pulling up, out of nowhere this middle aged woman waddles up, looking full of attitude, and bypasses the entire line and walks first onto the streetcar. when the first guy in line mildly protests, she glared back at him in the "you-dont-talk-to-me-like-that!" sort of way.
clearly this woman had some false sense of entitlement, and i was secretly hoping it would turn into a confrontation of some sort, but sadly, it did not.
what makes people think like this? how in their right minds do they feel they can act this way? anyway, feel free to post your own stories of this nature..and maybe, just maybe, one of these assholes will read it and smarten the hell up...
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