Thoughts for food....

I had the most philosophical day yesterday. Summary; head explosion not due to math.



I'll explain:



After class I got on the topic of math and why - stereotypically - students of Asian heritage are better at math. Because this conversation happened with another science student we logically surmised that it could very well be due to the counting systems 'romantic languages' use as opposed to, for instance, Mandarin. Now since neither of us actually speak Mandarin we couldn't test this out, but our conclusions are as follows:



Counting in base ten (which is what most romantic languages do, IE. in English the number twenty-two has a two in the tens place and a two in the ones place vs french vingt-deux has a two in the tens place and a two in the ones place) leads to having to memorize 10! (ten factorial) simple arithmetic processes for addition. Does this make sense? Let's look at it another way....if you count in base ten you must memorize 0+1;0+2:0+3....0+9 and then 1+1;1+2....1+9 and then 2+2 etc.



This is a lot of combinations. Whereas, representing numbers in binary requires only three operations be memorized for addition; 0+0, 1+0, and 1+1. Therefore, (hopefully this is clear to you) using binary is a simpler number representation which results in faster arithmetic.



This logically led us to discussing what the best language is and, more importantly, what is the 'best' (best is arbitrarily defined here) language to teach your children. Obviously there are languages that are spoken by a larger percentage of the population but these numbers don't necessarily mean a language is the 'best'.

I try to avoid the ethnocentric point of view that English is best and postulate that perhaps there is no language that is best and further, perhaps there really isn't language at all....

This statement has puzzled me for around a month now. Language is symbols and symbols are derived from language. But which came first. If it was symbols then maybe there isn't any language. Maybe we all communicate in abstractions representing the same thing. If you could jump into someones head the symbols they saw would hold the same meaning for you. But may language came first. Maybe the symbols we associate with things are biased based on our upbringing. If you jumped into my head you wouldn't necessarily be able to make sense of anything.

Or maybe you take it on faith. Thinking is a complicated process. And thinking about how we think isn't an easy question. And in thinking about how we think what thoughts are biased based on our upbringing. This is clearly a transitive way (circular) to look at the problem and there is no clear solution. So take it on faith and take it however you want to.

Sectarianism and an Octogenarian

When I want to feel young - as I do on the eve of my birthday - I merely think of the old. The old trails and tribulations. The things I've struggled through in my short 19 years and one always seems to come to mind; Religion. I now like to refer to this sticky subject as spirituality but in the wake, I guess preceding the wake, of what I'm about to discuss, religion is the correct term.



I read a book over the last few days that sparked my reinvestigation of faith. It revolved around the notion of the Templars, Vatican secrets, Jesus Christ's existing bloodline, and multitudinous events of murder. To put it simply, the book raised the age-old question of Jesus's mortality.



Now I'm not sure if this question does indeed transcend the passage of time. Is it possible that people who witnessed the preachings of Jesus worried about his lineage? Or is it more likely that they latched onto His ideas - not the divine parentage - so frequently uttered throughout the annals of enlightened history. Brotherhood. Fraternity. Dare I say it; Communism....



Jesus is a communist.



But I'm getting off track. The ideologue in me stuck to this notion of Jesus's mortality. Who can really believe, without an enormous leap of faith, that he performed miracles and was resurrected? This one time I can answer my own question. Millions. And so I'm struck by another question; would His teachings hold any clout without the whole "son of God" business?



I believe that those preachings, the ones that give us our current - albeit slightly corrupted - moral code, would remain immortalized regardless of their speaker's own mortality. However, when I look to more recent postulators of goodwill to all men I see a startling trend. They all have spiritual ties. Oh holy of hollies. I should be crucifying my own words. Clearly I am at an impasse stuck between my fervent beliefs and the unequivocal examples devout's like Ghandi present.



So I diverge and discuss what any of this has to do with old people, specifically, someone over the age of 80 and under the age of 90. Well, it sounded good in the title. But this age group also represents the most avid contention towards change. And so I wonder; could an octogenarian's views of faith (a veritably ingrained tradition) be changed?

Yes, I hope so.

In fact, I have an example. My grandmother recently underwent surgery. In the moments during recovery, when her blood pressure fluctuations were most dangerous, she experienced something. First, I should explain my grandmothers take on faith. That is, she has none. She lives for the present.

So, when I say she experienced something, this is truly the insurmountable evidence I was looking for. Her experience wasn't angles and divine light. Instead, it was more down to earth. She recounted working on a puzzle. The pieces were all the important things she had discovered and valued throughout her life; family, friends, experiences.....But she was missing one piece. And the most amazing thing; that piece was love.

And everything comes full circle. It all seems to be about love. That's what Jesus preached and that's what my grandmother found when she discovered spirituality.

So, yes. I do hope religion can be more flexible. The message of love is still clear without all of the hate.

A Little Pain

Few things in life have truly hurt. There was the time when I broke my collar bone. I played the last ten minutes of the soccer game it happened in and sat through the ensuing penalty kicks before succumbing to tears during our reception of bronze medals. Then there was the time I broke my collar bone again. That one didn't hurt quite so bad; more mentally then anything. I hobbled off the field and, knowing what had happened, went to dope myself up on painkillers.

It's strange but in both of these incidents I didn't really feel the pain. Of course shattering a bone leaves you in a considerable state of shock masking some of the ache. However, as I discovered in that fateful summer (where I broke my collar bone twice) I do have a high pain tolerance.

Those two breaks happened about two months apart. Plenty of time to recover and plenty of time for any pain to fade to a dull ache. Now however, I face a new assault on my blessed and generally pain free life. Strangely, it's all self inflicted.

First, I competed in an Ironman 70.3. Holy shit. That hurt. It hurt more than breaking my collar bone. It's kind of an indescribable feeling. Nevertheless I will try. The bike felt like sitting on a bed of needles. My butt felt like it was being sent through a meat grinder. My legs (and this is my own fault for lack of nutrition) felt like they were in vices. About three times during the 94km ride I was nearly reduced to tears; tears I assumed were akin to ones displayed when suffering a traumatic event. And then the run. Every part of my body below the waist felt like it was being pressed though a too small rubber tube. Every step hurt. It felt like someone was jabbing red hot branding irons into the backs of my calves.

But I survived. I finished and I no longer feel like dying when I have to walk across the room to change the channel on the t.v.

Now, I am going through a different kind of pain. I got my wisdom teeth out. It hurts. But after the Ironman it feels far more bearable.

And I find this skewed perception of pain very interesting. Pain manifests itself both physically and mentally. Sometimes it assaults our mind and body at the same time. But always it tests us. The ways in which people deal with pain speaks to their nature:

The quiet brooder; the one who sits quietly save for raged breath issuing through their clenched jaw. Most often they wish to be left alone. They deal with their pain by internalizing it and using it to fuel their recovery. They will be seen as strong.

The noisy sobber; the one who relishes in the company of others and wears their emotions on their sleeve. They deal with their pain by letting it out. Nothing is kept inside and the pain flows from the body with the tears that flow from their face.

Of course there are people who fall in between these two extremes but for the most part we have these two categories; the stereotypical woman and man. I can hear the cries of outrage but I'm not finished yet. I feel that as much as pain is a physiological idea the ways in which we express pain is a sociological one.

I believe that we are raised to express pain in a certain way. Society determines whether we'll be teary eyed or stiff upper-lipped. In fact, the expression of pain differs culturally as well. But in our increasingly medicated world this diversity may soon disappear into one category; doped up ambivalence...

A bit of a tirade

I find it extremely difficult to find beauty in the world these days. All you ever hear about is death. Of course, there is some beauty in death but it’s complicated and not easily found. I hear about war and famine and disease. I realize that living in Canada I miss out on ‘experiences’, as I will call them. These ‘experiences’ are the shitty things in life. Living in or moving from a war-torn country. Being the victim of hate crimes or racism. Living in poverty. These atrocities (perhaps this is a strong word) do exist in Canada but are minute in comparison with the world at large.
I’m writing this as a therapeutic exercise that, strangely enough, I have performed for the last two years. I lose track of the beauty in the world. I stop appreciating everything I have. I’m sipping a glass of wine and listening to choral music for god’s sake. How many people do that on a Friday night? I ask you how many people would never dream it possible to do that on a Friday night. How many people are right now getting up for a janitorial shift? How many people are cleaning up all the crap we created this week? How many people will be getting up for last call to clean up the crap we’re about to make?
Questions but never answers. That’s what life constantly delivers. A stream of ‘why’s’ but never a ‘because’. I’m constantly caught up in these questions. Why can I live my life openly as a gay man while hundreds of people are persecuted, jailed and executed for loving someone? Why do I make over $11/hr in retail while the sweatshop worker making the clothes – making my livelihood – gets paid $5/hr? Why do I feel it necessary to go out partying and get drunk merely because I am 18 years old?
Questions but never answers.
Tonight I discovered something beautiful. This morning I had grand ambitions for a night of partying. I was gonna get druuunk. But then something happened. One: I bought my dad’s birthday present and spent the last of my pay check (the part I wasn’t saving). Two: I rediscovered my pre-indie-acoustic music. Three: I sat down and relaxed (truly relaxed) in a completely empty house. These combined to create the night I am having right now. I am writing. I am drinking a glass of Chardonnay. I am listening to Eric Whitacre. I am not ‘living it up’ but I am, for the first time in weeks, living.
I have been so caught up in training and trying to be out of the house every night and work and keeping up with my friends that I had forgotten how wonderful it is to shut down facebook and turn off the TV. I had forgotten what it was like to blast classical music and just sit and write. I couldn’t even write a short story. I couldn’t even continue one that I had already started. I had become so immobile and sedentary and comfortable in the monotony of my life that I couldn’t summon a creative thought.
Back to the beauty I found tonight... I rediscovered my passion for music. Real music. Instrumental music. Choral music. So what if it isn’t cool? It is the most beautiful thing I can imagine. There is heart and soul in every note. Every chord oozes with brilliance and passion. Every time I listen I remember what it was like to sing. To play. To put my heart into something that wasn’t about me. It wasn’t about being good. It wasn’t about competing. It was just about love and passion and beauty and truth. I sound like a love-struck teenager but I truly feel that way about music.
Then I found my writing. I have loved writing for as long as I can remember. I love some of my work from as far back as Grade 9. I can’t believe that this year I won’t be pursuing writing anymore. I don’t know what I’m thinking. I don’t think it’s time to move on and I don’t think that I can’t make a feasible career out of writing. But it’s falling by the wayside. Like music, writing is beauty. It is truth and it is passion. My life has been pretty great. It’s been really great by many standards. I don’t have much insight into life. But I will still write. Even if all I write about is the mundane middle-upper class life that surrounds me; there is still life there, albeit privileged.
I don’t know what else to say. “Stop and smell the roses” is far too cliché. “Live today like it is your last” falls short as well. Maybe just find something you miss. Miss it. Love it. And really live for once.

I'm active...

for my boyfriend.

The silly commercial for Wii active whatever came on and seeing as how it is already late for me AND I just finished training I'm going to talk about exercise instead of Bill 44. My rant will come eventually.

Anyways, I did a long swim today and a 45 minute bike on top of an 8 hour shift and staff meeting. It was a LONG day. But somehow it was incredibly relaxing. I think there is something special about endurance sport that you can't find in any other athletic training.

I always hear people talking about how their "jog" or "workout" gives them a chance to think. This is the wrong approach. If you still can think you are not training long enough. When I train - and other endurance athletes please back me up - I don't think. The only thing going through my head is my caloric intake or the number of laps I've done.

But the beautiful part of my training is the magical 'white noise' stage I enter. After about fifteen minutes when my muscles relax I get into this zone. And everything else disappears. That's why I call it the white noise stage: my head literally fills with a fuzzy static.

Now, to why this is relaxing and why everyone should strive for 'white noise' bliss. First an anecdote. Men. We have perfected tuning women out. AND we are always happy. When have you seen a man sitting on a couch tuning the world out with a frown on his face. I'll tell you when...Never! Now imagine recreating this glorious state of being without pissing off every member of the opposite sex. Yes, it can be done.

And besides, endurance athletes usually have six packs. Which is why I'm active for my boyfriend :)

Bill 44...

I am really really really tired tonight and haven't written my post for Friday. That being said this is just a preview of the wonderful rant I will go on about Bill 44 the the Alberta Legislature has just passed.

By preview I mean this is all you're getting. Stay tuned for Monday and extreme sarcasm and cynicism!

Almost done

I got home from work today and still needed to do a 30 minute recovery run and then I watched "So You Think You Can Dance" and forgot about my Wednesday post. Therefore, I'll add a little bit to the short story I've got going on....

“That’s the worst written shit I’ve ever read.”
His voice sings like a choir of eunuchs. It rises loftily between us like an aria rising in Carnegie Hall. God it makes me melt.
“And I can’t stand your fucking singing.” I stared coldly into his eyes.
A lopsided grin split James’ face. His cheeks dimpled and his crooked front teeth glinted in the afternoon daylight.
“You know you love me.” James stood up on the table. He kicked our lunch onto the ground. He spread his arms like an angel ascending and lifted his face to the sun. Then he smiled at me and started singing. “Some enchanted evening...”
“Get off the table you stupid queer.”
But it was heavenly. He climbed down regally. His nose was pointed upwards and his scruffy hair curled cutely against his cheek bones. People across the street were pointing and laughing.
“Fucking knobs,” James muttered.
“Yeah.”
I looked nervously across the street. I couldn’t help it but my toe was dancing on the pavement. I scratched my arm self-consciously and sniffed softly. James caught my guilty eye. His gaze dug into my skin. It felt like he was reading my confession off the inside of my skull. I stilled my foot. I chewed my bottom lip and James looked away. I stood up.
“We should get going then.”
“Yeah.”
James stood up and walked around the table to stand beside me. He looked at me carefully.
“You’d tell me if something was up. Right?”
I nodded. We started walking down our side of the street. My arms hung dejectedly at my side. Toothpicks compared to James’. I watched the pavement roll under our feet. Cracks burrowed deep within the sidewalk tearing the concrete apart. I sniffed. Scratched my arm. James’ even stride fumbled beside me. I looked up.
A man stood up the street. His face was hidden in the cowl of his coat. His arms jerked clumsily into the pockets of his jacket. His head was bowed, praying for our redemption. Praying for his. James stepped out in front of me. His burly frame hiding my wilted form. The man looked up. Dead eyes stared from beneath his hood. He caught me looking. Recognized me.
“No money, no stuff.”
James looked at him. “Fuck off,” he spat.
The man shrugged. “Later this week, then.”
He looked at me. His eyes, vacant pits in his skull. Then he bowed his head and shuffled markedly away. A faint chant muttered under his breath.
“Nothing you want to tell me.”
It wasn’t a question. James stood facing me, his frame casting me in shadow. I couldn’t meet his eyes.

James’ voice sings in my head. I sit on my couch and untangle my limbs. I scratch my arm, an unconscious tick. I’m clean thanks to James. The wind rattles my door again. Footsteps now in the hall. The dark presses in on me. Filling my lungs with ink. I gasp and scuttle to the bed. My feet catch in a pile of clothes. Lights burst in front of my eyes. Stars illuminate all at once. I rub my forehead and close my eyes. They are pressed tightly shut as I crawl to the mattress. My hands sweep the floor in front of me like a man searching for his glasses. They scratch over the coarse carpet tickling my palms. Clothes to my right. Shoes to my left.
I slide forward on my knees. I make it to the bed, the sharp corner of the box spring digging into my shoulder as I grind my way onto the mattress. My hands find purchase in the lumpy mattress and I’m able to pull myself up by a tumorous growth. I lay panting on the bed, my face moist with sweat. My breath whispers against the cool plastic fabric of the mattress. I clutch my hands together and they jerkily placate themselves with the twisted hem of my comforter. A rosary.

There is still more to the story (yet to be written). But so far I've been keeping up with the posts. YAY!

Recruiting....

...and why I am horrible at it!

So today I was at work and it was really slow. So the logical solution to pass the time was to go recruit for Roots. Yes they have me recruiting. I am a walking billboard that also dispenses cards. (Just as a side note, I really enjoy working for the company)

Anyways, I began by walking down 17th towards the nearest Starbucks thinking, "they always have friendly staff at Starbucks, I'm sure I'll find someone there." But I was wrong. The service was excellent, everyone was wearing smiles, but my drink was empty calories and empty of heart and soul.

Undeterred I vowed to find someone worthy of working for Roots. I began walking to the nearest trendy clothing store. I figured that on a slow day (God it was slow, did I mention that) I would find someone who would treat me right in a retail operation. I walked proudly into Le Chateau and.........wasn't even greeted. Two people were at the till and neither said a word to me.

I hastily beat a back track out of the store and wandered the street until I found another, even trendier, store; Purr. I walked in, my head held a bit lower, but I walked in with my toes crossed for good service. Nadda. I did get a "Hello" this time but no further assistance.

At this point I was thoroughly angered at all service people everywhere. Not to too my own horn but at Roots we greet everyone (the occasional person does slip into the store un-hi-there'd) and we make conversation with them at some point while they are in the store.

I practically stormed down the street and headed for the nearest shoe store, a little boutique. I walked in and received excellent service. I felt like this man should own the store. We held a great conversation, I bought a great pair of shoes and, most of all, I felt relieved that I had finally found my potential recruit.

The only problem; he did own the store

I do!

Those are the words forever etched in the back of my skull....and on the latest issue of the popular "Archie" comic series. I feel as if I must weigh in on this epic threesome and the final verdict that has been carved in stone (paper and ink).

Firstly, I was an avid Archie fan growing up. I'm still an avid Archie fan but don't buy the new comics anymore. Instead, I relish in my faded copies of issues 85 and 63, the pages starting to yellow and smudge with use. For years I've scoffed at Archie and his mindless pursuit of Veronica. Obviously Betty is the better choice. She would be there raising the kids. She'd do everything for Archie. She would love him. And treat him right!

Now Veronica. The wealthy mind fucking spinstress. When has she ever made Archie happy. He tries so hard to impress her but it's hard to compete with millions of dollars and an entourage of potential suitors. In short, Veronica plays this poor boy like a Foosball table in a frat house, and yes, spinning is allowed.

Back to the comic. In the latest issue Archie proposed to none other than the evil spoiled brat Veronica. Betty is obviously crushed and we're all waiting for the divorce to be filed and Archie to get half of Veronica's assets. I don't think he's smart enough for that but maybe it's all a ruse. As you can tell I'm pro-Betty and perhaps Archie is just using Veronica for her money before settling down with the girl next door who appreciates rides in his famous jalopy.

I think that's probably a little far fetched but as a romantic (I'm still waiting for the girl next door/boy up the block/boy who was next door to my friend) I want to see things end up right! God Dammit I want Betty and Archie. But I guess I didn't vote in the online poll and so I passed up my chance to have a say. It just strikes me as odd that we (referring to everyone who reads Archie) would pick Veronica. I guess it's this recession; we all want to see Archie with a sound financial footing heading off to university while we're wishing we'd have the same. Dang it, if only we'd spent less on comics when we were kids.

New Direction

I know I haven't posted in forever but I will hopefully be back over the summer. I discovered something amazing tonight. It wasn't the fact that the Food Network finally ceased to entertain me (although that is amazing in itself). No, it was that I discovered writing again. Going through my "Chris is being creative" file of word documents I came across a number of unfinished works. One of which was "Stop Running". But I honestly think I am far too cynical to finish that (for those of you who don't know "Stop Running" is a teenage love story about two gay boys). Instead I came across a piece titled Neighbours. I posted a chunk of it on the blog over a month ago and figured I should continue it. Last summer I wrote and hopefully this summer I will do the same. So the continuation of Neighbours....

The summer was always lively. About two years ago I can remember the festival on the streets. Everyone was out. The druggies. The artists. The partition through the road came down and no one cared what kind of unemployed bum you were.
Musicians played. The streets danced with colour. With life. Grass sprang up as if Gaia’s will was to induce happiness. The fissure in the road was more of a bump, one that we stumbled over together while drunk.
I remember a blur of smiles. A cacophony of laughter. Bliss. The streets pounded. Our heads pounded. Day after day we got up and celebrated. I don’t think any of us knew what we were celebrating. Hell, we don’t really have anything to celebrate. We’re stuck in a shit hole and none of us want to change and get out.
But that didn’t matter. Not during that summer. Nothing seemed to matter. It was the first time I met James.

I sidle back onto the couch. I still don’t believe I crammed a couch into this room. Milk crates would have been better, more appropriate. My bed sits across from me. I want to crawl under the covers and die. Fuck, I’m surprised I don’t die every time I sleep in that cesspool.
It’s getting dark outside. I see shadows skirting between alleyways. I see shadows flitting into my bedroom. My whole apartment. Three years and I’m not used to living in one room. The dark seems to close in on me. Oppressive and heavy. I feel myself suffocating in the black; drowning in a sea of pitch.
I click on the lamp opposite my bed. The light flickers once, sparks and goes out. Dammit. The black is pressing in on me. Like a weight on my chest. A soaked shirt, cold and clammy against my skin, the cotton heavy, dragging me under. I claw to the surface – the surface of my reason. I breathe into the dark. Rasping. It whispers out of my chest. I feel my cheeks flap. One thing flashes through my mind; death rattle.

She died in my arms. Overdose. That summer. Two years ago. The soft feel of her hair against my bare arm. Sinews of her brown curls tracing the shot veins at my elbow. The smell. God the smell. Like gasoline and sweat and strawberries. Chanel couldn’t do it better.
We’d met a few months before. The summer isn’t very long so I’d guess it was two months. I remember seeing her across the road. She stumbled on the fissure. I ran to catch her. I fell too and, in a drunken stupor, knocked out two of my teeth. I whistled at her for weeks.
Then one Thursday she smiled at me. Her dress was ivory. It flowed down from her perfectly formed breasts to her perfectly formed legs. Monroe hardly compared. She flit across the street; a delicate thing, I could hardly believe didn’t get blown away by the wind. Her bare arms were pale in the sunlight and I had to squint at the aura coming off her.
After a week of dates – of late night phone calls and laughter – she kissed me. Twice. Once on the lips and once on the arm. I fell in love. A fire would burn through me. The craving got so bad I couldn’t go a few hours without seeing her. Her fingers would fall lightly on my arm and she’d kiss me again. A pinch and then release. Swimming high in ecstasy. Her hair would blow idly in the wind. Chestnut. Brown like her eyes. Layers of curls on her shoulders. And then crash. Limbs limp, her chin would knock against her protruding collar bone. Eyelids half-closed. Her chest would rise and fall – delicately pumping her breasts – the only signs of life besides the rasping, spittle-filled breath snaking out of her supple lips.
James told me to get out. Get out while I could before things got messy. He was higher than me if he thought I’d go. I couldn’t leave her. I couldn’t leave her sweet touch. The way I throbbed for her. The way she lit the fires of my life. I still ache – in my bones, the acid in my veins.
James ditched. He came to my room. She was there, red-eyed, stumbling all over the place, gouging her skin with her nails. He screamed at me. I didn’t really hear. The door slammed. I crashed.
I didn’t see him again. Not until the end of that summer. Two years ago. My room smelled like gasoline and sweat. She smelled like strawberries. Pounding in my head. James pounding on the door. I stared bleary eyed at her. Her perfect face blurred by tears. Foggy footsteps clicked across the floor. Strong arms on my withered shoulder, prying my hand out of hers. A hard chest, holding me. Disappearing in his warmth. Dissolving in tears. The sound of an ambulance. The shuffle of cop’s footsteps. Hushed voices. I wish I could die.

The dark deepens and lights flicker like fireflies outside my window. Tears roll down my cheek. I’d almost forgotten her. The pungent smell of gasoline seems to fill the room. I sit, gasping into the night, my lungs clawing for a sweet burst of strawberry.
I collapse back into the couch. Wispy arms of memory wrap my body. Her hair, her face, her smell swirls around me. I convulse in the dark scattering the faint gleams of the past. I pull my legs to my chest. The denim of my jeans scratches my arms as I coil them around my knees. I shiver. Someone walking over my grave. I swivel my neck and peer behind me into the dark. Nothing. The hairs on my back don’t lie flat. I rock silently in the dark. Starlight flows into my window. It claws its way through the dark – through the fog and dismay that plumes from this hellhole.
I hear footsteps outside my door. Rats scrabble above my head. Neighbours. The dark makes the sounds echo louder. I feel the rats clawing in my ears. I close my eyes but the sounds just get louder. My nose feels cold. My fingertips ache in their death grip around my knees. And the scratching just gets louder. Click. Click. I bang my head against the crusty pillows of the couch. I need a friendly voice to block out the sound.

More to come. This will hopefully be a successful revival with posts on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. But no more personal commentary, just pure fiction (you try to find the difference).

It's been a while...

I've been busy. That's all I can really say. I've started to let things fall by the wayside and this blog has been one of those unfortunate things. But I'm back at it now. During my study breaks I might start posting again. But even if I don't I want to get back to writing. Listening to depressing music and pounding out art on my keyboard. How enchanting does that sound!?

So - this is only because I can't actually think of anything real to write about - I'm going to post a little bit of a short story I've been working on...

It’s grey. Grey and cold. I don’t think anything has ever felt quite this miserable. Well, a few things might have, but I’ve put them behind me.
The skeletal shapes of buildings lurch out of the fog and gloom as far as the eye can see. More grey. More cold. I sit, nestled inside my one room apartment staring out the window. I ignore the crack. Shitty affordable housing. Isn’t even that affordable any more. Another crack runs down the street. Not the invisible one keeping us from them. No, this one’s real and it slices the pavement cleanly in two; a fissure where the tectonic plates of the neighbourhood have collided. Blades of grass bloom from the crack. Life in so much death.
Across the street, behind the invisible border, a crowd of trench coats stand huddled. Wisps of smoke escape from their tightly drawn circle. Acrid yellow against the grey. More of their vomit in our backyard. I can feel it catching in the back of my throat. The smell. Damn crack in the window. I feel one of the trench coats look up. I shy back from the window. My heart pounds in my chest. I shut my eyes. One. Two. Three. I count to block out the racing tattoo my heart smashes against my ribs. I open my eyes and the feeling is gone.

I moved into this neighbourhood three years ago. What the hell was I thinking? The apartment I got, if you ignore the stupid super, isn’t half bad. It’s cheap and comes with a kitchen. That’s all I need. I moved in to be closer to the night life. Artists. You know, the low paid, underfed, passionate about their craft to the point of insanity artists. Just, no one told me about the rest of them. I learned one thing from high school physics: ‘every action has an equal reaction’. Whatever, someone still could’ve told me about the reaction.
We’ve got artists but we’ve also got drug addicts. And I don’t mean your average pot-smoking, ‘helps me do my work better’ drug addicts. We’ve got the scary ones. The ones that terrorize alleyways and can scare you with the feeling of a look.
But they stay on their side and we stay on ours.
I was an artist too. A writer. No, I am an artist. I used to think my Pulitzer was in the mail. Just like the cheque the paper is always sending me. I do my best stuff, my best writing, down here. You look around the corner and something’s going to inspire you. But it’s dark. And grey. And cold. Not really mainstream stuff, you know. But still, I write and, well, thank god the rent isn’t much.

I look back down at the street. The trench coats have started to disperse. I rock back from the window and shuffle into my apartment. I dodge piles of clothes laying at the foot of the bed that stretches too far into the room. The covers are crumpled and tossed in a heap on the mattress. The sheets, they used to be white, are now more of cream colour; they’re almost grey. I think about doing a wash. I jingle the contents of my pocket. It’s a tiny sound. Brassy. Nothing in there except for pennies and dimes.
I get to the kitchen. Really, it’s only one room and getting to the kitchen implies some noticeable divide; the invisible line where disgusting unwashed carpet meets disgusting unwashed food-stained carpet. My shoes squelch and shuffle on the floor. I get to the fridge. Like my sheets I bet the fridge used to be white. It’s almost black now.
The fridge rattles when I pull on the door. I reef on it for a second and it bangs open. The meagre contents hardly make sound. I grab a jar of pickles. I can already taste the dill on my tongue. The sour vinegar burns in the back of my throat. I welcome the wash of reflux that scours my oesophagus. I pry the lid off of the jar and dip my spindly fingers into the urine-like brine. My hand surfaces with a wrinkled pickle clutched between the fingers. It looks like some obscure slug dregged up from the bottom of the ocean.
I put the jar back and slam the fridge shut. The front door rattles. Damn draft from the window. Stupid rickety building. Fucking stupid room.

I like to think that it reads like a graphic novel/god-knows what modern thingy. There's oh so much more but I didn't think people would be too keen reading like three pages so I cut it off there. Anywho, enjoy and come back to my blog. I swear I will be writing!!

All you need...

is love. Umm, no.

All you need is a desperate urge to pee and adrenaline. Please and thank you. I humbly await my Nobel Prize for this proclamation. But perhaps first I should explain a bit of where I'm coming from.

Tonight was the first night I sang my solo with the orchestra for the musical. And goddammit I had to pee the whole time. Lucky for me I think this actually made me sing better.

Back in the days of high school when music and performance ruled my life I was an incredibly nervous and shy person. While today I am merely a nervous and shy person. But the point is, regardless of how prepared I was for a performance I was always nervous and for the first minutes of any performance I was lacking because of those nerves.

And then one day, one fateful February day, I forgot to go pee before Jazz1 went on stage. Besides the excessive foot tapping and squirming I think I played quite well. AND for the first time I didn't think about my nerves during the performance.

Thusly, I have taken it upon myself to never pee before going on stage. And so tonight rolled around. I downed a cup of tea with dinner and then purchased a huge water bottle which I began gulping. By the time my song rolled around I had to pee like no other. And I sang and my foot tapped thirty second notes and I sang well.

So, I think I am going to take this peeing thing and extend it into other parts of my life. For instance, before a midterm. No peeing. That way I'll be so focused on how bad my groin feels to make any stupid mistakes or over think my answers. Before sporting events. No peeing. That way I won't feel the burning in my muscles. I'll just feel the burning in my lower abdomen. And sex. Especially sex. No peeing. That way I won't think about anything but....you get the idea. And tightening those muscles is never a bad thing to keep it up...

So the point of the story. When you have to pee: hold it!! It'll make things way easier for you. And all you'll ever need is love, I mean....a full bladder.

How to...

I felt very accomplished this morning. For the first time in a week I woke up before noon (barely) and actually did something with my day. And I did this with the biggest sugar headache I've ever experienced (I'll explain later).

This monumental achievement was further heightened by the fact that I received a good bill of oral health from my dentist. I sauntered through the clinic doors five minutes before my appointment a smile plastered on my face, inwardly cringing and wondering if my dentist would be able to smell the weeks worth of alcohol on my breath.

I was lucky and my smile did the trick. My hygienist led me to the back where I curled up in the chair and heaved a sigh of relief. I started making the best small talk of my life. I figured if I was friendly I could avoid - or at least postpone - the ravaging my gums always take at the dentist.

And again I got lucky. Maybe she could smell the stale remnants of last call on my breath or maybe my happy demeanour did the trick but my hygienist practically massaged the plaque from my teeth. And - now this is the weird part - she complimented my teeth.

Now I'm not a compulsive tooth-brusher and in fact I rarely floss. But somehow I got away with the biggest farce of my life. And everything went well until the fluoride. This ominous word instills fear into every bone of my body. I think the kids have it great nowadays with the foam fluoride but back in the day we had the disgusting viscous tar. It makes me gag just thinking about it. So imagine my concern when I start thinking about those fond memories whilst my stomach churns on the alcohol from the night before.

Not a good combination but I managed to make it through the fluoride...somehow. I think its the uncanny ability I have to control my gag-......

Anyways to keep this G rated, my 'how to...' for today is how to trick your dentist into thinking you are an A+ oral hero (I don't know what was on my mind when I wrote this ;) ). Smile. It goes a long way.

V-Day XOXOX

Ah, love is in the air. It's Valentines Day and the only thing I can think is, "I can get away with eating expensive chocolates, ice cream, watching chick flicks, and drinking away my sorrows and no one will care". Of course, people probably would care, but for us rather "disenchanted" individuals who haven't snagged our rose bearing knights in shining armor....well, we'll just lavish love on ourselves.

This really isn't going anywhere but I assure there is a point. I'm sitting in the airport intending to do computer science (someone remind me why I'm single...) and have nothing better to do then write and people watch. And seeing as how two people have wished me a happy Valentines Day I feel rather inspired to write about this vapid holiday.

When I was riding the bus this morning - vacant expression on my face, lack of sleep bubbling behind my eyes - a man got on carrying a rose. My first thought, being a romantic and all, was, "Awwww, how cute." Then I noticed the puppy dog eyes and defeated expression on the man's face and reevaluated my position. Perhaps he was trying to 'make up' with his significant other. Maybe he got shot down and was on his way (at 9 am) to bury his worries in an expensive box of truffles. Or maybe he was going to the airport to see his partner who was living in Africa providing humanitarian aid and was flying in for Valentines Day and for one night they could share the physical intimacy they were currently denied, what with them being on different continents and all.

Anyone who knows me could probably guess that I settled on the last option. In fact, anyone who knows the people I hang out with will quickly realize that I made up an entire back story about this man with the rose and puppy dog eyes. But back to my original point.

This man didn't feel it adequate to go to the airport (to meet his long-distance lover) without a rose. Now, I don't know if he would have brought a rose if it wasn't Valentines Day but this coincidence does seem a little suspect.

Which brings me to my tirade about the commercialism that is Valentines Day. I black listed Christmas for this trait and Valentines Day is even worse. Lovers everywhere post a united front in their efforts to buy every single rose, box of chocolates, and romantically-sappy card in existence. They buy numerous wasteful items in order to express their love. In my opinion, they should be perfectly capable of expressing their love (every day, not just Valentines day) without expensive gestures.

I know I sound like a cynical forlorn romantic who is just bitter and I mean, I really am. I would kill to have a hunky guy waiting for me at the Calgary airport, puppy dog eyes in place, mischievous smile hidden behind the box of chocolates he's holding for me. Hell, I would kill to have a not so hunky guy waiting for me with a bouquet of wilted daisies. But alas, no such thing will happen. Which brings me to my next point.

While the lovers of the world lavish expensive gifts on each other, us rather disenchanted individuals lavish expensive gifts on ourselves. We buy out all the ice cream, chick flicks, cheap wine, and help buying all the chocolate. We buy numerous wasteful items in bitter jealousy of our coupled up counterparts.

And so, what is Valentines Day?

Its an excuse to put up cheesy pink and red displays in store windows. Its an excuse to charge double for chocolate and roses. Basically, its an excuse to jump start the economy and incite an influx in spending now that Christmas is a mere smudge on our credit card bills.

So why do we do it? Because we love to be loved. We love to have an excuse to act grossly romantic and express our love for once.

But then, why do we ever need an excuse...?

Rainbows and Sunshine

Sometimes the happiest things in life can make you the saddest. It's a strange and twisted paradox that seems to permeate through all aspects of life.

I've been brought to this conclusion through what I deem as a terrible injustice. I volunteer at an Elementary school in downtown Vancouver, as I have been for the last two weeks. I looked at the school's web page and was excited to see that it was an 'inner city school project'. I would soon learn what that really meant.

But first the happy parts. These kids - from grade 1 to grade 7 - are amazing. They are so amazing that I tried to kidnap one. However, this was frowned upon by school administration. So, in my attempt to immortalize the amazingness of these children I got a girl pregnant. Mum take note. Of course, I didn't actually go to these lengths to get a child...but I still want one...

But joking aside, the kids in the after school program are quite the sight for sore eyes. They seem starved for attention and want for nothing more than someone to sit and laugh with them for an hour or indulge in their creative - and yet unmolested - dreams. I don't place the blame on anyone for the kids' state. Their parents are all working to pay the ever increasing cost of housing in the downtown east side.

This isn't the instance that makes me sad. No, what makes me sad is the boxes that line the shelves of the snack room. Plastered across their sides, "Vancouver Food Bank". I think I am a fragile and emotional man because this nearly brought me to tears. Forty smiling kids were milling around me and I couldn't muster a smile for any of them.

I don't know what is was about those boxes that impacted me in such a profound way. Perhaps it was because I - like many other 'more fortunate' individuals - donate to institutions like the food bank but don't ponder where the donations end up. I never would have thought an after school program would need donations. I always envision these critical facilities to be rolling in copious amounts of donations and volunteers. But I guess this isn't the case.

When I was in elementary school my Mum packed my snack because she could. Does this mean these kids can't pack snacks? Does it mean the school can't even pack snacks? I should like to think that a basic need like food can be met by these families.

But maybe I'm naive. I am naive. Life, for a lot of people, isn't rainbows and sunshine. And this makes me sad. I'm going to keep volunteering at this school. And it's not for the kids. It's for me. I don't think I can go back to my side of the tracks after spending two afternoons on their side.

WTF

So it's Sunday afternoon and I'm stuck inside moping while finishing up homework. Then, all of a sudden, my phone vibrates in a cherub-esque manner. It was without a doubt cherub-esque. My cell seemed to float off the desk in a flutter of sunshine and rainbows to spread warmth and love. And indeed it did bring good news: the reminder that 24 was starting again tonight.

On its seventh iteration 24 concisely follows the misanthropic, and oftentimes explosive, tour de force that is Jack Bauer's life. Now, Jack Bauer is no ordinary super-spy-hero. Nay, fellow desensitized television viewers. Jack Bauer is a singular, multi-purpose - some might say Swiss army knife - special agent. We can discuss the shrine I've hidden for him (currently in my closet) later. All you need to know is Jack Bauer kicks ass and he's back to save America, presumably for the seventh consecutive year.

I'm going to take a slight detour and examine some of the finner points of the series 24. If you want to skip ahead to the SPOILERS then scroll down for a bit.

First off, 24 stars a Canadian actor. Hmmmm...I've always found this interesting as Jack Bauer seems to epitomize the American ideal. He's obviously a hero, devoted to his country, awesomely athletic, ruggedly handsome, and the list goes on and on. But he's Canadian. The casting director must be kicking him/herself right now. "Oh shit, we got a Canadian to play our all-American hero?! Dammit! Let's screw him up a little bit..." So they gave Jack a heroine addiction, he also carries out torture, and kills a wheelbarrow full of people every episode. But I don't see how this differs from the all-American...

24 has also been a social-conscious compass. For instance, season one predicted an African-American president. Huh, didn't that just happen? Weird. This season there is a female president. Does that mean eight years down the road the first woman will be inducted into the White House? Who knows, but if television has taught us anything it's that you shouldn't mess with Jack Bauer.

Sorry, that was getting a little silly. But I do applaud the script writer's of 24, who have addressed many big picture and thematically important ideas. I don't want to re watch all six seasons (that would be six days of my life I won't get back) but I can name a few things off the top of my head. One, the common theme of 'the ends justifying the means'. This could also be phrased as the 'look at the bigger picture paradox' or as I like to say the 'patriot act'....

Shit. I just realized my aunt may read this at some point. She's trying to get her American citizenship. Or she got it already. Anyways, in the sake of her not being labeled as an extremist, I'm going to return to my original point. If you skipped ahead START READING HERE.

24 started today and like any season premier it was a jaw-dropping, nail biting, OMFG 2 hours. All you need to know is Tony is back. Jack's side kick who died. Yeah. Tony. He's back and it turns out, he's not dead. WTF? That was the common reaction around the room. WTF? And, no get this, Tony is a bad guy. Gasp. I foresee epic Mano-a-Mano fights in 24's future.

So spread the word. Make some one's day with cherub-esque text messages. Spread the rainbows and sunshine that only 24 can deliver.

Something Better

So last night when I intended to blog I was taken by an idea. Now this wasn't one of my ideas. Instead, it was an idea donated to me by the lovely lady Sasha (check out her blog). She showed me this short story she was writing and it sparked a creative frenzy inside myself.

Earlier in the week I'd thought of a wonderful story idea. And Sasha's comment/story refreshed it in my mind and once again I was frantically looking for some way to notate the ideas fluttering through my head.

Now, if you've ever read my short stories before you'll know that they are fairly light and often romanticized. I don't think I've ever written an unhappy ending in my life. However, last night when the mood to write struck me I moved in a completely new direction.

I dump the reader into a fairly racy sexual scene.

What could possess me to write something like that? Was I myself sexual abused as a child? I really shouldn't make jokes about things like that. But for whatever reason I decided to write something a little darker.

Already into the half-a-page mark I've added some black humour. Maybe by the end of the month my story will be up online. But until then my posts might be a little more scattered.

Day 2

For me the New Year's resolutions don't truly go into effect until I'm back to real life. That meant yesterday. With school starting and being back in Vancouver my 2009 officially started and I'm now obliged to comply with the solemn oaths I've sworn to myself.

But labs haven't started yet so I guess real life hasn't quite started yet. That's my rationale as I sit inside my room staring out the window at the rain drenched campus. Today is supposed to be day one of my new workout regime (one of my resolutions). I'm supposed to go to the gym and hit the bike for 35-40 minutes and then do a bunch of crunches and finish off with some leg extensions. I have it all planned out and yet I can't summon the energy to leave my room.

I've come up with a bunch of excuses: I'm sick, it's cold, I'll do it tonight. But the fact of the matter is I'm not going to be keeping this resolution and it's only the first day.

My other resolutions have been faring a little better. But it seems like they were really only back up plans. If my first resolution fails I have two or three more to fall back on. Hopefully by the end of the year I'll still be following one of my resolutions.

But who really cares. I know I'll make it to the gym at some point this week. Probably tomorrow. So was a resolution even necessary. It just makes me feel bad and less able to workout when I've broken it. The 'why bother' mind set sinks in and all hope is lost.

So I think my back up back up resolution will be to motivate myself to achieve my goals without holding to some covenant made on a drunken evening sipping champagne.

Back to Real Life

For me, and numerous other university students, this week marks the beginning of the second semester. Many hope to improve upon last years grades while some sit on their high horses and mock us peons toiling for C's and D's (get degrees by the way). But all of us have to get our heads back around the real - or not so real - life that comes with going to university.

For me it means going back to eating, and often avoiding eating, in the cafeteria. It means doing my own laundry. It means taking the bus. It means waiting for two hours to buy things at the bookstore. It means, and this is my favorite, a trip to Staples. But above all else it means we can put our lives on hold and goof off for another 13 weeks.

Of course there is studying involved. Long hours spent at the library pouring over textbooks and frantically writing papers. But for the most part, we just get to be kids. Well, kids who live on their own and make their own (often bad) decisions.

We like to have fun. That's why the atmosphere on campus is so amazing; so different from anything else anywhere else. We like to succeed. The top students from all over the world are here and they are all used to getting A's. Now put the two together. We want to have fun and have the best, most amazing, damaging, stupid fun you can imagine.

Universities came up with drinking games. Why? So someone could win. So the person with the B- average could trounce on the people with the A+'s.

So everyone warms up their liver's and prepares for another 13 weeks of university. There is no life like it, even if it isn't the most real version you will find.