Pizza Day...

Hello Friends.

I am writing to you this afternoon on my lunch break at work. After a fairly hectic week, my boss has ordered pizza for the office and we’re waiting for it to arrive. I can only think of pizza. Anything could happen right now and it wouldn’t take my mind of pizza. Joan Pizza could be brought back to life and hit the pizza carpet with her fashion zingers and I’d still be all, “Pizza!”

The trouble is, my gut, ass, thighs, and upper arms are also pizza. Upper arms, that’s the cruelest fat depository! I was feeling so pleased with myself at the gym yesterday doing shoulder presses. The machine faces a mirror and I saw what I thought were muscles bulging under my shirt, but it was only goddamn pizza. If I can grab and manipulate the flesh on my arm, It’s not muscle tissue, it’s DiGiorno.

Notice how I aggressively inserted that “In the gym yesterday” bit? Yeah, so did I. After parting ways with my Big City Gym when I moved, I was content to just go swimming at the university for any kind of fitness, but now that classes have started up again, the pool is so goddamn full of youths that I can’t be bothered to go anymore. Instead, I found a good gym and a pretty good rate and thought, “Now everything will change! Goodbye, fat guy underwear!”

Anyway, one of the “perks” to this gym membership is a consultation with a hunk employed by the facility. I dreaded my consultation because I knew I’d fail terribly at all of the tests and I was right. But beyond sweating, humiliated, at the machines, I also had to have a chat with him about nutrition, during which I lied through my goddamn teeth.

Dream: Eat better.

Goal: Achievable. The hunk explained that diet was responsible for like 70% of achieving a successful fitness goal, to which I wanted to ask, “Could I counteract some of that with aggressive pooping?” I don’t eat garbage food, I cook at home a lot, but I cook red meat, and chicken, and pasta, and dishes where the only vegetable is mushrooms, and the only side dish is more of the entrée. But at the same time, my own lightning-fast metabolism has slowed down because I’m too old to figure out how Instagram works.

Plan: Adopt the following strategies to eat better, get healthier, and buy thin guy underwear again.

Cook and eat more nutritious foods. That’s definitely something that works better in theory than in practice. Have you guys had nutritious food lately? It’s fucking gross. Kale? Gross. Quinoa? Gross. Spinach is okay, but only because you can wilt it in garlic and toss it in some goddamn noodles. I think I’m going to try to integrate healthy components into unhealthy dishes. I’ll put an orange segment next to my steak, for instance, or a broccoli floret will garnish my tumbler of Baileys.

Eat less. It would really be a win-win if I could do this. I would have less food to eat, but more food leftover for lunches. As often as not, however, I’ll make a big dish of something, justify a second helping, eliminate all possibility for leftovers. I guess I could just make more at suppertime but I feel like I’d just keep eating, like one of those awful competitive eaters, expecting a prize at the end.

Not care what I eat. Man, I wish I could do this. The Doc appreciates my cooking, which is lovely, but he could also just as easily eat a frozen dinner, a plate of beans, a slice of bread, a piece of string. He’s the rare bird that just eats because he’s hungry and doesn’t recognize the truly enjoyable experience of eating really good food. Consequently, he has no guilt about what he eats or whether or not he gains weight (though he doesn’t). That’s the way to go. Also, he’s great to live with because if there are chips in the house, they’ll usually stay in the house until I eat all of them.

These are all very first world problems. I’m lucky to go to a grocery store, or eat at a restaurant, and get whatever I want in unlimited quantities. It’s only good genes and being raised by health-conscious parents that keeps me from tipping the scales. Plus, I know age is only going to make me gain weight faster and restrict food further, so why am I kvetching now?

In elementary school, we had Pizza Day. I don’t know if that’s still a thing, but I remember regarding them as akin to days off from school entirely. “I don’t have to pay attention in class today, it’s Pizza Day!” As if all of our activities would somehow be pizza-related. Now, of course, all food decisions are stupidly fraught, and tied to all kinds of feelings of either superiority (“Just a salad”) or shame (“Can I get a side of mayo with the fries?”). But all I’m really serving up is a helping of gluttonous vanity, which is the first thing I have to shed before stepping on the scale. But now I have to go. Pizza’s here.

Get 'Er Done...

Hello Friends.

When I worked as a cashier at a drugstore, a position I held for longer than I’d like to admit, it fell to me to restock the candy aisle. Because of the candy aisle’s close proximity to the cash register, cashiers were supposed to grab boxes of candy from the stock room, set them up in the aisle, and replenish or rotate bags of licorice, chocolate bars, bags of chips, and Bridge Mixture, which is only a suitable candy if you hope to put the recipient to death. Years on from that job, I can say now, with no fear of reprisal, that I never, ever restocked the candy aisle. It wasn’t a difficult task, but it was something so tedious and self-defeating that I would rather stare into space, doodle on register paper, count money in the till, or staple my fingers together than actually do it.

In maybe the best book I’ve ever read, Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant, a middle-aged woman takes a job in a grocery store after her husband walks out on her and her children. Every shift she works, she leaves her hat on suggesting, she hopes, that she just popped in to help out, not that she actually worked there. This is not what the book is about, by the way, it’s a riveting character study about generations of a family, but the fact that Pearl leaves her hat on always returns to me, because it reflects how I often felt as a cashier. “This is just my job, I’m not working here.” That’s a shitty and elitist attitude, to be sure, but it helps explain why I couldn’t and wouldn’t stock the candy aisle. I’ll stand there and help customers, but I’ll be damned if I fill my off time with anything but boredom and self-loathing.

What I don’t understand, however, is why I’m treating more and more things in my life like the damn candy aisle. This blog, for instance, is missing quite a few weekly entries in the last couple of months. A project that I started earnestly with a friend has stalled for no reason. These are things I really believe in, things I wish I had more time to do, but yet when I have time, I don’t do them! What’s the deal, here?

Dream: Be more productive.

Goal: Achievable. Beating myself up doesn’t accomplish anything, but a public record of one’s own laziness can occasionally be a motivator. Maybe proclaiming my uselessness publicly will get me working again.

Plan: Take the advice we give people about work and tailor it specifically to motivate me. For instance:

Find out what you love to do, and get paid for it. Everybody tosses this ice cube into your soup, but I’m afraid I have to call bullshit on it. I’m thrilled to be getting paid to write every day, but writing is hard fucking work (not as compared to coal mining, parenting, surgery, prison guard, janitor, but you get my meaning). Writing is not something I love to do. I love sleeping, eating bad food, and having sex. Who is going to pay me for those things? Besides, find out what you love to do and get paid for it is a very white, upper-middle class conceit that many of us were lucky to grow up with and take advantage of. But a lot of people pump gas for a living their whole lives, or work in a factory, or make ends meet by any and all means, and I think they’d chafe at being told to just “do what you love.” I think we ought to change the expression to, “Find out what you’re good at and get paid for it.” I’m good at writing, and I’m also really good at running a cash register (in spite of what you might have read earlier). Obviously I’d pick the former over the later for a career path, but both jobs keep the bills paid, so I’d be stupid to never take a retail job again in desperate times just because I didn’t “love” it.

Don’t compare yourself to others. I hear this in regards to creative people, especially. Yes, realizing that so-and-so is doing better than you doesn’t make your situation any better, but it doesn’t make the fact any less true. When I hear that a contemporary (by which I mean someone around my age) is doing better than I am, I bitch and moan, sure, but it lights a fire under my ass. If I didn’t compare myself to others, I might avoid reading the writing that my friends do, and I might hinder my own development by not “borrowing” whatever I can from them. I don’t mean that I steal ideas from others, exactly, but that I’d only be hurting myself by not using their best techniques. For instance, I know of a writer I really respect who decided to stop using anything but “said” when referencing what a person said. In other words, she might write:

“You don’t love me!” Bill said.

But she wouldn’t write: 

“You don’t love me!” Bill cried.

She believes that what a person says should be enough for the reader to make their own determination. If she writes, “Bill cried” instead of “Bill said”, she’s telling us how Bill feels, instead of having Bill reveal his feelings through further dialogue or action. Isn’t that badass? If I stopped seeing my own work compared to this woman’s efforts, if I wasn’t jealous of her abilities, I’d stop evolving as a creative person. What’s the point?

You have to believe it to achieve it, and similar. I hope this one is true, but the trouble with advice like this is that it always comes from someone comfortably ensconced on the other side of what you define as “success.” Motivational speakers who failed at their professions don’t get hired on the lecture circuit, and nobody asks a failure, “How did you do it?!” But people who are successful offer platitudes like, “You are the only thing standing in your way” and, “Your attitude determines your altitude.” Does it? A positive outlook is important, sure, you’re more motivated and pleasanter to be around, but I know many of people who believe in themselves that might not see the return on their investment that they are hoping for. I’m lucky to be friends with all kinds of creative types continuing to plug away in saturated fields, many of whom seeming to equate fame with success. Fame is not success, but recognition doesn’t hurt if you’re trying to book stand-up gigs, land auditions, get published.

I’m from a generation that believes everyone deserves a trophy, but I’m also of a collective age group in a terrible economy and job market. Reconciling the two suggests spending less time blogging and more time filling the candy aisle. At the moment, though, I know what’s truly hindering my creative endeavors is plain old laziness and fear. The projects that don’t guarantee any return in the form of money or opportunity can feel like distractions. The ambitious longshot that is an unsolicited manuscript, unproduced webseries, unfunded theatre company might not work out, but there’s no chance at all if it’s not attempted in the first place. If I stopped blogging, for instance, or playwriting, or undertaking fun possibilities so that I might leave my work email open for a few extra hours a week, what kind of return on investment is that? Creative paycheques might be limited, but creative possibilities are endless. I hope I can find that balance between doing what I’m good at, doing what pays the bills, and doing what I love so that I can grab and sample everything I want, feasting on the endless options before me, like a kid let loose in the candy aisle.

Funny Guy...

Hello Friends.

Robin Williams is an exercise. Depending on the quality of the project and my mood as a viewer, he hit somewhere between exhilarating and exhausting. There's something in the frenetic plate-spinning, the rapid fire impressions, the tossed off references that is manic. One can go along for the ride, or just see the sweat and the arm hair. Alternatively, a dialed down Robin Williams can be captivating in his stillness, or maudlin in his winking, bearded softness. More often than not, he was the gut-busting comedian and the heart-stopping dramatic actor, but there were some clunkers in the bunch. How could there not be? Thanks to his versatility, every film could benefit from some Robin Williams, which meant he was sought-over, which meant he took on a lot, which meant not every project could be great.

I wonder why he worked so hard. Why he accepted thankless roles as the hapless priest, or the cartoon penguin, or President Eisenhower. A Robin Williams cameo immediately elevates a movie, I'm sure a nice cheque always cleared, but couldn't he wait until the next Birdcage? Good Will Hunting? Aladdin?

I've been reading a lot of tributes which posit that Robin Williams got from an audience the kind of happiness and peace that he couldn't find in his own life. That may be true to some degree, but seems like a really simplified explanation. If all Robin Williams needed was an appreciative audience, he could find one at any comedy club in the world. He had dozens of great films, great reviews, great box office returns, more than any one performer could ever expect to receive in his lifetime. The vague and sinister, "He had his demons" lends credence to the notion that depression is some kind of mystical, ethereal condition that we can't understand. You would never say of a person with cancer, for instance, that they had demons. Yet for so many people, depression and addiction still sit in this weird grey area between a disease and a state of mind. People chafe at comparisons to physical illness saying, "You can decide to pour another drink, you can decide to self-harm, you can't decide to be diagnosed with Parkinson's" (just an example). I know that's a horrible sentiment, but it's one I used to believe for a long time, until I started learning things about depression. I just don't know enough.

Dream: Understand depression.

Goal: Achievable, with caveats. The more I learn and talk to people, the more I can understand, but as someone who doesn't suffer from depression, addiction, or mental illness myself, I'm hesitant to say that I can truly understand it. I know people who deal with those issues, friends and family, loved ones to acquaintances, but it has not been my personal experience. To put it another way, I can read about what it's like to belong to another race, or to have a disability, or to suffer from ALS, but if I'm not another race, able-bodied, and not diagnosed with ALS, I can't claim to truly understand what it's like.

Plan: I'm the type that has to talk through everything to make sense of it. I don't know what kind of learner that makes me (a slow learner?), but I think I'll derive some benefit from just blathering for awhile. An important caveat to these musings is that I'm truly just feeling my way and it's not my intention to offend anyone. I don't know a great deal about all the nuances of depression, but I know it's serious and it affects a lot of people. With that in mind, all I'm trying to do is be sensitive here. If ill-informed talk from a dope will only engage triggers for you and make you more upset, please don't read any more of this today. I don't want to upset anybody, really and truly. Keeping that in mind, here's what I know (or think I know) about depression.

Depression is not sadness. Can we come up with a different name for depression? Unfortunately, it is a serious condition that shares its name with an abstract feeling that we all suffer from. I can be depressed when my weekend plans get cancelled, but I'm not suffering from depression. From what I understand, depression is the absence of any feelings, good, bad, or otherwise. If depression had another name, like bindlestar or shoobaloo, we'd stop associating it with a sullen teen listening to records alone in her bedroom. We should start by changing the name.

I think the unfortunate trend that is related to the equating of depression and sadness is that people who are sad but do "cheer up" and "snap out of it" and all of those things we wrongfully advise truly depressed people to do, those people think they suffer from depression. You don't, sad people! You're just mopey! I wouldn't presume to know someone else's life, but it really chaps my ass when people that I don't think truly suffer from depression post (but again I don't know) post sullen, passive aggressive Facebook messages looking to illicit tea and sympathy. I'd venture to guess that truly depressed people don't do that in the throes of their illness. The vague status that reads, "sigh... i guess it's another sad day... what is my life right now?... ugh :'( " really bothers me because I don't think people that truly think that post it. Maybe I'm wrong here, but again, the people I know personally who suffer from depression don't whine on Facebook. If anything, they work so hard to hide, rather than reveal their struggle, that you'd never guess something was amiss based on a social media account.

Some addicts suffer from depression. Some people with depression are not addicts. Are some addicts not also depressed? I don't know. It seems to me depression and addiction get lumped together, but can you have one without the other? I know some people who suffer from depression who don't appear to be battling an addictive tendency in turn. I couldn't say if there are addicts who are not also depressed. But if addiction is linked to depression, shouldn't that be in all the literature? Wouldn't that help treatment and recovery?

Depression is a mental illness, but mental illness is not necessarily depression. Taking the "mental" away from "mental illness" shows one how broad the term really is. Obsessive compulsive disorder is not the same as schizophrenia is not the same as PTSD. It's helpful to have dialogue about all of these things, but maybe it's dangerous to lump them together.

Here's the bit I don't understand and I wish I did but I don't. I get that depression is no different from a physical illness in terms of the effects it can have on a person. I get that depression can't be snapped out of. But then I don't understand why people say, "If you're feeling this way, call this hotline", or "There's always help, tell someone now", etc. If someone has reached the point of suicide, how is a stranger over the phone able to help them? How does the person about to attempt suicide not know, at least intellectually, that people love and care for them? And if they really don't believe that's true, how can a stranger on the telephone convince them of that? I'm genuinely asking, I'm not trying to be judgmental. What is the phone call that keeps the suicidal person from going through with it? Is that like defibrillator panels, briefly jolting someone back to life, but not restoring them to total health? Is it like CPR, suddenly clearing a blocked airway? How does a person at the end of their tether recognize that a stranger on the phone could save them, but not see that the people in their lives would want to prevent this more than anything else in the world? Do they really forget that they are loved? How do you do that?

If I hope to change one thing about myself, it's that I wish I could rid myself of the twinge I feel in the pit of my guts when I find out that someone suffers from depression. It's wholly unfair, but there's a part of me that immediately thinks, "That's someone I could lose one day" and it makes me terribly sad. But if depression is just like a physical illness there is treatment, there are options, there is living with depression just like someone is able to live with diabetes. The cruel fact of life is that any of us could lose any loved one at any time. The point is to let people you love know that you love them right now, and I hope I do that, even if I'm sweaty and provincial and can't actually say it say it, but you know it's true.

I don't know what my favourite Robin Williams moment on film is, but the one I'm thinking of right now is in Hook. He and the Lost Boys sit down to eat, and the table is bare. Robin, as Peter, sees nothing before him. Then someone says, "Use your imagination, Peter!" and he opens his eyes and suddenly there's an unimaginable feast. They all dig in, savoring every delicious bite of it, and everyone has just what he wanted.          

Hotsleep...

Hello Friends.

It's so hot right now. ("How hot is it?"). It's so hot that I am very warm, and I'm sweating a lot, and the sweat pools underneath my supple man bosoms giving me a Rorshag-style inkblot stain that looks like rivers of disappointment. But I'm not complaining! We get so few hot days here that I am reveling every moment. Except when I am trying to sleep.

Dream: Get a good night's sleep in this oppressive heat.

Goal: Unachievable, as evidenced by the fact that I am writing you late on a Thursday night instead of, y'know, sleeping.

Plan: Think of a variety of get to sleep quick schemes that will also help beat the heat, such as:

Turn on the air conditioning. THAT'S WHAT IT SAYS WHEN I GOOGLE 'HOW TO SLEEP IN HEAT'? Really, website? Am I so stupid that it never occurs to me, in the insufferable, sweat-inducing, sun-drenched sauna that is my apartment, to turn the air conditioning on? IF I HAD AIR CONDITIONING OF COURSE I WOULD TURN IT ON! I'd turn it on and Doc would say, "Hey! What are you doing?" And I'd say, "I'm turning on the A/C!" And he'd say, "Are you sure?" And I'd be like, "It was on a website" and he'd be like, "Okay." What kills me is how, even though we don't have air conditioning in our apartment, if we were to buy a portable unit, we'd have to pay our landlords extra to use it. What the hell is that? They don't provide A/C, we buy one for a few hundred bucks, they say, "Pay us an extra sixty bucks a month", and we're like, "Durr, okay!" Did we lose a war? Come on, people, rise up against this nonsense.

Sleep naked. Way ahead of you. Well, actually, I'm not ahead of you. You can't be nakeder than naked. I'm at the same pace as you. Some people were just underwear to bed, which I don't get at all. As a human, the best part of underwear is its removal.

Take hot baths. Is it Blanche Dubois in Streetcar who keeps taking hot baths to stay cool, he wondered faggishly? I think it is. Some lady in a play at any rate. She takes all these hot baths because, the theory goes, you raise your body temperature to higher than it is outside, then when you get out of the bath, the air feels cooler. I'm not exactly sure how that works because I've heard the opposite advice:

Take cold showers. Right? Because cold is cold. My trouble is I'm a Baby Suckpants who can't tolerate a cold shower, at least not if there are heated options available. The Doc takes cold showers when it's hot out, but it's like overhearing someone getting waxed. Every few seconds I hear, "BUGH!" and "WAUGH!" and the occasional, "YIPES!" I can't imagine that lulls one to sleep.

I could take some freezer items into bed with me. Say an ice cube under each armpit and a bag of peas for beneath my scrote (those are my heat zones). But then you wake up to a warm, wet bed and a bunch of disgusting peas.

Fans. Fans are effective some of the time, but I'm convinced you just end up circulating the same hot air you're trying to avoid. Plus, rather than comforting, a fan's hum has the opposite effect. It is droning and buzzing and ruffles up your damn sheets.

Actually, the real cure to a hot night, at least in Edmonton, is time. As I write you now, the sun is completely down and some cool air has begun to blow through my windows. Time to, if not curl up, sprawl disgustingly and hope that these hot days go on forever. I might sleep soundly, I might toss and turn, but for now I'll just sweat it out.

Friday afternoon edit to ruin my closing line: It worked! I'm well-rested! Was too sleepy to post last night, so here it is now. FROM THE FUTURE!

Getting Any Younger...

Hello Friends.

There's a funny quirk with two gay bars in this city, which is that one sits on top of the other. The top has a bigger bar, pool tables, places to sit, and tv screens projecting images of hot dudes. The bottom features a dance floor, a smaller bar, dance music, and real-life hot dudes. In terms of which bar attracts which crowd, the tops are older, the bottoms younger (and if there's a joke there, I don't know what it is).

I bring up this homosexual geography because I visited these two bars in one the other weekend preferred the ease of the top to the pain of the bottom. The top bar has an ATM and so required a cursory visit, where I was approached by two (2!) older men on two occasions and complimented! One of them said, "Don't listen to what anyone says, I think you have a nice body!" in a compliment so expertly backhanded he should play in Wimbledon. Once I got to the bottom, though, with its dancefloor, poor lighting, and young clientele, I was completely ignored. One guy did say, "Hey hon?" but then added, "You need to move, you're blocking the bar." Blocking the bar. Like I'm a beached whale. Like walking around  me to get to the bar would require a GPS and a tranquilizer gun.

The point is, though the compliments were nice, I felt too young to be among the older gays, yet I also felt way too old to be with the 18 year olds (18 is the drinking age here) that populated the dancefloor. Really, I suppose I should have taken up residency on the stairs or something, but the point is moot since I don't go to any bars very often anyway and was only there this particular night because a celebration at a friend's house moved to the bar.

I have no desire to be any younger than I presently am. If you're only as old as you feel, I've been a divorced father of two since I was 17. But sometimes I wonder if I'm not shuffling too quickly toward the retirement home.

Dream: Stop acting my age.

Goal: Unachievable. I talked about this a few weeks ago and took the opposite point of view, which is probably the correct one. I'm a big boy now with big boy responsibilities and his own bus pass that says Adult. There's something so sad about someone clinging desperately to their youth, especially when they still have so much life left (despite my whining, I'm only 31 and haven't even been to Dallas yet!). But there are a few things I wish I could get back from my younger days.

Plan: Seek to avoid these small but significant indicators of just how old I am.

Hangovers. I finally know what we talk about when we talk about hangovers. I'd always thought I had suffered them in my younger days-- that persistent headache that only seems to go away with eggs, bacon, and a post-breakfast nap. How foolish I was to think that was the extent of it. After this ill-advised club night, I was out of commission for the entire next day except to shiver, moan, replenish fluids, throw up, and replenish those fluids. The thing is, I didn't even drink that much, but I completely ignored my patented "Pace and Replace" system (copyright Big City James Industries, 2014). No matter what I drink, I tend to have a drink, wait at least a half hour, and drink an equal to greater amount of water per beverage. Failsafe. Yes, I pee all night, but I am more or less daisy fresh the next day. Going from a party to a club didn't find me drinking much more, but I was drinking so fast and barely watering. Bars are often accused of watering down the drinks like it's a bad thing, but in my case, it's preferable.

Back problems. What the hell, spine? I can't believe years of hunching over a computer desk and walking around in ill-fitting shoes has caught up with me. Now I have to do core-strengthening exercises (spoiler alert: I have a softer core than Showcase at 10 pm when we were kids, remember that? Sometimes boobs?) and sleep with a firm pillow.

Works of fiction. I've always been a reader, and assumed the great works I consumed as a youngster would always maintain their stellar reputations. Most have, but I recently discovered after a half-hearted re-read that On The Road really speaks to you if you're young and an asshole. Similarly, I used to so admire The Catcher in the Rye's Holden Caulfield, with his hatred of phonies and his brazen disregard for authority, and now I can sympathize, certainly, but I pity him more than anything. When he buys that record for his sister, and on the way home it breaks (a scene that held no resonance for me as a younger reader), I am completely heartbroken. His one unselfish action, his clumsy gesture of love to the only person who understands him, and he can't even get that right. Unlike On The Road, Catcher still reads great for me, but in a completely different way.

Music. What is music? What is turn down for what? What is Ariana Grande if not a drink order?

I can't sit down after standing a long time without going, "Ohhhhh!" I can't interact with a baby without going, "Awww!"

The news. I don't know if this speaks to greater emotionally maturity or its exact opposite because the news is harder to watch now. The Israeli/Palestine conflict is really murky to me, I can't claim to understand the particulars, but I feel a responsibility to watch and learn what I can. Hearing about kids dying in accidents or cops shooting an unarmed citizen make me feel as if like I have to make a donation or sign a petition or tell a friend. I wonder, is that "we are all global neighbours" maturity kicking in, or "the world revolves around me!" narcissism?

Friends. I forgive more, and expect less, and am somehow just as fulfilled. As a younger person, I expected friends a fill voids in my life that were really my ducks that I needed to put in a row. An unreturned phone call or canceled plans were always taken personally and catalogued for future ammunition. Now, friends matter less and more at the same time. I don't need to surround myself with company every day or join the party every weekend to feel like my friends are important to me. They are a precious resource and the older I get, the more I realize making new friends isn't always as simple as pulling up a chair to a conversation you weren't invited to join.

If I seem preoccupied with getting older, it's because everyone around me is doing the same thing, yet some people get the raw deal of suddenly and cruelly being taken out of the rotation. There has been a recent string of acquaintances, former contemporaries and classmates, who are suddenly gone. I can't claim to have known them intimately, but it's weird to know that I'll never have the chance. To think that someone you saw every day is someone you'll never see again is truly humbling, and in a terrible way. None of us is owed anything, not even time, so best to take the compliments, enjoy your bottoms and tops, and never block the bar.

The Perfect Storm...

Hello Friends.

As I write this on Wednesday night, it has been very hot for days and we are under a severe thunderstorm warning. Such a warning would worry me if I were flying anywhere, had uncovered tomatoes outside, or lived in a house with basement and/or roof. Since none of these conditions currently apply to me, I keep watching the weather reports and checking out the window in awesome anticipation. I love a storm and, with any luck, this could be a big one.

Dream: Experience a huge thunderstorm in ideal conditions.

Goal: Achievable. I should preface this by saying I know that storms have the potential to escalate, thereby devastating communities. I don't mean to make light of the hurricanes and other severe weather tearing through the Midwest and threatening Atlantic Canada. I by no means want to experience the fear and pain that those people are going through. Just give me thunder, lightning, and a break in the heat.

Plan: Determine the ideal conditions that must come to pass for me to experience this storm in the best possible way. For me to relish this experience, I must have the following things:

Food. And I don't mean the stupid bullshit food I buy on a full stomach at the grocery store, like baby carrots and almonds. I mean real garbage food like pizza with beef on it and Dr. Pepper (or in a pinch, off-brand Doctors Zip, Skipper, or Zazz). I don't know if it's survivalist instinct kicking in, or if I'm just a fatty fat fat, but storms make me ravenous.

Storm story. I am in my very first apartment, a one-bedroom that I lived in alone. Being in a new city and single, I had time to spare and even a little extra money lying around (Sidebar: even though I was only working at a video store, my rent was a paltry $435/month! Can you imagine?). Like young, single people do, I became convinced that the way handle crushing loneliness was to change everything about myself and that involved reading more, exercising more (or if I'm honest, exercising), and eating fish. Fish, though bland, scaly, and full of bones, supposedly has a lot of protein and very little fat. While I love fish that has been smoked, breaded, or tuna-fied, I knew that to truly improve myself meant eating a steamed fillet with lemon like a svelte, lean, well-read homosexual. Anyway, on this particular night, I am surfing the web for the most healthful fish recipe while alternately doing pilates from a DVD that came with a box of Special K, which isn't even a joke. I am compiling a list of ingredients for this surely disgusting culinary venture when a lightning strike and thunder clap knocks my internet out. I've lost my recipe, but I figure I can still make it to the store before it starts to really rain, get my ingredients, and improvise how it will all come together. I head out towards the store in a light rain that quickly turns into a downpour. I realize I cannot make it to the grocery store and instead, run into the KFC that is just behind my apartment building. Five minutes later, I am back in my apartment, eating fried chicken, watching Sex & the City on DVD (a good early episode, too, the one where Carrie goes to Yankee stadium in a full-length fur coat and gets drunk), enjoying the storm as it slashes my window. I am soaked, and truly satiated.

Music. Storms are only as good as their soundtracks. A big fan of Joni Mitchell and Sade, I never feel truly depressed or sultry if it's not raining when I listen to them. My friend Dan MacRae, a hilarious and well-versed writer put his ipod on shuffle and wrote down his findings about ten songs for this Tumblr entry. I don't have nearly the frame of reference that Dan does, but he asked me to do one myself, so I will put the pod on shuffle here and pick five songs and random to determine their storm suitability. 

Jeru - Miles Davis. For all his jazzy be-boppin', Miles Davis is someone I only put on when I'm working and need something in the background. I've always longed to be really into jazz music, and I can certainly appreciate that it's tuneful and must be difficult to perform, but I don't melt into it the way that some people do. I took a class in Jazz Appreciation once because I'm a huge fan of wasting my parents' money, and the professor was a brash eccentric who seemed to live for the form. He would put music on and just react to horn blasts, and bass noodling, and improvisational flute like someone was taking him places sexually. He also called Diana Krall and Norah Jones musical wallpaper, so I didn't put my hand up to offer opinions after that. However, for storm suitability, Miles scores a 8/10.

Uncharted - Sara Bareilles. Sara Bareilles is like Sheryl Crow or Ben Harper to me. I want to like these people so much. I hear singles and I think, "Yeah yeah yeah!" But then I listen to a whole album and think, "Nope!". Uncharted was a "Yeah yeah yeah!" song that they used to pump over the loudspeakers when I worked in a drug store. Twas a fine hook with simple, plonky piano. I couldn't even get through listening to it today for the purposes of this exercise. Sara Bareilles is apparently a judge on a singing competition show alongside Ben Folds, which is exquisite casting, because they are both supposed industry talismans. People who like these guys LOVE them and I just can't get on that train. Ben Folds, what are you so worked up about? It's working out for you. Anyway, Sara Bareilles storm suitability 4/10.

Somebody That I Used to Know - Gotye. I'm glad I'm not a betting man, for I would have lost thousands of dollars betting on the follow-up success of Gotye. To me, he sounds like a cool Sting, a Police-era Sting without all the harps and tin flutes and lengthy coitus. And his other songs are better than this one, his only hit! I liked Eyes Wide Open and In Your Light a whole heck of a lot. I hope Gotye gets a least one more hit song so he can be cautious with his money when it comes in, buy a modest property, and live comfortably forever. That's all I want for him. Storm suitability: 6/10.

Buzz - L1ef. L1ef is so cool! I don't know anything about rap music, but I know I've never seen a gay rapper before and this guy seems to be about so much more than that. He can do that super-fast Busta Rhymes thing and his song Wut predates Macklemore's Thrift Shop by a whole year, and I think it's a far superior version that sounds much better. Seems to me Macklemore stole these horns outright and got tons of airplay. For shame. These hot L1ef jams are great for thinking about possibly going to the gym at some point, and would be great for running from the bus to your house during a storm, so 8/10.

Partition - Beyonce. Come on James, really? Yeah. I was one of those toolboxes that downloaded the secret Beyonce album as soon as it "dropped". I think she's the closest thing we have in 2014 to a Madonna or a Michael Jackson in terms of fame and units sold. Her presence is ubiquitous in pop culture, and even if you don't love her songs, you know them. And some of the videos on this release were great! I particularly like Ghosts that goes into Haunted (or Haunted that goes into Ghosts). It looks all avant-garde and macabre and I like the vocals-over-a-heartbeat or whatever it is. And Partition is a good song. But I think the thing that will keep Beyonce from becoming the Queen of Pop she wants to be is that her catalogue in general isn't especially memorable. Single Ladies and Crazy in Love are great songs, but are they Like A Prayer and Vogue? Are they even Push It and Shoop? Time will tell, I suppose. The thing is, Beyonce is exhausting to watch. She's singin' and dancin' and runnin' and posin' and I just want to take a nap. Have some fun, Beyonce! Rihanna has fun, I think. Her songs aren't memorable either, but she doesn't seem like a calculating wunderkind, just a fun girl smoking weed and rocking out. Anyway, Partition has storm suitability of 5/10.

A companion. I'm all over the place with this entry, mainly because it was written during a bunch of different times and I am finishing it post-work on Thursday. It rained a little this morning, but the darkening skies still threaten to really hit us later, and I'm hoping it can wait until I get home. Really, what a makes a storm truly memorable is who you ride it out with, and the Doc and I are great stormchasers together. When I was paying $435/month on rent and learning pilates from a cereal box, I wish I would have known that trying to be something that you're not ends up attracting dates you just don't want. I remember, instead, dropping the act quickly when I met Jon, and not looking back. I remember early on, texting him to hurry over because a storm was brewing and I didn't want him to get caught in it. He texted back, "I'm at the store, what kind of chips do you want?" I mean, how perfect is that? 

May It Please the Court...

Hello Friends.

Every time summer rolls around, I forget just how hard it is to be stuck inside working. No matter how lovely the air conditioning, no matter how many polo shirts I can bust out in July, being inside is always trumped by being outside. That is, unless, what's inside is more compelling, interesting, entertaining, appealing than what's outside.

There are very few options of things I'd stay inside for when it's this gorgeous out, but among them are delicious meals, sex parties, animal husbandry, delicious animals, meal parties, and sex husbandry. God knows those don't happen every day, plus I can't really leave my job to do them. Seems to me when it comes to staying indoors but away from work but not getting fired, there's really only one solution.

Dream: Get called for jury duty.

Goal: Achievable, I think. I'm almost a million percent certain that I am eligible for jury duty. I'm a Canadian citizen, I've never been arrested, I'm not an invalid, and I haven't been officially diagnosed as incompetent by any authority besides my Dad (you try making pancakes without getting batter everywhere, Pops!). By my basic understanding of Canada's judicial system, I think I'm ready to watch the live Dateline episode that is jury duty.

Plan: Remain a healthy, ordinary citizen and hope to be selected when the following events unfold:

For this to work out and be any fun, I cannot serve on a jury for something boring. Apparently in this country, you can be called to serve on a jury for a non-criminal cases. What the hell is that? How incredibly frustrating would it be to pass the selection process, get ushered into the courtroom, and then hear a stream of legalese about a potential copyright violation at an international conference of graham cracker suppliers? I'll answer for you: Very frustrating! For my trial, I want a murder, and the victim can't be someone too appealing. Here are some possible victim and suspect scenarios:

1) Wealthy businessman who has been cheating on his wife is murdered in cold blood by his mistress' brother, who (we found out later) has been involved with the wife! Criss-cross!     

2) Cult leader who runs depraved sex farm is murdered by either his most devoted follower (or is he?) or possibly a hunky farmhand who just comes by to milk the cows and not have sex with anyone (except for juror number 8 what WHAT!)

3) Dr. Oz is murdered by Dr. Phil

4) Dr. Phil is murdered by Dr. Oz

5) Doctors Phil and Oz are murdered by the nameless panel of Doctors on The Doctors

6) A scheming blonde socialite is murdered by her social-climbing best friend who had plastic surgery to look like Kate Winslet. If we are a hung jury (I can't speak for the rest, but #8 sure is what WHAT!) the headline might read, "Nobody Winslet!"

7) The guy who invented Crocs is murdered by the guy who invented drop crotch jeans (whatever we have to do to get both things off the market).

There are several more possible iterations, but it has to be sensational and both lawyers will have to work their butts off to make me feel sympathy for both the murderer and the murdered. As horrific as many of their profiled crimes are, I notice that Dateline and shows of that ilk tend to stop short or the truly devastating. Cases involving murdered children are almost never aired, for example, because such brutality is so senseless that you can't spend an hour with it on a Friday night. Similarly, I don't think I could listen to the facts of a case of that nature and remain impartial until all the information is presented. Give me a soapy, intriguing murder trial, however, and I'll relish my time in the jury box.

I don't want a lot of medical jargon and technical mumbo-jumbo. For that matter, keep away expertise of any kind. Show me a drawing of a bullet riddled body and say, "The bullets came from a gun and went into the body and that's how he died." DONE! No information about point of entry, blood-spatter, shell casings or anything else will take up space in my brain. It's like how, even though I'm a nervous flier who worries about every little bump on a plane, the minute someone tries to explain the phenomenon to me, I'm incredibly bored and irritated ("It's just responding to different air pockets that form over high and low pressures systems which..." "OH MY GOD STOP TALKING TO ME, PILOT!").

I want a reckless, devil-may-care lawyer who plays by his or her own rules. The other lawyer has to scream "Objection!" and the judge will have to shake their head and say, "I'm warning you, counsellor!" Also, if the lawyer or witness says something so potentially incendiary that the judge says, "The jury is instructed to disregard that last remark," guess what? I'm not disregarding shit! If it's so potentially damning that I have to disregard, it's probably one of the most important facts of the case!

I don't want to be the Foreperson, but I need to sit close enough to an entrance or exit of the jury box so I can get to the bathroom. My bladder has shrunk with age and I plan to bring a milkshake in every morning so I can do that "Shkshkshkkk!" thing during some emotional testimony, so I'll need also to be able to easily access the facilities throughout the trial.

The bailiff has to do something. Maybe he restrains the victim's family from physically attacking the suspect, maybe he helps me to and from the bathroom, I don't know.

Finally, the trial itself can't go on too long. I definitely want to take advantage of a hotel stay and free meals, but summer is such a short time, especially here in Edmonton. I'm taking no more vacation days until a wedding in September and by then it's sure to be wintry and gross, and busier at work, and I won't have time to determine the fate of another human being. Right now though, when work is slow and my appetite for a good story is growing, put me in that box, legal system, and tell me a really good story.